Monthly Archive for October, 2006
in the asphalt jungle of Manhattan. I was originally slated to pitch game one of the World Series had the Mets won last night but alas, they didn’t because their big money batters couldn’t figure out how to protect the plate in game seven of the league championship series with men on in the bottom of the ninth. What the fuck?
Conrad Connecticut wrote:
Bah. Willie did the right thing not bringing in Wagner. And overall, he did a great job with a team that had no starting pitching. It is not his fault they scored one run off Jeff Supan. Plus, Willie’s Mr. Met sized balls are as big as the herp on Albert’s lips.
If fans want to be critical of someone it should be Beltran. There is no excuse for going down looking with the bases loaded. But that is the modern baseball player. Locked in looking for a pitch he can drive out of the park when he should be protecting the plate with two strikes. At that point, your goal is simply not to make an out. Not just Beltran of course – Shawn Green, Stache [Valentin] and Endy were all taking Reggie like cuts in situations where they should have been looking to put the ball in play. Bah. Apparently, you can’t teach major leaguers fundamentals anymore. Like when a guy gets the take sign and stands there looking pissed off with the bat on his shoulder so everyone in the stadium knows he is taking. Or the fact that no one can bunt including pitchers in the NL.
Pathetic. I know that I couldn’t do anything (hit, throw, run) even 20% as well as MLB players but I know for a fact that right now I could bunt major league pitching better than 90% of the players in the
game.Also, someone needs to tell Heilman that a change up stops being a change up if you never throw a fast ball. When every pitch is 79 mph it becomes batting practice.
My dad called me today and said “I would put a provision in all contracts banning players from the home run derby. Wright hasn’t been right since that stupid contest.” I say we get hats and cigars and start our own version of the sports reporters. We will preach solid fundamentals and yell at kids to get off our lawns.
Mary Milan and I will spend a few days in Manhattan picking out hats and cigars with Conrad Connecticut and see our friends from back east, then we’ll pick our toes in Poughkeepsie, and then it’s off to Pennsylvania where we will eat cheese steaks, run the Rocky mile and marry Joey Jerusalem and Jessie Napoli.
Will be back on Halloween with a bunch of treats, including a report on the wedding, Mary Milan’s first visit to my alma mater (and my first in maybe 10 years), and the long awaited brewing photo essay.
In the meantime, if anyone gets to Halloween Horror Nights at Universal Studios Florida or Universal City, please report. I have a soft spot in my heart for those scare parks and we didn’t get a chance to go to one this year.
God, it’s decadent to take a week off in the Fall.
Haha, bitches.
I just cut my favorite sentence from Joey Jerusalem and Jessie Napoli’s wedding ceremony. It kind of killed me as it had “persnickety” and “picayune” in the same breath but I think there ceremony is much better because it’s been eighty-sixed.
They say in writing that you have to kill your babies.
I’ve been noticing that I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Cutting my babies. I must be growing or something.
Damn you growth.
But thankfully, I ain’t growing here. This still remains a relatively safe space for my babies and unfiltered fumblings of my fingers.
Persnickety and picayune. Persnickety and picayune. Persnickety and picayune. Persnickety and picayune. Persnickety and picayune. Persnickety and picayune.
My babies just took back the night.
The other day, I heard a white, South African woman say to a Black woman, “I really like that thing around your neck.” In that, you know, accent.
Pause. The Black woman looked back at her, confused, probably asking herself, “Am I gonna have to slap a bitch?”
A tense moment. And then she realizes that the South African woman was talking about her necklace.
Let’s try to be a little more specific:
“That thing around your neck” sounds like a lynching.
“Necklace” sounds pretty and ornamental.
This public service announcement was brought to you from the fine folks at johnnyhongkong.com.
CUE JINGLE: “The More You Know”
We’re 30 days past the California mandated 30-day, no questions asked, cell phone return and plan cancellation policy so we’re stuck with our Razrs, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and T-Mobile.
It was high time to figure out how to email from the phone, particularly since I have all these great pictures from beer brewing last weekend that I need to get in order to do my home brewing post.
Mary Milan and I figured out how to text message and have even gotten pretty good with predictive text typing, coming a long way from our first texts that read, “Colllllllllodoadhefsbiasfshit.”
But email? That was a little confusing. With no email client on the phone, I couldn’t figure out where to type an email address. Each time I tried sending one of these brewing pictures to myself, I’d get a prompt to enter in a destination phone number and not an email address.
The T-Mobile website support page was not helpful. Each page which referred to picture mailing told me to send my pictures to “My Album” on “T-Zones,” where I could then send in emails or share with friends and family.
For those of you who don’t have T-Mobile, T-Zones is apparently T-Mobile’s online community where you can get ring tones, wallpapers, and store and share your pictures.
It seemed ridiculous and circuitous to have to upload photos to T-Zones just to email them but not having any luck in emailing any other way, I figured I should give it a shot. Maybe in my T-Zone, I could open up an email client or something.
After a few moments to connect to the T-Zone, “My Album” showed that I already had ten photos saved there.
Strange, considering I had never visited my T-Zone.
Of course I was curious, so I opened “My Album” and was greeted with photos of numerous Black men, likely self portraits taken from their camera phone, with subjects like “hey baby,” “check me out” and “i want you”.
And before I could get my bearings straight, BA-BAM!
A big, erect, black cock.
That’s right: a big, erect, black cock.
It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to what I was looking at: a big, erect, black cock, shot lovingly from a low angle, giving it heft and power, like it was Citizen Kane, accompanied by the subject line “heads up!”
At first, I thought it was a sculpture, like a kids art project or something. It only took a moment for me to come to the realization that every time Catherin Zeta-Jones says, “Get More,” she doesn’t mean “Get More out of life by staying in touch with your friends and family,” she means, “Get more big, erect, black cock.”
So who is this woman who owned my phone number before me? Who is this woman who gets the “heads up!” picture and thinks so much of it that she saves it online to her (my) album on T-Zones to share with her family and friends?
Wouldn’t it just be easier to keep this photo on her phone where she could not only set it as a wallpaper, a picture to refer to its owner, or just call it up instantly to gaze at without having to go to her T-Zone?
Beyond that, I’m most interested in whether or not her friends, boyfriends and hookups can post pictures directly to her (my) online album because I don’t want to get more pictures of erect penises.
I don’t know, maybe I’m just not being marketing saavy. This could become a new plan feature: $49.99 a month for a family plan with 1000 shared minutes, free mobile to mobile, and found porn!
Either T-Mobile needs to be a little more thorough in clearing online user material when the accounts terminate or we have to be a little more careful about what sort of shit we put out there. It’s the weird thing about this generation, what with MySpace and other played out social networking sites, blogs, and YouTube, kids these days have no real sense of privacy or a really, really skewed sense at the least.
If you have T-Mobile and you’ve never checked your T-Zone, go give it a gander, you may be surprised at what you might find.
And to the woman who used to belong to my phone number, you’ve been getting calls from Texas and Alabama. The last one sounded urgent – they left a voicemail – like it was a job opportunity. They said something about closing a contract. And if you miss Citizen Cock, I kept it (rather, I don’t know how to delete and I don’t know that I want to see the picture again) let me know in the comments where I can find you and I’ll text it to you.
Strangely, this has brought some odd symmetry to my life when viewed in light of Defamer’s link last week to my post about Keanu Reeves and his date at The Departed. Defamer wrote:
…we’re almost certain the scene in question was the infamous strap-on dildo scene, [jhk: it wasn't] which, while it did make the final cut, was hardly the kind of buzzworthy latex-sex-toy performance that is remembered come awards season. Reeves must have noticed the over-the-top, scenery-chewing manner with which Jack dangled the molded appendage in co-star Damon’s face, thus causing him to involuntarily blurt out, “Nicholson forgets that acting is reacting. I could have won that big, black cock an Oscar!”
When the photo revealed itself to me, I reacted exactly like Matt Damon’s character in that scene. If I had my wits, I would have put on my Boston accent too.
Anyway, I figured out how to email pictures. I had to select a different entry mode. Here is one of the pictures. The other pictures will be forthcoming in a little home brewing photo essay.
There was a 6.6 magnitude earthquake in Hawaii yesterday. It has been a relatively quiet decade for our state which is not a good thing since it may soon remind us why it’s the world heavyweight champion of earthquakes.
So get yo’asses prepared bitches.
LAist has a nice little checklist here and of course, you can see the first three chapters here.
Just because y’all might have gotten yourselves prepared, it may also be a good time to check those provisions. Upon checking our kit last week, we discovered that our 2.5 gallon water containers had sprung leaks (when they say change the supply every six months, they are not lying) and that we are still need a go bag and an emergency bottle of scotch (Well, the last part is a lie. We had an emergency bottle, but it magically disappeared…)
As some of you know, it’s always been my dream to brew beer. Ray Ray Boston tried to make my dream come true a couple years back when he got me a Mr. Beer home brewing kit. I had wild dreams of converting our apartment on East 20th into the headquarters of my microbrewery empire: JHK Malt.
I mean, how hard could it be? I had already conquered professional chefdom with no experience. How hard could beer brewing be?
It turned out to be very hard. JHK Malt’s first batch turned out to be beer-tasting flat soda. It was disgusting.
A few years later, Joey Jerusalem and Jessie Napoli got me a chance at redemption with another Mr. Beer and also books on brewing. Unfortunately, I haven’t had a chance to use it because our apartment would be too hot to keep the yeast alive during fermentation. This, in addition to dodgy sanitation in our apartment with black paint peeling from the ceilings, likely caused the flat, beer tasting soda from New York.
So you can imagine my excitement when last weekend, J and R invited us over to drink and brew beer. J is quite a good home brewer and R, one of Mary Milan’s colleagues, indulges her husband in his hobby.
Anyway, I’ve been dying to post the pictures from the day but I need to figure out a way to get the picture off my phone. So in the meantime, J sent this little placeholder for the time being: it’s a picture of my pointing at 7 gallons of boiling beer with the magic beer stick in it.
It is currently fermenting in a jug, shaded from excessive heat in J and R’s second bathroom. In 2 more weeks, it will turn into an Anderson Valley Style Amber Ale.
Dope.
