tony + mary!
busblog at gmail dot com

nothing in here is true


   Friday, October 11, 2002  
email of the week

i get a lot of email and i write back to pretty much everyone i can. my favorite emails are the ones where people agree with me and tell me that i am a great writer. normally i get these type of emails from dudes, which is ok, but playmates would be better.

strangely, i am very well liked by those at Ivy League schools and by lawyers. now thems demographics.

haven't quite figured out the attraction yet, but if i ever need to raise a few million in bail money, i don't think i'll have a problem.

this week was dominated by correspondences relating to the bob costas / harry caray posts. i did mention SF Giant announcer Jon Miller who i had the chance to listen to for a few years when i was living in frisco, and his pleasant manner struck home with our man Jesse who remembers him from when he was doing the games in Baltimore.

Re: Jon Miller

Hey Tony,

long time listener, first time caller. Thanks for giving the best broadcaster around his due.

As a lifelong Orioles fan, I nearly cried when that schmuck Angelos refused to bring this man back. He loved Baltimore,and Baltimore loved him.

He is funny, he doesn't over-analyze the game; he does, as you aptly stated "paint the picture." If given a choice between the return of Mussina or Miller, I would choose Miller; he played every day and would have stayed around much longer.

I watch (usually muted as I read or work) almost every Orioles game that I don't attend. When Miller was here, I would mute the t.v. and turn up the radio, just like they asked me to do. I was a dutiful soldier, because I knew, if I was, I could hear Him paint the picture, which was a treat.

I miss Miller. The guy that replaced him is very good, but he ain't no JM. He is Steve Young to Miller's Joe Montana, to use a Bay area analogy. Young was great, but he was no Montana.

Anyway, thanks for giving Miller his props. And tell your friends in SF to enjoy that treasure, he is in the (not so) early stages of Harry Carey-dom, Jack Buck-dom, Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola-dom...

One other thing, right after the online newspaper, your the next website I eat my lunch to, every day at noon, here on the East Coast. Keep up the good writing.

after that i asked Jesse if i could use his email on my site to which he responded thusly:


Not only do I get a response, but you want to honor me with the use of my email. With pleasure.

And if you'll allow me a minute to be a fan...I am (don't hold it against me) a lawyer on the East Coast and I write for a living.

That said (or typed), I think you are a truly gifted writer. I went into the law so that I could write for a living (a make a decent one at that). And, for the most part, that is what I do. Your writing style is actually inspiring and has had an influence on my own. Your style is so conversational, I can almost hear the discussions.

Your wit is very Thompson-esque (Hunter, that is). Anyway, use my email at will; and stick with what you are doing, you obviously have a huge fan base, and though you may not be getting rich, think of what you contribute to the lives of us bored lawyers eating our lunches every day.

Now there's some inspiration.

Thanks so much. By the way, congrats on the Angels.

feel free to send me sweet messages of appreciation to xxxtonyxxx @ and maybe you'll be the lucky recipiant of being deemed "email of the week."
sometimes all we want is a hand shake not a hand written autograph, not a hand job, not even a hand out, but we're denied.

my astrology today says that i will be getting a nice gift that will have a smudge on it. that i should ignore the smudge and appreciate the love.

it makes me wonder what my future will hold. will i (finally) make the laker squad and they spell my name wrong? will christina aguilera (finally) spend the night with me after just using my body, but mumble some other man's name during a deep sleep? will i (finally) get hired to be a journalist, but find out it's with the LA Times?

sometimes that smudge is more like the skidmark on the panties of a redhead who flings them at you and lands squarely on your nose.

but isn't it better to have soiled panties tossed your way, than nothing tossed your way at all?

anna is a funny girl. she called me from the friendly skies last night telling me that shes gonna be in town tonight and she wants to see a movie with me. i told her i could wait to see her.

then today she gives me all the signs of a girl who is trying to squirm out of date.

so is it better to have a date canceled by anna kournikova or not have one at all?

these are the problems that surround my life.

and the fact that power has still yet to be restored to the beach house, which means that my cleaning lady wont be able to run a vacuum over the game room where me and ashley spilled smart food popcorn after an explosive scrabble game where i seven letter triple word scored her ass for a dramatic comeback.

never play high stakes scrabble with a poetry major i whispered later as i slammed the door to the dungeon.

Bob Dylan

Columbia Records


Standing on the waters casting your bread
While the eyes of the idol with the iron head are glowing.
Distant ships sailing into the mist,
You were born with a snake in both of your fists while a hurricane was blowing.
Freedom just around the corner for you
But with the truth so far off, what good will it do?
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

So swiftly the sun sets in the sky,
You rise up and say goodbye to no one.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,
Both of their futures, so full of dread, you don't show one.
Shedding off one more layer of skin,
Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

You're a man of the mountains, you can walk on the clouds,
Manipulator of crowds, you're a dream twister.
You're going to Sodom and Gomorrah
But what do you care? Ain't nobody there would want to marry your sister.
Friend to the martyr, a friend to the woman of shame,
You look into the fiery furnace, see the rich man without any name.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

Well, the Book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy,
The law of the jungle and the sea are your only teachers.
In the smoke of the twilight on a milk-white steed,
Michelangelo indeed could've carved out your features.
Resting in the fields, far from the turbulent space,
Half asleep near the stars with a small dog licking your face.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

Well, the rifleman's stalking the sick and the lame,
Preacherman seeks the same, who'll get there first is uncertain.
Nightsticks and water cannons, tear gas, padlocks,
Molotov cocktails and rocks behind every curtain,
False-hearted judges dying in the webs that they spin,
Only a matter of time 'til night comes steppin' in.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

It's a shadowy world, skies are slippery gray,
A woman just gave birth to a prince today and dressed him in scarlet.
He'll put the priest in his pocket, put the blade to the heat,
Take the motherless children off the street
And place them at the feet of a harlot.
Oh, Jokerman, you know what he wants,
Oh, Jokerman, you don't show any response.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.
if i've learned one thing from cal ripken jr. it's suck it up and get to work. my carpal is ridiculous this morning. the xbi has had me at this desk job all week and it does nothing for my recovery, but it looks like theres a light at the end of the tunnel.

but lets not talk about lights since there were none last night at my beach house. but nothing in this is true, so i'll continue.

ashley called in sick and told me that she would be waiting for me when i came home last night.

i called her from the flower stand to see if she liked baby's breath with her daisies. the phone just rang and rang. i assumed that she was using her laptop on my land line, so i chose no baby's breath.

just one of my dozen wrong decisions yesterday.

finally made it to the villa and the house was a little dark. ashley appeared from game room, pool cue in hand, fuzzy slippers, flowing see thru robe, sunset showing off behind her, waves crashing, seagulls... "power's out," she told me, kissed me on the cheek, strolled back to the table and sank one in the corner pocket.

i looked at the clear plastic US Mail basket that had arrived the previous afternoon from the post office. i had a vacation hold on my mail when i took my trip two weeks ago. for whatever reason they chose not to give me my mail until i called and alerted them of their error wednesday morning.

i dug into the basket and saw several copies of the Onion, fan mail, my Quick Chop that someone had generously given me from my amazon wishlist, and, hi, a disconnect notice from the DWP.

thank God for cell phones, i dialed up the toll free number. waited a good 15 minutes to talk to a surly man who acted as if it was His electricity that had been shut off.

address please.

1122 Boogie Woogie Ave.

your service has been disconnected due to an overdue balance of $68.12.

you shut me off for not paying sixty eight bucks?

it's two months late, sir.

im sorry i was in aruba when the bill came, then the post office didn't give me my mail after my vacation hold should have been lifted...

none of this aroused even a whimper of sympathy from the man on the other end of the phone.

ashley arranged a new rack of balls, broke, sank two and giggled.

perhaps your wife should have called us earlier this morning when the power was disconnected.

that's not my wife, that's ashley. shes twenty. she doesn't have a cell phone.

lots of twenty year old girls have cell phones.

well, she doesn't. shes broke.

you live on Boogie Woogie Avenue, right on the beach, and your 20 year old girlfriend doesn't have a cell phone?

what was this fellow's name again, i wondered.

fine, may i please pay my bill. i will pay. heres my credit card number.

great, it will be an additional $28 to reconnect you. and if you want to use your credit card, that's an extra $5.75, but we cannot restore your power until tomorrow morning.

apparently paperwork must be filed before 5pm for the "technicians" to flick my switch that evening. it was 5:25. damn flower shop. damn waiting on hold. damn sunset looking terrific. damn ashley kicking my ass at nine ball.

so i paid my money. thought about how the DWP punished the working man. thought about how i would miss "survivor". wondered if there were batteries in the boom box. wondered if ashley would see the loser me for who i was, a loser. cursed my address, my villa, and the fact that my hollywood bungalow was being fumigated for termites.

so we lit candles. ashley was really cool about it all. she praised me for having so many candles. there was batteries in the boom box. there was food in the fridge that was going to go bad, but we could eat it all before nature did.

she had been reading "white oleander" all day and was half way done with it, and asked me if i wanted to write while she read.

writing longhand is for girls, i sniffed. and chose to dig through my stack of magazines: "W," "Jane," "Us Weekly."

darkness fell. i put in the police, regatta, "walking on the moon". i thought that would be sexy. turns out ashley hates sting's voice. put in elvis costello, "all this useless beauty."

she just wanted to read.

i flew over to burrito stand, came back, went to bed early and realized this is exactly the sort of evening that the native americans must of had back in the day.

set my cell phone alarm to wake me up at six a.m. and fell asleep to the sounds of one fan booing.

   Thursday, October 10, 2002  
my man Chris C. tells me of these Tsar dates, and for that i thank him mucho.


Thursday, October 31st in Sacramento, CA /// Friday, November 1st in Oakland, CA @ Stork Club. /// Saturday, November 2nd in San Jose, CA @ Plant 51. /// Sunday, November 3rd in San Francisco, CA @ Cafe du Nord. /// Saturday, November 9th in Bakersfield, CA @ Lucky's Bar & Grill.

makes me think a weekend trip to frisco on the the first of next month might sound like a fun idea. and to see Tsar at that swanky jazz club on market street on sunday might be too irrisistable to pass up. is on the air. first she was on blogspot. then she moved over temporarilly to somewhere else. now she has her own domain.

welcome to the big leagues, slugger.

what's her first order of business? to begin with a few lines about dildoes.

you know why i love dawn?

i love her because it is my fondest wish that many midwest wives are like her. i know its not true, but i can dream cant i?

shes definately the way that i would want my midwestern wife to be like.

and just think, if dawn lived in another part of the world, they'd throw a burka over her head and take away her laptop.

thank you founding fathers for having the foresight to see the possibilites of free speech and equal rights.

true, having the freedom to type about dildoes might not be exactly what they had in mind, but then again it, it might be exactly what they had in mind.

big difference between dawn and bob costas? costas would never have the guts to write about his dildo.

first time emailer "Jason" writes in to say that he agrees with me on costas except he loved what bob said during the sydney olympics closing ceremonies, "every famous Australian is on that stage right now," costas chortled in his snide lil way.

Jason hits it right on the head. Costas is perfect for warm fuzzy little events of nothingness like the olympics where most moments of sap couldnt possibly be overshadowed with even more sap, or when blocks of time need to be filled with fluff. i would be very satisfied if i only was forced to see costas, ahmad, and peekaboo street bundled in their parkas from the base of a long jumping competition at the winter olympics every four years. but please then never again. better yet, put him on the Today show to ensure that i wouldnt have to be bothered with him.

anna and enrique engaged? over his dead body. i dont even like to think of such blasphemy. it was bad enough when gwen stefani got hitched to that dude from Bush but this would be a slap in the face to all that would be decent in the world. i'll make a deal with you anna. you cant get engaged to anyone but me unless you win wimbeldon. i will consider your silence an acceptance of this agreement.

and finally today, we all know about my little crush on christina aguilera. we all know that i think it's perfectly okay for a young woman to express her sensuality and desires in song. but must she wear a crucifix to a press conference held to hype her single "Dirrty"?

i'm gonna sound so old, but here goes: in my day, when madonna wore her crusifix(es) and grinded around singing "Lucky Star" it was in defiance to the Catholic church. it was just as political as it was shocking (to catholic boys like me.) but it really did mean something.

so whats girlfriend thinking sporting her necklace like it aint no thing?

oh if only she would return my calls so we could get to the bottom of this pressing matter.

wouldnt wanna make me cross.

the kids are emailing me links to harry belafonte calling colin powell a house nigger.

he didnt bust with the n-bomb, but he did. belafonte equated the secretary of state to a slave who lived in the master's house.

"There's an old saying, in the days of slavery, there were those slaves who lived on the plantation and were those slaves that lived in the house," Belafonte said in a radio interview on a San Diego talk show. "You got the privilege of living in the house if you served the master ... exactly the way the master intended to have you serve him.

"Colin Powell's committed to come into the house of the master," Belafonte continued. "When Colin Powell dares to suggest something other than what the master wants to hear, he will be turned back out to pasture."

typically i don't like to talk about news or rumor or gossip or troubles surrounding Black people because i like to live with my head in the sand sometimes, and i certainly don't like to give racists or semi-racists any fodder to stoke their hatred. i also dont bad mouth my boss to outsiders, or my workplace, or the girls who get naked with me. i think life is tough enough without being part of the problem.

but fuckit, Powell and Belafonte are both big boys at the end of their lives, so let's do this.

firstly, i dont know where belafonte gets off. his middle of the road crooning was hardly gangsta. born in harlem, but bred in jamacia, his version of keeping it real was putting real sugar into his ice tea while on the lido deck of the cruise ship instead of Equal.

and i will say this of Powell. he knew this day would come.

a Black man cannot work for a white republican president and think that one day someone isnt going to shout sellout from across the street. Especially when Blacks have gone nearly 50 years without a strong political leader of color, especially one as popular as Powell who has unprecidented support cross-culturely (read: whites like him too), especially since the majority of Blacks would have loved to have seen Powell run against Bush in the Republican primary and were sorely disappointed when he didnt.

add that to the fact that he, with all his military experience and hype, has not found Osama, secretary powell should not be shocked when he gets tomatoes thrown at the back of his head by a guy known to sing about banana boats.

does General Powell speak up and shut up when Bush tells him he's talking over his head? doubt it.

but none of it matters. Powell is part of a losing team right now and Blacks do not want this on our record. how easy would it be for those who do not want Blacks in high levels of power to point to Powell and Rice and say, "what did those two do when they were given a chance? not much. one lied about 9/11 and the other couldn't find osama."

so my advice to the secretary of state, since he is short, im sure, of unsolicited counseling, is to just find osama and bring him back to america on a platter.

my advice: bet jesse jackson a million bucks that he can't find osama. my money's on the reverand.
people have claimed that i am the inventor of the modern day web based photo essay. those people are probably wrong. even if they aren't, im happy whenever i see a photo essay and i wonder why Mr. Know It All, a fellow LA blogger, a friend of Meesh, and a talented photographer, did not let me know that he has busted with a pretty sweet photo essay?

it made me wonder how many of you are out there secretly making funny little narratives with accompanying photographs.

my first photo essay was created march 15, 2001. it was the day that i signed the lease of the apartment that i now live in.

due to overwhelmingly huge success (three people emailed me nice letters) it encouraged me to do about two dozen other ones since. the most popular one was "dear kids of afghanistan" which i put together a few weeks after 9/11. it's still so popular that if you simply type "dear kids" into Google and it's the number one result.

But that popularity was dwarfed when i put up my only risque photo essay, one about tennis star anna kournikova's lawsuit against Penthouse magazine this april. i got several million hits in a matter of days. type "anna kournikova nude" into Google and this is 6th result you will find. god bless anarchy.

i have no problem with the human body. but i have noticed that most people who look at my web site and my blog do so between the hours of 9-5. in fact by far the most popular time that people read what i have to type is at noon eastern time. my belief is that that's when the people of the west coast turn on their computers at work and join the people around the country in starting their day. and it's also my belief that they're not interested in seeing boobies with their breakfast.

of course, i understand i might be completely wrong.

as usual.

anyway i love photo essays and if any of you have one or have seen one, please let me know through the comments section below. if the comments are down, feel free to drop me an email.
my life lately has been flooded with massholes, which, of course is what people from Massachusetts lovingly refer to themselves.

when i was doing the baseball blog, my favorite blog was "the bambino's curse", not just for the beautiful design and heartbreakingly true title, but because of the sharp writing and indepth daily coverage of home team, the red sox, who haven't won a world series since it traded babe ruth nearly 100 years ago.

only my beloved Cubs have experienced a longer drought of futility.

regardless, i was thrilled to ever get recognized on such a classy blog and today i was honored once again with a mention. thanks, bro.

to close out the trilogy of posts about harry caray and bob costas, let me pull this recent comment posted by a reader of my blog which i present to you in it's entirety. for the record, i love comments, not because they stroke my ego, but also for when they add to the discussion. like so:

Harry Caray, (born Carabina) actually was from the south side of STL, near the brewery. Used to take the streetcar to old sportsman's park (pre Busch stadium) to watch the birds play. As I heard the story, one day he walked into the office of the KMOX radio GM and said he was a sportscaster and could announce the games better than the current guy, was hired on the spot, and the rest is history. KMOX was heard from the rockies to the Atlantic. He loved the game and didn't mind ragging on the players when they were dogging it. I've heard stories of when Harry and Jack Buck [pictured] (who Harry trained) were doing the games, they would go into a tavern after the game, Harry would pour down the Budweisers and have a great time while Jack would sip a scotch and soda quietly.

The greatest interview I remember was the day after he got fired from doing the games he appeared on KSD (now KSDK) TV for an interview, obviously feeling no pain and holding in plain sight of the camera a can of Falstaff (then AB's biggest competitor) . He later said he regretted that incident, but I loved it.

On the story of him boffing Auggie's wife, he said "Me a fat balding middle aged man accused of sleeping with the beautiful young wife of a millionaire, I was flattered, but it didn't happen." Harry always was a gentleman, died while taking his wife out to eat on Valentine's day.

Costas, on the other hand is a wannabe tool.

last night at the xbi softball game we lost on the last out when the big fat thirdbaseman sent a ball so high and deep that even the eucalyptus behind the fence couldn't stop it.

the fat guy always wins the softball game, i consoled my team.

ashley had driven up from newport to see me play and i didn't get a hit but she didn't care. i dove for a ball, i scored after getting on from a fielder's choice, and i almost got kicked out of the game after a controversial 6-3 triple play where the batter was safe at first.

the tie at first does not go to the triple play, i whispered to the ump as i walked by him to go into the dugout.

what's that? he snapped.

even on a crisp misty night playing softball on a field infested with moles, a triple play must be earned, blue.

it was bases loaded, hard shot to the shortstop who tagged the runner on second, stepped on second base and threw it to first. very close play at first. since i was coaching first i had a pretty good view. with the excitement, the ump called him out. triple play.

it's hard to yell at a guy who is making $10 a game and is probably a social worker in the daytime. but for some of us it's not that hard. and i didn't yell.

the week before a guy in our league got thrown out of the game and then kicked out of the league after getting in the face of an ump, but for the most part our team is extremely civil. which might be why our record is 2-4. some argue it's our spotty defense.

ashley took notes because when she's bored she likes to critique people. she called a few of the people very rude, and funny names, describing them in unattractive ways. she didn't like any of the women on the field, especially the opposing catcher who said that she liked my haircut.

i didn't even know that girl even knew me.

what was she doing flirting with you during the game? ashley asked.

its all strategy in xbi softball, i told her. she was trying to get into my head, i explained.

ashley sneered. i thought it was cute. she was freezing on the metal grandstands and it was nice to look over and see that someone was rooting for me. especially when that person had a super short miniskirt, heels, and long hair tied up in a cute ponytail.

you, she said, were the cutest and skinniest guy on the field.

i told her it was my pinstriped baseball pants.

she said, no. you looked 21. no one would believe that you're as old as you are.

the girl does know how to make a loser feel better. so afterwards, just like if it was a little league game, we went to mcdonalds and got a mcflurry.

and then went home and banged like newlyweds.

   Wednesday, October 09, 2002  
yesterday when i took the bus home i felt a little bad for picking on costas the way i did. he's never really hurt anyone. he's just a man, just like me, trying to get a paycheck for his family, earn a living, do a job.

of course im jealous that he gets to do what any sports fan would love to do, which is meet all the greats and talk to them and get paid millions to be in cool places where we would do anything to get to be. and of course i don't mean all the things that i say in the blog, for example im sure if costas had a candy store he wouldn't just have one flavor of bubble gum filling the place, he's not that dumb, he'd have his favorite kind too, sugarless.

but then i got home and there were flowers at my door there were "dancers" who wanted to give me a rub down, my email overflowed, i had more comments in my comments section than, hell, a week ago when i implied that the president was a jackass.

basically the public not only agreed with me, but they wanted to thank me and share their disgust for costas.

sweet approval, you proud yet elusive unicorn.

i got links from people who had never linked me, like the photo dude and ernie the attorney, i got daily pundit-ed, i even got a kiss on the cheek from the hottie in the halls who wears this D-12 tshirt and whispered that she likes my hair cut short.

who knew vitriol was an aphrodisiac?

of course i got some facts wrong. minor ones, like costas is from new york, not st. louis. whatever. and that harry didn't get fired for schtupping the boss's daughter but for getting caught with the boss's wife. but these sorts of details can't seriously be researched when a man like myself only has 15 minutes twice a day during work hours to write in his blog. if you don't like what you see, either politely correct me in the comments or blame the government for not giving us longer smoke breaks.

at least i smoke during my breaks.

but i do love the comments that you people leave me. without you i would have never known that harry not only got fired for giving it to Mrs. Busch, but he got both of his legs broken as well as assorted other injuries in what was considered an auto accident.

and im no apologist of adultery, but look at harry, the boss's wife must have wanted to send a message to her husband if out of all the men in st. louis, she chose romeo there.

i also appreciated the comment that someone left that mourned the loss of len dawson and nick bonnacontti from hbo's once wonderful "inside the nfl." why hbo thought it was a smart move to take costas off a failing show which he was the host, and dump him on "inside the nfl" which has done fine for 17 years despite itself, is beyond me. hbo makes very few bad moves. that one was ridiculous.

people have written that they wonder what costas ever did to me. he bored me. that's what he did to me.

i once had an english professor who said the worst thing you could ever do to your audience is bore them.

i had the great honor of once seeing punk rock singer gg allin perform in my beloved isla vista while i attended school there. this man got on stage took off his clothes, urinated, defecated, yelled, cursed, attempted to kick anyone who got near the stage with his steel pointed cowboy boots, and then he threw his waste at the horrified crowd after he sliced his chest repeatedly with a broken beer bottle.

that, my friends, is how not to bore an audience.

do i want bob costas to take off his clothes before he gets on the mic and throw poop at the camera.

of course i do.

but i will settle for him to retire instead.

and if he wont do that, i would like it if he shuts the hell up and allows the real experts around him to get a word in from time to time. costas is no howard coselle. no one tuned in to listen to him talk. he never played the game, and he never will.

he is someone's little brother who tagged along and somehow ended up in front of the camera. he should do as i would do if i got on the mic, i would let the pictures tell the thousand words. i would tell you things that you might not have remembered but they were sent into my earpeice. i would get out of the way. i would let the hall of famers have their say. i would drink my beer and be a fan. and when i talked i would sound like a man.

theres a rhythm and a song to vin scully's voice. there was an excitement and a love in red barber's. jon miller has the perfect blend of humor and reverence as he calls the game and you can hear him revert back to broadcasting 101 when he gives the pitch count, and paints the picture, and tells you the score.

costas makes it okay to be bland and sterile and polished and smooth. but its not okay. when i drink rum i want a little bite to it. when i kiss a girl i want to walk away with some of her glitter.

there's movement to a well-thrown fastball that costas will never master since he pitches underhanded from the edge of the mound on a sunday in his cutoffs.

the era of costas needs to pass. i harp on him and nbc isn't even doing the playoffs, but his staleness seeps into the sounds of the game and it appears to me, not that im any expert, that there are far more costas-influenced broadcasters than caray ones.

i know the Lord broke the mold when He made Harry, but still, i'll take fifteen Ueckers over one costas.

my break is just about over so let me leave you with a little tale that Harry told Sports Illustrated in '78 when Ron Fimrite did a feature on him.

Harry says:

"About seven years ago my car stalled outside the Chase-Park Plaza Hotel in St. Louis, where I used to spend a lot of time. I was sitting there about four in the morning, cursing my bad luck, when these two guys came up to me. Each of them stuck a gun in my ribs. Hoo boy! Then one of them said, 'Hey, Harry. It's you, isn't it? What're you doing out this late? Are you one of us?' I'd been a broadcaster in St. Louis for 25 years, you know, so I was pretty well known there. Well, this guy put his gun away, and we just stood there jawing about baseball. They forgot they were mugging me, and I forgot I was being mugged. We were all just fans. I signed a couple of autographs, and they took off without taking a nickel."
think i could sell ads in this blog? i do. i think i could sell anything in the world i wanted to on here. i dont see why that isnt true for anyone else.

if will wheaton and adam curry and all the other has-beens can get a ton of hits and turn that into revenue, i dont see why i cant.

speaking of money makers, guess who saw anna nicole smith getting into a car today? oh yeah.

rumor has it that she saw a guy wearing an E! cap. she said "oh i love your hat!" he said, "would you like it?" she said, "yes, tell me where i can get one!" he said, "oh, they dont make these any more, would you like this one?" she said, "why thank you, let me rub my boobs all over you to thank you!"

i love that girl.


all of that, reportedly happened before i saw the cable tv star and i have to say i thought she looked super beautiful. totally glamorous. very movie starable. didnt look nearly as chunky as she can on tv, but then again, i have a very big tv so it probably adds 35 pounds to her.

i love being star struck.

she was looking right across the street at me.

i think it was me. it might of been at the sign that said koo koo roo over my head.

i wanted to wave at her because i know how much she loves her public.

but im terribly shy.

im just as bad as adam curry and will wheaton. i bet they wouldnta waved either.
hey tony, why the long face?

hi blog. oh, i don't know, june gloom.

see those pumpkins for sale in the abandon lot, it's october, amigo.

im not sad, just very mellow. a little anxious about what the future has in store for me. a little bummed about the angels, who i was rooting for last night.

that's weird, i woulda thought you would definitely be pulling for the twins. minnesota has given us Prince, Husker Du, The Replacements, Jesse Ventura. wasn't that the first place you ever really got drunk?

yes. in winona, mn.

so why are you rooting for those frat boys from behind the orange county?

for welch. it's his team.

well im feeling great tony. have you heard all the nice things that people have been saying about me lately?

this feels like a bad vaudeville ventriliquist bit.

just go with it. nobody cares.

why, no, blog, what are the people saying about the blog, i mean about you?

look at this great list, bro:

Ernie the Attorney says: "Tony's blog is simply one of the best things on the web."

Nikki, Esq., law student from St. Louis raves: "My new favorite blog."

The Daily Pundit, Bill Quick says: Jebus Grist, Tony Pierce is good when he sets himself to it.

Moxie beams: Forget simon says, it's all about Tony. Mr. Pierce told me I couldn't post again until I had kissed a stranger. Consider it done.

Some Standard Hotel dweeb got his grubby hands all over Moxie? I knew I shoulda gone to that damn thing. Thanks for bringing all that to my attention, blog.

madonna has a new movie where she's on a desert island alone with a hunk dude. would you want to be stuck on an island with madonna?

oh yes.

what about courtney love?

sure, why not.

what about jennifer love hewitt?

seeing that she's starving already, i don't think i'd want to do that.

read any good new blogs lately?

Frankenstein turned me on to the fact that Tony Soprano has a blog. it might not be the first one. it might not be the best one. but it has potential. and im a sucker for anything that ends with "posted by Tony," especially when it's in reference to the most compelling tv character to come along in quite a while.

what about that chick from Alias

im bummed, i saw the first two episodes last year and then tuned out.

dude, that's a great show. what about "24"?

exactly the same thing happened with that too.

got that big tv and you don't watch it?

you don't get carpal from watching tv, bloggy blog.

yeah, guess snot.

ok, hang loose, old zeroes and ones

have a great day, typer of keys. by the way, costas is from new york.

details, details.
anna called and we were on the phone for hours once she twisted her ankle we were talking a lot again.

i'd chat with you, but i want you to rest your wonderful hands.

thanks, anna.

i liked your story about rosalita. is she anyone i know?

nothing in here is true, baby.

awful lot of detail for pure fiction.

ok some of it was true. i did get stared down by two gangstas at the bowling alley, but they weren't Black, they were latino, but i thought that was too stereotypical.

black gangsters aren't stereotypical suddenly?

believe it or not, but there are twice as many latin gangs in LA than Black ones.

anna then told me a story about growing up in moscow and a russian gang that used to hassle her when she was little. she asked me if she had told me that story before. i said probably. it didn't matter to me. my memory was so bad that i liked all of her stories no matter how many times she told them.

by hey, she was anna kournikova. coolest girl in school. i doubted that i would ever get over that. if she read the ingredients from a beefaroni label i wouldn't care.

plus i loved her accent.

and who was i? i wasn't even the coolest blogger in my neighborhood.

are you going to play in zurich, anna?


when are you going to play again?

probably not until LA in about four weeks.



so why aren't you here with me?

im here in switzerland getting treatment for my ankle. then i will come visit you.


do you want me to visit you?

yes, please.

have you seen any celebrities lately?

walked right past the Fonz yesterday.


Henry Winkler, Arthur Fonzerelli!

oh, from "The Waterboy."

They didn't have "Happy Days" in russia?

In the late 70s, tony, america was our enemy. and i wasnt even born yet, thank you.

i keep forgetting that. what year were you born in again?


i dont know how im supposed to feel about that, anna. is that sexy or sick?

who cares, just love me.

oh, i also walked right by jules asner.

you see a lot of her.

she works in the building across the street from me.

is she pretty in real life?


prettier than me?

how could she be?

Is She Prettier Than Me?

didn't FHM name you the sexiest woman alive?

i'm not going to ask you again, tony.

no, she isnt prettier than you.

correct answer.


what's that?

shes tall.

why don't you change the subject before i fly over there and beat your ass.

little kobe was born last night.

yay for greg and molli!

he was almost born today, john lennon's birthday.

awwww. i loved john lennon.

even his Beatles stuff?

then we debated beatles vs stones vs zeppelin and we didn't stop talking until the dawns early light.

   Tuesday, October 08, 2002  
yes that's harry kissing the first lady, hillary clinton jay asks: Tony, great post. But what's with the loathing of Bob Costas?


Fair question, Jay. I despise Costas because i worry about the kids.

I don't want children to see and hear Bob Costas and think that it's okay to simultaneously nostalgize and sterilize popular sports and culture in such a way that you never want to look at it again for what it is: a child's game played by immigrants who wouldn't get a job wiping puke off of porcelain if it wasn't for an abnormal pituitary gland, or in the case of baseball, defection.

Bob Costas has taken the lively art of calling a ball game and dragged it into the drab dens of middle america mediocrity. He's as exciting as an acorn, as spontaneous as a tug boat, as lively as a hang nail. if he were a fish he'd be a white fish. a dead, odorless, forgetable one.

In a world of 31 flavors Costas asks for vanilla yogurt in a cup.

He makes Vin Scully sound like John Madden, Oprah sound like Ozzy, he gives milquetoast a bad name, he neither wears boxers or briefs for underneath his clothes are simply wires and switches and tube amps.

The French laugh at Jerry Lewis and Jerry Lewis laughs at whoever the idiot was who put Costas on tv. I'd call him a demon from hades but evil is usually interesting. he's an antedote to insomnia and the only cure for the flu because not even a virus can stand to listen to more than a hour of Costas droning on about "The Mick" or Stan "The Man", they wince like children do when their uncles talk about the war or how Hilburn writes about Bob Dylan.

you'll never see Costas sitting in a dunk tank at a fair because real baseball fans would fake throw and bum rush the tank and ruthlessly drown this ill like a frothing dog.

Bob Costas was raised in the Ozzie and Harriet world of baby booming St. Louis and embodies every sad stereotype therein. My spite only intensifies when I realize that he grew up blessed to listen to the rickety calls of Harry Caray broadcasting for the Cardinals. I bristle because the Good Lord sent down an angel when He gave us all Harry, a man who could drink beer and broadcast a game and it sounded like a real man drinking a beer and calling a game.

When in St. Louis Harry was hired by Auggie Busch who owned the local brewery famous for Budweiser. Mr. Busch told Harry that he admired his work, that he knew that he was the best baseball announcer in the game, and that all of St. Louis was his and he could work for the Cardinals for as long as he lived as long as he didn't marry any of his daughters.

Harry shook the man's hand and promptly married the youngest and prettiest of Mr. Busch's three daughters and was immediately fired.

Would Bob Costas marry anyone's daughter like that? Don't hold your breath.

Harry went on to broadcast all over the midwest, making a home for himself on the South Side of Chicago. Known as the Mayor of Rush Street because he was often spotted drinking with the locals on the popular street known for its taverns.

"Booze, broads and bullshit. If you got all that, what else do you need?" Harry was once quoted. He lived his word. He was not only the keeper of the flame he was the reason for the fire.

If the White Sox were playing and Harry was broadcasting for them and the fans were drunk and the game was nearly over and one of the weak hitting infielders popped up to end the inning, you could hear it in his voice. Like a wind-up toy that needed a few turns. "Ahhh, that wouldn't a been a home run in a telephone booth," he'd say, uttlerly depressed. A fan at the mic! What a concept.

Harry Caray is the reason that we sing the 7th Inning stretch at Wrigley Field with the enthusiasm that we do. In the '80s, in order to garner more revenue, new owner Jerry Reinsdorf told Harry that they were going to put a bunch of Sox games on Pay-Per-View only. Harry said that baseball was meant for the average fan and most average fans couldn't afford pay per view for everyday baseball games, so he quit and joined the Cubs.

Would Costas make such a stand? If he did would anyone see him?

Once I saw a Cubs game where Harry broadcasted the game from the left field bleachers. He brought two ice chests with him. One full of beer and the other full of more beer. He had a paper scorecard and two pencils. Where's Bob Costas's two chests of beer?

Harry had glasses as thick as a steak. He had a tongue the size of texas. His lips were big and he was shorter than you think, and the first time I saw him he had on a checkboard suit with a red dressshirt, white tie, white pants, and white shoes. i said are you heading out anywhere after the game all dressed up like that? he said, son, i'm heading out everywhere all dressed up like this. might even make it to your house if the light's on."

and he laughed and everyone around him laughed and his breath didn't smell like booze it smelled of life.

i bet you a million bucks that bob costas's breath smells like bologna.

harry handed me back my baseball and it said Holy Cow Harry Caray on it.

know what it says if you get NBC's golden boy autograph on your lucky day?

it says bob.

but the worst thing that Costas has done, jay, is mess up the bell curve. he has made it okay for announcers to be soulless and bland and average and background filler. fakers like jack buck's son, and harry's grandson, step children of milo hamilton have polluted the airwaves with a lust for attention and a fear of life. corporations would never hire a man like Harry Caray when they could put their money on dull and hire a Bob Costas who would never get caught closing down a tavern buying a beer for a cop and chasing it down with a redhead.

People say that baseball has lost its edge because of spoiled players and high salaries and greedy owners, but i say it's because the storytellers only want to read from the children's library and live the lives of elves.

Rot in peas little man with all the potential in the world but sits on it like so many telephone books used for your pampered ass so you can see over the mic. All the vocabulary in the world but with no backbone to bring the game to life the way one would if chatting about it over a twelve pack in a basement.

That's what Harry did.

In fact when Harry realized that he had accumulated a ton of cash from being the best there ever was, he and his wife Dutchie (they never divorced) decided that no one would be a better saloon owner than Harry, and they were right.

What would Costas open if he could? A candy store, I bet.

Filled with one flavor of bubblegum.
Questions I asked Myself this Morning while I ate my Frosted Flakes

is it good news or bad news to get an Honorable Mention from The Right Wing News in its The Best Of The Blogosphere poll?

what does sara k smith think that she can learn from grad school that she doesnt already know about writing? she's easilly the most under-rated least-linked writer out there.

when will mc brown stop kicking my ass?

what's little kobe waiting for? Christmas?

what if i started a Yahoo Fantasy NBA league, and nobody came? even if it had a live draft this saturday at noon? (private league #3285, password=jules)

why is it that some people can design so well, but then become so uninspired to update their blog? don't they know that i would kill for such design?

isn't dawn's new blog purty?

why must laughing boy be handsome, witty, verbose, and clever And want to steal my traffic? no wonder karisa loves east coast hustlas better.

and finally, where does a. beam get off thinking that she doesnt have to update except when she damn well pleases? does that lil pink cat got her tounge? if theres one thing i hate its when people who kiss my ass stop writing on their blogs.

theres an Press Club event tonight that i had a hot date for but she cant make it. we had something planned for friday and saturday and it didnt work out. on sunday we had something planned, but i was busy so i said, free drinks at the new Standard, whaddya say, im on the guest list, and she said sounds great. but now it's not so great, so im just thinking about watching the angels game from the comfort of my own home, relieved that the burdon of the proposal is lifted from my shoulders.

but what if the reverse cowgirl is gonna be there? who doesnt like to meet seductive amazonian writer/photographers who dig porn?

what if moxie is planning to attend? who doesnt like to raise a glass to being single in LA with a loveable skinny blonde who drives a porsche?

and what if the girl of my dreams ends up there, spidey senses telling her that her afroboy is nearby, looking for someone to talk to and there i was stirring my baileys mixing in the creame when our eyes met over the little plate of warm cashews?

and what if i passed all that up to twirl my rally monkey in front of a big screen?

ah, destiny, you wicked witch.
ever have one of those mornings?

in ice skating in the olympics you'll hear the announcer say, "this is the most important routine of Michelle Kwan's life." or at one of those presidential conventions they say of the nominee, "Bill Clinton is going to have to deliver the speech of his life," and while sitting on my couch digging around the bottom of a Ruffles bag i would think to myself, good thing i don't ever have to have any moments like those.

imagine if this was the most important sentence of my life.


id rather serve a life sentence.

well this morning i finished the secret proposal that i have been hinting to all of you about, and my copy of Dreamweaver decided to give out. and here i trusted that Bejing street vendor who sold me the Windows 2000, Dreamweaver 4, and Lord of the Rings Part II "bundle" for $25 .

dude clearly said that all of the products were "top notch high quality" despite being burned on blank cds that had the remains of AOL 7.0 labels mostly peeled off of them.

friggin black market. and then Blogger Pro wouldnt update.

i took a deep breath and walked outside to the perfect los angeles weather, walked back to my desk and got it together.

this proposal is for my dream job, a career i was born for. a career so good that i refused the armloads of cash that the LA Times Kabul office offered me to roam around afghanistan, pakistan, iraq, and iran and do a man-on-the-street type blog to show the softer side of the war torn area.

i said, two armloads of cash.

they said, fine.

i said four armloads.

they said, a man only has two arms.

i said, find a four armed man and fill his arms with cash and i will do it.

they chuckled and said they'd call me back.

i dont want to work for the la times in kabul.

i want to work for you. here in hollywood. my home.

i told the times that that was exactly their problem. they were so busy trying to tell us what goes on in the world, they forget that we are the world. that hollywood is the center of the universe and that sunset blvd is the mecca that hollywood blvd once was.

they said, shhh, we're looking for a four armed man.

i said, go to hollywood blvd and you'll find him. you'll find anyone there. he'll be at the popeyes ordering some cajun firecracker shrimp and a peice of dried chicken. i said why arent you writing about not only the four armed men of hollywood blvd, but the two armed women and children who are the future of this town?

i said, why arent you just being a kickass local paper for a town so big and wide that there must be a million stories in this naked city. its the crossroads of the world. its the land that time forgot. its the place where dreams still come true.

they said we found a three armed man in new mexico, hows that?

and sometimes i wonder if this really isnt the sentence of my life.

   Monday, October 07, 2002  
best part about having a blog isn't the fame, the money, the gifts, the groupies, the notoriety, the power, the influence, the excuse to talk to yourself and answer back, no.

the best part of having a blog is that if you run across a picture of the ever lovable kirby puckett, you can put it up and not have to explain shit to anybody.

saps like bob costas are going to get on the tv and tell the millions of viewers that this is the perfect time for us to appreciate kirby puckett, but costas is a short little condescending fire hydrant ripe for a dog's hind leg. we don't need costas to tell us when to love kirby. any time is a perfect time to appreciate the hall of famer.

costas will get on his soap box and try to tell us something we don't know about the former twin who rejected wheelbarrows full of cash to pull a giambi and sign up with the bronx bombers, and instead stayed where he belonged, where he was adored, in the twin cities and helped win the world series for minnesota in seven games back in '91, the year that punk broke.

old bob will go on and on and they might even play the music from "the natural" or "field of dreams" or some made for tv tear jerker starring the blue eyed golden boy and his game winning moon shot over the old wooden fence advertisizing a shaving creame and the slow motion cameras and the cheers and the fanfare and his ma in the stands in her straw hat and his best girl.

too bad hollywood baseball movies don't star big fat round black guys who stand five foot nine going blind on one eye youngest child of nine who sign autographs and go to hospitals for the kids and really do end game six with one swing of the bat. not in the bottom of the ninth. but in the bottom of the eleventh, sucka. because if they did make those sorts of movies you could get kirby back in those slimming pinstripes and theatre-goers would finally have someone they could root for again.

it's good to have kirby puckett back in the spotlight again in this series between the never-say-die angels against the team that selig wanted to kill, the twins, because kirby reminds us that good guys don't always finish last. kirby was part of two championships for the twins during his days. costas will show you the numbers. he'll get the words out right. he'll hammer home the old standby that with guys like latrell sprewell and randy moss and john rocker and influencing kids, we could use a few more kirbys. but costas had great role models growing up himself, and he still turned out to be a pudtz.

kirby didnt have a willie mays or a bobby bonds around like barry did. kirby had all the pressures that bonds had, a town that relied on him, all the cameras all the time, and not only did kirby smile when he was underpressure, but that smile was geniune. there was love there. there was a man who loved playing baseball and loved to win, and was mighty good with the glove too, jack.

but i just like having kirby back cuz he makes me happy when i see him. theres your next governor, minnesota.

Beastie Boys

Paul's Boutique
Grand Royal Records


Riddle me this brother can you handle it
Your style to my style you can't hold a candle to it
Equinox symmetry and the balance is right
Smokin' and drinkin' on a Tuesday night
It's not how you play the game it's how you win it
I cheat and steal and sin and I'm a cynic
For those about to rock we salute you
The dirty thoughts for dirty minds we contribute to
I once was lost but now I'm found
The music washes over and you're one with the sound
Who shall inherit the earth? the meek shall!
I think I'm starting to peak now, Al
and the man upstairs I hope that he cares
If I had a penny for my thoughts I'd be a millionaire
We're just 3 M.C.'s and we're on the go

Only 24 hours in a day
Only 12 notes a man can play
Music for all and not just one people
And now we're gonna bust with the Putney Swope sequel
More Adidas sneakers that a plumber got pliers
Got more suits than Jacoby & Meyers
If not for my vices my bugged out desires
My year would be good just like Goodyear's tires
So I'm out pickin' pockets at the Atlantic Antic
And nobody wants to hear you cause your rhymes are so frantic
I mix business with pleasure way too much
I mean wine and women and song and such
I don't get blue I gotta mean red streak
You don't pay to play, yo, man, that's weak
Get even like Steven like pulling a Rambo

Steal from the rich and I'm out robbing banks
Give to the poor and I always give thanks
Got more stories that J.D. Salinger
I hold the title and you are the challenger
I've got money like Charles Dickens
Got the girlies in the hoopty like the Colonel's got the chickens
Always go out dapper like Harry S. Truman
Inventor of Mad? Alfred E. Newman.

*Never gonna let them say that I don't love you*

My noggin is hoggin all kinds of thoughts
Adam Yoggin is Yauch and he's rockin of course
Smoke the holy chalice got my own religion
Rally round the stage and check the funky dope musicians
Jerry Lee Swaggart or Jerry Lee Falwell
You love Mario Andretti cause he always drives his car well
Vicious circle of reality since the day you were born
And we love the hot butter on what? the popcorn.
Sippin on wine and mackin
Rockin on the stage with all the hands clappin
Ride the wave of fate, it don't ride me, boy

*Being very proud to be an M.C.*

And the man upstairs I hope that he cares
If I had a penny for my thoughts I'd be a millionaire
Amps and crossovers under my rear hood
The bass is bumpin from the back of my Fleetwood
They tell us what to do? hell no

rosalita picked me up in her momma's newly leased xterra.

she knocked on the front door. always looking good. slightly ridiculous because she loves to show off her belly at any expense. she looked around the place, saw there were no fresh flowers in the vase near the fireplace and smiled to herself. flowers meant that ashley had been there.

ready for bowling? she asked.

always. i got my golden ball and put it in my new bowling bag. wished i had new bowling shoes. but if kisses and wishes were nickles and dimes... i was losing it.

rosalita curled up next to me as i looked through my book bag for keys to the house. she smelled great. strawberry conditioner and a hint of perfume. giggly as hell but she has some class sometimes. i was glad to see her, to be honest. missed you. she said. i had seen her a week ago.

locked the front door, exited through the back. rosalita unlocked the doors with her remote and we climbed in. mmmmmm new car smell. i could get used to this. she said she was having problems with the cd player but it was okay. we talk so much there were only a few times i think we ever listened to one song all the way through. and that was only when we were singing along to it.

she told me that she just knew i was going to get the job i was applying for. i told her that it meant i might have to move. she said, please don't move.

i told her that she would live without me. plus she would be able to visit me. she said that's hardly a silver lining.

she said, if you had moved a year ago when you were offered that job, i would probably be with paco right now, living in his houseboat, cooking his food.

my stomach turned.

why would you do that?

he's nice to me. he pays attention to me. millions of people the lord gave us in this town. i don't think we're supposed to be alone. or with people who are super average.

i did love rosalita. super average. she had her own language. wasn't afraid of anything other than loneliness. somehow she picked good boyfriends and hardly ever had a clinker. how did she know who to say yes to when it seemed like she'd just say yes to the first one who didn't completely blow.

drove down vermont to the ten headed west to santa monica. got off on fourth street. made it to pico.

perfectly good bowling alleys in hollywood, rosalita laughed. was that glitter in her lip gloss?

i knew she would try to renegotiate our situation since i kissed her last week. any time we had a good kiss she would ask me to be her boyfriend.

be my boyfriend, tony.

hadn't even gotten to the alley. or the bar with its twenty ounce buds shaped like pins.

no thank you.

you can do whatever you want to me.

yeah, no thanks.

no seriously.

so i can get with you and your roommate?

ok, don't be gross.

she parked the truck and we got out. two young black highschoolers were leaning up against the wall of a pet store. matching outfits. pearl white plain tshirts, thick gold rope chain, baggy shorts so long they were almost pants. white socks that folded at the ankle. gucci sneakers. venice beach gangsta chic. nwa 89, tough guys.

they stopped talking when i saw them whispering about rosalita. i hadn't been to the wesssside in a while. for some gangs it's disrespectful if you look down, it says you don't believe that they'll kick your ass. it says that you don't believe they're anything worthy of keeping your eye on. other gangs it's disrespectful to keep eyecontact. they'll snap back "what you looking at!" they want you to look away to prove their dominance.

i always looked at a black man in the eye.

fuck their juvenile thug games that only keep us down.

"who you lookin at brotha?"

most kids don't have guns. flash the handle of yours and that's all they need. it also doesn't hurt to have a fake badge. especially nowadays when the toughguys wear sunglasses at night in a dirty parking lot with only one light. i reached to flash one point of my badge and the one guy said to the other five-oh and they both looked past me. not down.

we called it even and i opened the door to the bowling alley for my super hot latina date and we went straight to the bar where we belonged.

   Sunday, October 06, 2002  
i once read a poem that said, life is a series of tasks that you want to do and some that you think you have to do.

it wasnt a good poem, but i think i knew what the dude was trying to say.

when it was cold here in hollywood a few days ago i thought i really wanted to move somewhere warm.

today all day i procrastinated on something that i felt like i Had to do to secure my future.

and now im doing something that i want to do: write you.

the independent film channel is on. i watch a lot of tv when i procrastinate. it's really the only time i pay attention to the tv, other than when it's showing me the nfl, the sopranos, and the e! channel.

i watched moulin rouge twice today. purple rain twice too.

i watched and taped the raiders game. loved the sopranos. loved anna nicole. loved "the worlds greatest bathrooms" on the discovery channel.

didnt love how i wasted a perfectly good sunday.

you know how old im gonna be in two weeks?


if i was a poet from the romantic era i'd be not only dead but decomposed.

im so old ashley called and said she could drive up and hang out with me and i said, cool. then she said she couldnt and i said, thats ok, i have work to do. only old people say nonsense like that.

only old people think about stocks.

today i learned that Salon's stock price is one penny. why does this sound like a reasonable price to me? am i missing something?

can it go any lower than a penny? wasnt it just a nickle the other day?

and what does it say about your company when youre selling stock for a penny and you're still not sold out?

it would make me sad.

but now isnt there a possibilty that it would go to two cents and the dumb sap who bought 2,000 shares for $20 could double his money just like that?

i'll tell you. this whole internet craze stock market who-ha has taught me one thing about the markets: anything is possible.

and i must say that i like this sort of market a lot better. i've got an etrade account. i've got $20. i know i probably cant get Salon at a penny, but i might be able to get it at two or three cents.

and what if something happened. something really unbelieveable like Salon started to become successful. i know. impossible. i agree with you. but what if. thats all im asking, what if.

what if Salon after a little while really gets popular and starts trading at 6 bucks 7 bucks. two thousand shares at three cents doesnt sound so bad then. and what sort of cheapskate would i look like in the eyes of my young son when he looks back at these blog enteries and says, "dad, you had a chance to get salon for two cents and you didnt do it?"

and i would crack open another beer and ignore the boy. just like always. salt in the wound, hey son?

he doesnt mean any harm, he's just curious.

and ashley doesnt mean any harm. she just wants to be loved. just like any of us.

she calls and she calls. we never have anything to say. i ask her if she has seen her boyfriend lately. she says she doesnt have a boyfriend. then she says she loves me. then i say i love me too. then she laughs. then i laugh. then her boyfriend listening in on the phone sneezes. then i hang up. then i turn off the ringer. then she calls and calls. and my christmas lights burn out.

the window is cracked open. summer made a curtain call.

i think about how comfortable i feel with ashley. and how not comfortable i am with some other girls. and then how nearly soul-mate comfortable i feel with chris and jeanine and how do you decide which is the right level? this one girl said she was coming over to say hi and i cleaned up the house so fast. that doesnt happen when you feel comfortable, but its a good reaction. isnt it?

i feel so comfortable with chris that i tell her some of the most disgusting things you could ever imagine. with her help i have mastered the technique of saying such things in the most serious, believable tone. its quite amazing. sometimes she'll say, pardon me, What did you just say? and i'll repeat it.

to me, i think thats love.

but she doesnt want me.

she says she knows what shes turning down, but she can live with her decision.

and hangs up.

and the phone rings, and it's ashley. different kind of comfortable.

the sort of comfort you get holding a loaded weapon with the safety on.

technically everythings okay, but everything aint okay.

it's midnight now and i have to go to bed because im oooooooold and my wrists hurt from typing and surfing and trying to make the world a better place.

i will go to bed alone, wake up alone, go to work alone, come home alone and finish this thing tomorrow night as the bears face the packers from green bay.

in order to have a different life, the bad poem says, you have to do different things.

so this is the lamest entry i could think of.
ive held down a couple or so dozen jobs in my short life. and oftentimes, when i worked retail, there would be a day or a few days when the Big Boss or some vip would come and inspect the store.

they were called walk-throughs.

some walk throughs were more serious than others. but all of them meant more work, custodial type things, making sure all the price tags were up, that all the wires were hiding, that all the dead gaps were filled and that all the products worked.

it was a pain, but once the walkthrough was over, the store was a better place, and even if the review was just mediocre one, or the guy just wanted to say hi to the manager, the store benefitted simply because of the process.

theres going to be a walkthrough here this week.

big wigs that matter a lot to me.

now im not saying that people have to do anything different, or form a human pyramid, or only leave sparkling comments, or buy stuff off my birthday wishlist, or get tsar to play a show here on say october 22, or fill up my paypal bottomless pit machine, or link me on you page, or fix me up with your sister.

im just saying theres gonna be a walkthrough.

i'll do my best to keep it real on this blog and write about the same things that i would normally write about and forget to spellcheck, and all those normal things, but if you notice a few miles off the fast ball and a foot off the curve, and i dont link kitty being really funny, now you know why.

its nearly the fourth quarter and i'm sorta wishing someone had taken a walkthrough during the raiders' practices this week because other than the first series of downs where buffalo went three and out, the raiders d has been mia.

im getting agita.

i was thinking about making rally monkey tshirts. i think i may have thought of that idea too late though. you'd probably have to buy them today or tomorrow.

time- timing.

new sopranos are on tonight.
hi free willy

squeak squeak squeak.

oh, sorry, hi keiko.


hey how's norway?

oh squeak squeak squeak squeak super hot babes everywhere squeak squeak squeak squeak.

yeah, i once worked with a norwegian girl at the dot com. she was amazing. so sweet so nice to everyone. incredible memory. very fashionable. but pretty much just 100% all heart all the time.

squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak.

what do you think about all these people who want to get you out of the fjords and back into the deeper waters so you can get more exercise and maybe get healthier.

squeak squeak squeak squeak, #$%@!

totally bro.

squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak?

ah pretty good. it's getting a little better, but you know carpal, the more im at the computer the worse it gets. so i haven't been able to do any photo essays or really write any longer things, just little blog entries here and there. i miss the interns. they would totally be stoking me right now.

squeak squeak squeak.

well, if you can pull yourself away from the norweigian babes, i'd love to have you intern for me.

squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak.

see, that's why i love you, keiko, you ask nothing from me. i think that's why everyone loves you. who cares if you're going to die because you love people so much? that's sorta how Jesus went down.

oy vey. squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak.

ooops sorry, i didn't know.

squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak.

i know i know, i do that all the time. im really not very conscientious. you're right, i do project a lot.

squeak squeak squeak squeak?

i think the Twins are going to beat the A's and then i think the Angels are going to beat the Twins.

squeak squeak squeak rally monkeys!

totally! people talk so much shit about orange county and angels fans and disney, but you're right, how perfect that the fans, the real fans, came up with a super grass roots mascot and symbol of the team that had absolutely nothing to do with any of the disney merch and turned it into a more powerful voodoo doll than that stupid atlanta tomahawk or even the terrible towel.

squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak?

she's pretty good. looking good. feeling good. i want to see her all the time, but it doesn't always work out that way.

well, squeak squeak squeak squeak, antonio.

right back at 'cha, willy.

squeak squeak!

always, bro.