January 2009 Archives

I've been toying with the idea of a post on the ridiculousness of the Snuggie. And while I was mulling it over, this video was produced, which said it all much better than I could. And with pictures, too!


Hat tip to Patrick of Oregon, whose post on the Friends of Tom Forum alerted me to this mini masterpiece.

I wanted to get some Super Bowl predictions from football experts, but then I realized that  football experts tend to be horribly, horribly wrong most of the time. So instead, I decided to think beyond the usual expert parameters and ask some other types of people for their takes on the big game. Our next guest is Congressman John Boehner (R-OH), House minority leader.

Who did Obama pick? The Steelers? Then I'm going with the Cards.

You guys are going with the Cards, right? I don't wanna see no Republicans picking the Steelers or so help me, I'll sic Rush Limbaugh on you! Don't think I won't!

My guest tonight is the former Yankee manager who led the Bronx Bombers to 6 pennants and 4 world championships. His new book The Yankee Years has stirred up quite a bit of controversy in the NY press, and tonight here's here to talk all about it. Here he is, Joe Torre.
Thanks for having me on, Larry.

Joe, I've always liked you, because you're a Brooklyn boy just like me. Did you grow up a Dodger fan?

I did, as a matter of fact.

Do you remember an outfielder by the name of Pete Reiser?

Sure, I saw him play a few times.

Boy, he woulda had a great career if he'd a learned to stop running into walls!

Yeah, that was a shame.

I wanted to get some Super Bowl predictions from football experts, but then I realized that  football experts tend to be horribly, horribly wrong most of the time. So instead, I decided to think beyond the usual expert parameters and ask some other types of people for their takes on the big game. Our next guest is Nation of Ulysses/Make-Up/Weird War frontman and talk-show host Ian Svenonius.

I care not for the opiate of professional sports. It is just one limb of the vast and multi-tentacled corporate puppet casting its shadow across this nation.

"Fan-dom" is but a masturbatory, nay, necrophiliac exercise. I care only for the destruction of nostalgia, the shakedown of the great zombie that is America.

Let the walking dead engross themselves with this contest. Let the snackers gorge themselves upon winged treats and corn-based amnesia. They see nothing in our pursuits, nor should they.

I will focus on those bold and hopeless citizens, intoxicated with riddles, smashing idols, driving the money-changers from the temple. We shall array ourselves in finery of our choosing. We shall strike their names from the history books, and begin a glorious new reign in The Year Zero.

And if you can get Cards +6.5, you'd be nuts not to take Arizona.

With The Big Game (c) (r) almost upon us, Scratchbomb welcomes Tram Woodreaux, host of the popular cooking show Off the Rails! on The Grub Network and owner of the popular Galveston restaurant The Whee!house.

First off, how do I pronounce your restaurant's name?

It's like "wheelhouse", but you make sure you add some extra zip on the first syllable. We like to do things a little nutty down at the Whee!house. We got this poster in the kitchen that says, "You don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!" That's a joke, of course. We don't hire actual crazy people. Not after what happened last time.

I'm sure you heard that there's a wing shortage right now. So say you can't get wings for your Super Bowl party. What's the next best thing?

I think you can't go wrong with a couple of Hostess Suzy-Q's, arranged on a sporty football shaped platter, and covered with Kraft Cheez-Whiz. I call 'em Touchdown Tortes!

Yuck. That sounds completely awful.

Oh, you gotta be kidding me! You should see how fast my Touchdown Tortes go at my parties! Almost as fast as my Cornerback Kickoff Nachos!

What's in those?

Three bags of Doritos brand tortilla chips, two cans of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, a sack of Nabisco Chips Ahoy, a big ol' soup ladle...

Please tell me you don't eat the soup ladle.

Of course not! You use the soup ladle to smash the ingredients together, mix 'em up, and pour out the mixture into ice cube trays. Stick toothpicks in the goop and two hours later, you've got little gooey nacho-sicles for everyone!

I wanted to get some Super Bowl predictions from football experts, but then I realized that  football experts tend to be horribly, horribly wrong most of the time. So instead, I decided to think beyond the usual expert parameters and ask some other types of people for their takes on the big game. First up, professional Diet-Coke-and-snack vacuum Mike Francesa.

I've like the Steelahs chances to win the whole thing for a long time. A long time. Week 3, I think I liked them. A lot to like about this team. A lot. There's a lot to like. With this team, there's a lot to like.

Cawdnals aren't just gonna lie down, though. Dey're here to win. Dey're gonna play tough. Dey're a tough team. Dat is a tough team, the Cawdnals. Tough. That's what I'd call them. A tough team. No doubt, they're a tough team.

Butcha gotta like Roethlisberger. He's been there. He knows what it's like. He's acquired knowledge through prior experiences. Roethlisberger's someone you gotta like. You really do. A lot to like with him.

You know who he reminds me of a little bit? Bradshaw. Just a little bit. The teensiest bit. A little bit reckless. Not too much book smarts, but he knows how to win. Bradshaw was like that. Ben's got just a bit of Bradshaw in him. Just a bit.

/inhales entire 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke

But hey, you gotta like the other guy, too. This ain't Warner's first trip to the Big Dance, either. He's been through the wars, that guy. Through the wars. He is a warrior. You do not count him out. A warrior, that guy.

You name the guys, any guy you can think of. Warner's not with those guys. But he's close. Real close. He's almost one of those guys.

Alright, let's take some calls. Tom in Riverhead, you're on the air.

Hey Mike, I love yer show, I think you are the best thing to happen to radio, I worship the ground you walk on. I was just wondering if we could talk a little Yankees right now...

A little Yankees? A little Yankees? It's Super Bowl Friday and you wanna talk a little Yankees? Let me tell you somethin, you wanna talk baseball on Super Bowl Friday, you are lost. Lu-host. You do n-hot talk baseball the Friday before the Super Bowl.

This is gonna be a close game. I see it bein close. Back and forth. Someone leads, then the other team leads, then the first team leads again. It's gonna be a dogfight. A close game. A real close one. Game. Close. Football.

I apologize for the readers who were looking forward to an exclusive interview with Steelers kicker Jeff Reed from Skitch Hanson. I think last night took a few turns that Skitch didn't anticipate.

If you want to take in the carnage, go to Skitch's Twitter page, scroll to the bottom, and read upwards to reach all the low points.

I want everyone involved with this article to be pitchforked to death. I'm not gonna recount it, just click on that link. If you can read three sentences and not be filled with hate, you're either Gandhi or dead.

Only the New York Times can not only think it's a good idea to greenlight an article about the trials and tribulations of millionaire bankers--you know, the greedy assholes who plunged our economy into the pooper to begin with--but also not have the slightest clue about how tone deaf and out-of-touch they look. That is some serious "let them eat cake"-level of cluelessness.

Ugh. Die, all of you. And make sure you do it slowly.

Skitch Hanson just informed me, via his Twitter page, that he plans on interviewing one of players from Super Bowl XLIII. So point your browser there if you want to get in on all the exciting action!*

*Your definition of "exciting action" may vary.

I often write about the Mets on this site, but I realize that my perspective is not necessarily that of the average fan. So as the Hot Stove League heats up, I want to get the viewpoint of another Amazins enthusiast. Today Scratchbomb welcomes back Sean from Massapequa, a union pipefitter and frequent WFAN caller, to discuss the Mets' latest free agent recruits.

Now that Derek Lowe has gone to the Braves, it seems the Mets have their sights on reacquiring Oliver Perez.

Yes, and I have my sight set on constructing an incendiary advice to hurl at CitiField. This team drives me nuts, chasin after bums like Oliver Perez. Sick to my stomach just thinkin about it.

Who do you think they should sign instead, Ben Sheets?

Sign somebody, sign anybody! I'm sick to death of no news! Checkin the papers, listening to Francesa, day after day, nothin! It's January and I got snow pilin up in my driveway and my Chevy won't start and I got my wife bustin my hump about fixin up the dining room. I need some baseball news, goddammit, or I swear to god I'm goin postal! Again.

I don't think the Mets should sign a pitcher indiscriminately just because you're having a tough time.

Buddy, a tough time is like "Wah, I stubbed my toe, I'm havin a bad hair day!" What I'm goin through right now is Normandy. My boss is workin my last nerve, the boiler's actin up again, and Jesus Christ, you shoulda seen the piece a work my oldest brought home the other day. This guy looked like a reject from Tool Academy. Wore sunglasses indoors, at night, in January. Enough gel in his hair to kill a horse. God, I wanted to smack this mook so hard. Smack him right in the brain...

So you don't care who the Mets as long as they sign somebody, but you don't want them to sign Oliver Perez.

At this point, I'd love it if they signed Ollie, because then at least I'd have somethin else to piss me off and break up the monotony. I ain't had nothin to get real mad at since a coupla weeks ago, when I threw a brick at some Eagles fan in the Giants Stadium parking lot.

A brick of what?

A brick of brick, what else? How else do you expect me the break the guy's jaw?

Wow. How are you not in jail?

The guy was wearin a McNabb jersey just minutes after they eliminated Big Blue from the playoffs. The balls on that prick! Even if I'da gotten caught, no jury in the country woulda convicted me.

I'm kind of afraid to ask this, but what do you think of Manny Ramirez? There seem to be a lot of fans who want him on the team, but the front office hasn't given any indication that they're going to pursue him. Where do you stand on the issue?

Wilpons, Omar, get this man on this team! He means the difference between a World Series title and me hunting you down for sport!

I'm surprised. I didn't think you'd be pro-Manny.

Why not? The man is an RBI machine. A machine!

Sure, of course, I just...he doesn't seem like your kind of player.

What do you mean, the clubhouse stuff? Everyone says he's no good in the clubhouse, but that didn't mean too much when he was winnin in Cleveland and Boston and LA.

No, I meant...well, every time I talk to you, you yell at the Mets for pursuing certain types of players.

Yeah, bums. They're always goin after bums and stiffs cuz they're cheap, when they should be goin after the big fish like Manny.

Okay, it's just that every other time I've talked to you, you've accused the Mets of only signing Hispanic players.

What?! I never said that!

Maybe you've never said those exact words, but you've implied it heavily.

I'm really hurt! You make me sound like some kinda racist or somethin!

Maybe I misinterpreted what you said. If so, I apologize. That was unfair of me.

Now, if Omar turns around and signs Pedro again, you'll know it's just cuz he's lookin out for his fellow you-know-whats.

Very nice. Thanks for completely confirming my earlier suspicions about you.

Don't mention it.

Originally posted 1/26/09

Scratchbomb has its own man embedded in the doody-storm that is Super Bowl Media Week. Frequent contributor Skitch Hanson will be providing us with breaking news and other updates via his Twitter page, which you can view by clicking here.

If you have any questions for Skitch or you want him to check out anything in particular, just comment on this post and the word will get his way. I'll be bumping this post frequently as a friendly reminder to the curious.

Pic of Bobby Flay at the Flight of the Conchords premiere event.

Flip through the pics. Every other attendee makes some kind of sense--either they're a cast member or a member of the Funny Ha-Ha community. And then there's Bobby Flay, just there, like a big ginger fish outta water.

My guess is he's there to pitch a show idea to the lads in the band. "Get this: You guys start working at a southwestern fusion restaurant, and you do a song about stuffing a deep-frozen pumpkin with poblano chiles!"

I love people who go on insane quests. I'm not talking quite at the Don Quixote level. More like completely pointless obsessions whose realization won't accomplish anything for the dreamer. They just wanna see if they can do it. After a while, they don't really know why they're doing it anymore. But to stop doing it would mean that all that work they've done already would be totally wasted.

Want an example? How about a man whose goal is to acquire an autographed version of every single 1983 Fleer baseball card? Omar the Scrivener's twittering alerted me to the presence of this monomaniacal blog, which I find completely fascinating.

For those who never collected baseball cards, Fleer was the line that ran a distant third in popularity behind Topps and Donruss. And as a cursory view of this site will indicate, their 1983 set was designed with an aggressive lack of imagination, even by the standards of the day. (Compare Topps' snazzier look from the same year.)

On top of all of this, the pictures on the cards don't exactly give Ansel Adams a run for his money. Like this card, where Reds pitcher Eddie Milner is caught mid-grimace. Or this one, where the Astros' Harry Spillman looks kinda President George H.W. Bush. Or this one, where Seattle's Bryan Clark flashes a nice smile but forgot to push his cap down on his head. Or this one, where Yankee John Mayberry looks like he just awoke from a pleasant nap.

So why has this man settled on Fleer 1983, of all brands/years?

Growing up, I collected baseball cards. For whatever reason, I ended up with many 1983 Fleer cards. Now I'm writing to players asking to autograph their card.

That's it. Then again, do you need any more reason than this? I think not.

As of this writing, he's gotten 458 signed cards out of a total of 674., just a little over 2/3 of the way home. Godspeed, good sir. May your quest conclude happily.

Understand: I am not mocking this man in any way. I completely understand where he's coming from, because I have done things just as complicated and pointless in my life. And am probably doing some now. And will undoubtedly continue to do them in the future.

Like when I was a kid, I wanted to get a complete set of Topps baseball cards from the year I was born. But since I didn't have enough dough to buy the set outright, I would by them individually. Or in those terrible sets that guys at card shows put together that are completely full of garbage, hoping that gullible idiots like 10-year-old-me will blow 5-10 bucks on. Which we always do, of course, because we are morons.

This is how now I have a baseball card album with 17 Oscar Gambles, 23 Kent Tukulves, and too many Jose Cardenals to count.

Mike, I wanted to clear the air about those book excerpts...
Zip it, stoolie. It was bad enough you bad mouthed Brian Cashman, but I can't believe you betrayed the confidence of your players. That's just weak.
But Mike, like I told Brian, it's a literary device...
Maybe that crap works on Cashman, but I went STANFORD, ok?! I am a very educated man and I'm not going be fooled by any verbal trickery on your part involving literary devices. All of which I am quite familiar with, thank you very much.

After writing my kiss-off to the immortal (?) Jeff Kent, I realized that Mr. Kent played a small role in the top three games I ever saw at Shea Stadium. I broached this topic a few times two years ago, though I never got quite as far as I wanted to. And now that Shea is all but rubble, the time has come to pay my last respects.

After dismissing or ignoring baseball for a good chunk of my high school/collegiate career, I got sucked back in by the ridiculously ridonkulous year of 1999. That remains my favorite Met team that I definitively, distinctly remember. 1986 had better results, but I was barely aware of the game at that point. 1969 and 1973 both made the mistake of occurring before I was born. 2006 seemed like magic when it was happening, but has become more and more depressing the more time passes.

1999 was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. It was like a carnival ride that whipped you around in the air a little too hard, and shook a little too much to be safe, and had lots of loose exposed bolts, and was run by a wild-eyed carnie on crank. There are some nights I wake up and I still can't believe that it all ended on a bases loaded walk. And yet, I can totally believe it. How else could that year end--in a fair and probable manner? Pshaw!

I felt kinda bad for posting that snotty multiple choice bit about Steve Martin yesterday, like I backstabbed an old beloved teacher or something. I mean, when Steve Martin was at the top of his game, he was awesome. The Jerk is still one of my favorite Funny Ha-Ha flicks. If you can find a copy of the criminally out-of-print Cruel Shoes, please do so. It is more than worth tracking down.

But damn it all, the man refuses to make a good movie anymore. Or to do anything remotely funny at all. What makes it even worse is that I don't think he's enjoyed selling out. At least now that Robert Deniro and Al Pacino have totally given up, they look like they're having a blast in the horrible, horrible movies they make. Maybe because they spent so many years being intense, they feel relieved from the burden of all that art and integrity they carried around for so long.

Conversely, every time you see Steve Martin, he looks miserable. Like there's some guy standing behind him at all times with a loaded gun pointed at the small of his back. "Yeah, see? You just keep makin' shitty remakes of stupid movies no one remembers and everything'll be just fine, see?"

He doesn't need the money, I hope. I don't think he requires an expensive operation, or has ex-wives whom he must support. But there has to be some reason he keeps doing these awful flicks, right?

Right! And the reason is: Banjo inspiration!

Martin says five of the songs on "The Crow" [his new bluegrass album]...date back to the late '60s and early '70s, while others are more recent. "Tin Roof" came along while he was filming 2003's "Cheaper by the Dozen," and "Pretty Flowers" was conceived while filming 2006's "The Pink Panther" in Boston.

I'm not gonna rag on Martin's banjo playing, because I'm not qualified. I like to think I'm musically educated, but I don't think I could discern between good and bad banjo pluckin'. And it obviously makes the man happy, so let him play all he wants. Let him record 17 album-length banjo solos for all I care. Good for him.

But I wonder if Martin feels that his banjo playing is now his real art, that the whole "being funny" thing is just to pay the bills so he can pluck 'til his heart's content.

Because he cites some pretty awful flicks when pinpointing the muse for his banjo tunes. And not just flops, but totally venal, bottom-feeding, imagination-free remakes of crappy movies no one remembers (except Panther, of course). Maybe he wants to devote all of his creative energies to the banjo. And in order to do so, his day job must be as mindless and soulless as humanly possible.

The dumber, more pandering the movie, the better his banjo music. In exchange for his movies being mindless garbage, he gets to thrive at what he really loves. It's like the lamest variation on The Portrait of Dorian Gray ever.

That's how you wind up with a comedic genius making under-the-bottom-of-the-barrel junk like Bringing Down the House: Blame The Banjo.

Something dumb that drives me nuts: Kids who refuse to dress up.

This is not an Adult Feeling for me, or a Parent Feeling. Even when I was a kid, it really bothered me when I saw other kids at a fancy function dressed in jeans and sneakers.

Maybe it was because I had to get dressed up all the time to go to Witness meetings. So I'd think to myself, Hey, kid, I gotta put a suit on three times a week. You can't put on friggin' tie for Aunt Clara's 90th birthday?

I don't come from fancy people, by any stretch of the imagination. But I do come from a family where you know that sometimes you have to dress nice. And "nice" doesn't mean "expensive". It just means "not showing up to a funeral in a Budweiser t-shirt."

It doesn't take a lot of money to not look like a slob. I wore SalVay suits as a kid. Hell, I wore sub-SalVay suits. I wore suits from this nasty-ass thrift store in our local town that smelled like an armpit. Every time I set foot in that place, it took a few weeks off my life, from a combination of intense fear I would be spotted there and the airborne contaminants inside it. Seriously, I think it was built on top of a former pesticide testing facility.

But you know what? We were too damn poor to turn up our noses at such bargains. After a delousing, the suits looked fine. Plus, there was the occasional pearl hidden within. I once managed to snag a vinyl copy of Monty Python's rare three-sided record for like a buck.

I'm aware that not everyone has what sociologists would call the "cultural capital" to know how to behave in certain social situations. But my feeling is, if you have enough money to not shop at The Pest Hole Thrift Shop like I did, you also should know how to dress at a fahncy function.

All of this childhood anger hit me anew this weekend at a party I attended. The outfits worn by people at this party ranged in their fanciness. I was at the lower end of the scale, in a nice sweater and dress shoes but also wearing a pair of jeans. Some folks were all decked out, others were closer to me. But no one looked like they just rolled out of bed and put on something that'd been laying on the floor.

Then this one kid showed up in a replica NFL jersey and sneakers, and just like that, I was FURIOUS. Because it wasn't an old holey football top or scuffed-up Keds. No, it was sparkling, brand-new (or well maintained) Vince Young replica and matching shoes in similarly pristine condition.

So this family had enough dough to dress him in the outfit of his choice. And everyone else he entered with wore appropriate attire. He just didn't feel like getting dressed up. It really pissed me off, in the kind of blind, dumb way that you can only be pissed off when you're a kid and you find something WRONG and UNFAIR!

And I see NO WAY in which this post could come back to bite me in the ass when my own child refuses to get dressed up some day!

Todd Grunfeld, proprietor of Winger's, just emailed me because he's heard there's a possibility of a wing shortage. With less than a week before the Super Bowl, such a shortage could have some catastrophic results for the snacking public and America's growing ranks of mobility scooter owners.

Todd wanted me to assure my readers that all of his Winger's locations will be well-stocked with wings in plenty of time for the Big Game. He told me that he's ordered a special shipment of 17 truck containers of emergency wing rations at great expense from a chicken processing facility in rural Manitoba. Their safe arrival will be guaranteed by armed mercenaries on loan from Blackwater.

And I am only passing along this info because Todd promised me that if I did, he'd find some way to rid my site of that awful, awful ad.

The new Pink Panther movie is a hate crime against:

A) The French nation
B) The memory of Peter Sellers
C) The memory that Steve Martin once made good movies
D) Comedy
E) Humanity itself

Brian, I wanted to call you and clear the air about those book excerpts that have been leaked. The co-writer and I, we employed a literary device called The Third Person. So you see, that's not me talking in those excerpts; it's Joe Torre.
But you are Joe Torre.
No, I'm me. Unless I'm someone other than me, in which case I would be you.
Those are just pronouns, Joe. It doesn't change the fact that you wrote some pretty awful things in your book.
No, Tom Verducci explained this to me. He's a writer and he knows all about this kinda stuff. I didn't write those horrible things, Joe Torre did. Me, I'm just a palooka from Brooklyn who wanted to be a big league manager some day. I'm a good egg, see? But that Joe Torre fella, he's a real dick. Between you and me, I wouldn't trust the guy farther than I could throw him.

My place of employ provides free soda. I appreciate this, because I wasn't doing enough on my own to destroy my body.

Since I'm trying to shed a few lbs, I opt for a diet sodee pop with my lunch. But Diet Coke is a hot item in these parts, so I'm usually left with Diet Dr. Pepper as my only option. Which is fine, because the commercials are true--it really does taste like Dr. Pepper!*

* Which, by the way, has to be the most idiotic ad campaign ever. Wow, it tastes like the thing it says it tastes like! Praise Jesus! Next up, we're working on steak-flavored steak!

When I first began this job, the Dr. Pepper cans were all emblazoned with the characters from the last Indiana Jone movie. Actually, they must have only had a partial marketing deal, because every can I ever got had Mutt on it. Try to eat lunch with Shia LeBoeuf staring at you. Go ahead, I dare you.

But the Indiana Jones cans ran out, and were eventually replaced with a seemingly generic version. The only difference between this version and a totally unadorned can is a row of laces between the Dr. Pepper logo and the nutritional info.

I literally drank this soda for months before it occurred to me, "Wait, what the hell is this supposed to be?" I can only assume they're supposed to be football laces, except for two things:

1) They are the fattest, ugliest football laces you've ever seen, and
2) There is not a single mention of football anywhere else on the can.

No famous football player. Not even a silhouette of someone doing the Heisman. There's no football related contest or giveaway or anything. The only things football related at all are the ugly, ugly laces that look more like they belong on some morbidly obese dowager's corset.

My guess is, the Dr. Pepper people wanted to attach themselves in some way to The Exciting NFL Season. However, not only did they fail to land an NFL endorsement deal, but their creative department was filled with people who had never actually seen a football.

So they went to Modell's and bought one and brought it back to the office. By that point, a whole half hour had passed and no one was really hot for this idea anymore. Still, they spent like 15 bucks on that football, so they might as well put it to good use.

If you look closely, you can actually see everyone involved in this project losing interest in it.

Hot on the heels of The Wrestler, Mickey Rourke is now attached to star as Don van Vliet in the upcoming biopic Lick My Decals Off, Baby: The Captain Beefheart Story.

My New Year's Resolution was to stop listening to WFAN, apart from Mets games and the occasional Schmooze. I've been tuning in to that station practically my whole life, and ramped up my listenership back in the days when I wrote a now-defunct sports blog.

But now WFAN just makes me angry. And not Dynamic Anger, which pisses you off so much it inspires to do bigger and better things. It pisses me off to hear so many ill-informed opinions and caveman sensibilities and thinly veiled racism.

And then on top of everything, they added Craig Carton to their morning program, who is made from the slats at the bottom of the barrel. The epitome of everything that is wrong and stupid and adolescent about radio.

Listening to WFAN now is the audio equivalent of finishing a huge bag of Cheetos all by yourself. You'll get absolutely no nutrition from it and you'll feel sick and wrong and ashamed afterwards. There's nothing to be gained from the exercise except orange fingers.

Here's the thing, though: I have this Pavlovian response whenever I go to the bathroom in my house. It stems from the baseball season: whenever I go to use the facilities, I flip on the radio on top of the toilet so I won't miss any of whatever game I'm watching. Except that now it doesn't matter if any game is on. I do it anyway.

I've been pretty good about curbing this impulse lately, but this Monday I wasn't, and I heard about 20 seconds of Mike Francesa that infuriated me so much that I couldn't even bring myself to write about them until today.

Francesa was talking about the inauguration, which was a big red flag right off the bat. Whenever Francesa talks about anything other than sports, batten down the hatches. It's bad enough when he talks about music or movies. He loves to pretend he's Paulina Kael, if Pauline Kael had completely middle-of-the-road taste in everything. "You know who's a pretty good director? Steven Spielberg!"

But when politics enter the picture, oh lord. I caught his show on election day, just as I was leaving work, when it was slowly dawning on everyone that Obama was probably gonna win big time. You could hear how much this realization was killing him. It was so sweet, because in his voice you could hear the panicked thoughts of every Wall Street asshole and moneyed buffoon in the land. "Oh no, now I'm gonna take home only several million dollars a year instead of many millions! I might have to sell my third house!"

All he could get out was, "Hey, Obama ran a brilliant campaign, what can I say?" He said it in the same condescending way he begrudgingly hands out compliments to the Mets (granted, they rarely give him cause to do so).

If you do nothing for the next 4 years, Obama, thank you for that moment.

So day before the inaguration, the biggest one of our lifetimes, possibly the biggest ever, what is Francesa talking about? He's complaining about all the inauguration balls and how much money they're gonna cost. How it's not right to be spending so much dough during this time of financial hardship. "Hey, I got nothing against him. He's my president too!" he was quick to add.

You know, Mikey, your argument might track a bit better if your show wasn't simulcast on the YES Network, the channel owned by the team that just spent $400 MILLION DOLLARS ON THREE PLAYERS.

I'm sure Francesa would counter with the fact that the Yankees are a private corporation. Well, they are and they aren't. After all, they just had THE CHROME-PLATED BALLS TO BEG NEW YORK CITY FOR MORE BONDS TO FINISH THEIR 1 BILLION DOLLAR MONUMENT TO THEMSELVES.

Now, to be fair, the Mets asked for (and received) extra bonds for their stadium, too. But they just didn't spend almost half a billion dollars on players before doing so, then turn around and cry poverty to the city (even though, after Bernie Madoff, Fred Wilpon can probably cry poverty). They also don't have a paid mouthpiece on their own network bitching about somebody else's "misuse" of public funds.

I don't recall Francesa saying word one about the Yankees feeding from the public trough in such a brazen manner after unloading dump trucks full of cash on free agents' doorsteps. So don't play like you're all of a sudden concerned about wastes of public money, you fat mess.

I mean, what's more gross a use of public moneys: celebrating the inauguration of a president, or making A.J. Burnett richer?

Yeah, I'm done with baseball. Played 17 seasons, had a lotta highs, lotta lows. Never won a championship, but hey, you can say that about a lot of the greats.

And I am one of the greats, by the way. You reporters write that down, or so help me, I will snap your necks like sourdough pretzels.

I'll miss lots of things about the game. I'll miss putting on the Dodger blue. Especially at spring training time. Every year at Vero Beach, I used to try and "accidentally" tip over Tommy Lasorda. Watching that guy struggle and wriggle around on his back is the funniest thing you'll ever see. When he's on the ground, the guy is like a turtle. A turtle packed full of undigested pasta.

And I would be remiss if I didn't mention how much I'll miss the sweet, sweet road beef that awaited me at every hotel we stayed at. Your ladies' indiscriminate taste in athlete wang served me well.

Oh, and if any of you are considering a paternity suit, I'd just like to remind you that my lawyer will crush you like grapes. Cheers!

My proudest achievement? I guess it's being in the top ten of All-Time Guys Who Everyone's Glad Never Won a Championship. Yeah, being up there with Barry Bonds and Dan Marino and Karl Malone, it's kind of humbling. I mean, it would be if I had any humility at all.

P.S.: I don't.

My biggest regret? I wish I'd kicked more children. It was so easy to do! When you're a big time athlete like myself, kids come up to you all the time and ask for your autograph. You just fly that leg right out there and pretend you had a muscle spasm.

Y'ever kick a kid wearing shorts? Just cleat on bone. Oh, it's great.

Sure, I did it a couple of times, but I was always like "Oh, you're gonna get sued!" and "Hey, just kick the next kid!" I didn't realize that one day, there would be no next kid to kick. Youth is wasted on the young.

Oh, and old people. Wish I'd punched more old people. The only thing that comes close to kicking a kid is punching a dessicated, wrinkly face.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for the beginning of my super awesome motocross career.

Clint Eastwood might be on the wrong side of 175 years old, but he's still hard as nails, brother, and he don't like the touchy-feely state of our modern culture.

We live in more of a pussy generation now, where everybody's become used to saying, "Well, how do we handle it psychologically?" In those days, you just punched the bully back and duked it out. Even if the guy was older and could push you around, at least you were respected for fighting back, and you'd be left alone from then on.

I don't know if I can tell you exactly when the pussy generation started. Maybe when people started asking about the meaning of life.

Yeah, you tell 'em, Clint! Searching for the answers to the imponderable truths of existence is for queers!

When Clint Eastwood tells you that our whole cultures too sissyfied for his tastes, you better listen. I mean, we're talking about the original brawlin', boozin', two-fisted, red-blooded he-man of them all. Clint Eastwood has never done anything remotely girly in his whole life...

/wacky muted trumpet

The exciting podcast news probably got lost yesterday, what with the excitement over the inauguration and me effin' up the audio, but Holy Goddamn has officially resumed! Yes, believe it!

What will you hear in the debut episode? Oh, what won't you hear!

Well, you won't hear lots of stuff. But you WILL hear me pontificate on the evils of Food Competitions and interview the proprietor of Winger's, who will explain the presence of that horrible, horrible banner ad you see above.

Plus there's some tunes and some soundbites from sources both obscure and arcane.

How can you get it? Well, you can subscribe to it via iTunes with just one click here. If you're old school, the straight-up feed is located here. Or you can go back to the original post and play it in the web browser of your choice via the handy-dandy Flash player.

My aim is to make this podcast as regular as humanly possible. Given the whole "having a kid" thing, "as regular as humanly possible" probably = biweekly. But I've got exciting plans for future episodes already, so KEEP WATCHING THE SKIES!

Ah, interwebs, is there any moment of schadenfreude you can't provide me with?

Last month, The Wife and I had a nice dinner out at a Latin restaurant. The Wife got there before I did, and I met her at the bar while we waited for a table. Within 3 seconds of my arrival, the PA system played a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" sung English and Spanish.

Back story: I'm weird about foreign languages. I treat them like a strange amalgam of a puzzle to be solved and a joke in search of a punchline. Why do I react this way? No idea. I know it's dumb--just throwin' it out there.

So this song comes on, and I think it's hilarious. At any second, it sounds like it's gonna break out and go on an extended 9 minute Cuban jazz jam. The boys are just gonna lay out. Five minute trombone solo, timbale cadenzas, the works. (Wanna hear it? Click here.)

The Wife sighs. "I've heard this song four times already." Four times? Really. How long has she been here? "About fifteen minutes."

That didn't sound possible to me. Then the evening progressed, and I became a believer. Because we heard this song five more times before our table was ready, which only took 20-25 minutes or so.

And over the course of our meal--which could not have lasted more than an hour--I heard this song at least 20 times. Over that time, the song went from being hilarious to grating to annoying to hilarious again--five or six times.

The dining room was big, but it wasn't that big. It held a hundred people, more or less. Let's be generous and say they packed 150 people in this room. And let's also assume that not everybody had their birthday that exact evening. Let's give a window of a week.

Even with all of these caveats added onto my experience, there is simply no way that I was in the presence of that many people celebrating their birthday. Statistically, it's impossible.

And no, I don't know what the statistical probability of such an event is. But even in a room full of people, what are the odds that 10 to 20 percent of them were born within the week?

The first person to figure this out wins absolutely nothing.

Here's the thing: I had planned to totally listen through the final MP3 of the first triumphant episode of Holy Goddamn!, but time conspired against me. Plus, I got a little anxious. So I posted it anyway, confident that nothing could possible be wrong with it (from a technical standpoint, anyway).

Of course, listening to it later, I discovered that the "final" MP3 had some weird digital noise attached to all of the spoken word bits. I didn't really want to output a new file, but I found this noise way too distracting to let go. "Hey, that should be easy to remove" I says to myself.

*doodly-doodly-doo* Seven hours later, drenched in sweat and self-defeat, I finally removed this noise.

Unfortunately, if you've already subscribed to the podcast and want to download this episode, you will probably have to go into iTunes and unsubscribe. Then, once you've done that, click here to resubscribe.

Sorry to create extra work for alla y'all, but I promise this new version sounds much, much better. It doesn't sound like I'm yelling through a kid's Darth Vader voice box anymore. If you need proof, check out the original post and try out the Flash player to sample the improvements.

And if you notice anything else wrong in the podcast, GO TO HELL! I mean, please let me know.

I'm usually against the yahoo-ification of public discourse, particularly in the political realm. I hate that morons like Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity have lowered civic discussions to the level of barroom brawls. And I hate that whenever you go to any sporting event, before "The Star Spangled Banner" ends, you are sure to hear a few idiots yell FUCK YEAH! and USA! USA!

But I have to stand back and applaud some of the brave Americans attending today's inauguration. For they saw our outgoing president emerge from his hidey hole, and they began to chant NA NA NA NA, NA NA NA NA, HEY HEY HEYYY, GOOOODBYYYYE!

I have to admit, I got a little teary. I am so proud to be an American right now...

And if someone could YouTube that crap, that would awesome.

Last week, the front page of the Daily News featured the official portrait of President-Elect Obama, the one that will be featured in every federal building. When I saw the pic, it suddenly dawned on me: After today, I'll never have to see George Bush if I don't want to.

If I go to the DMV, I won't have to see his Alfred E. Neuman smirk. When I go to the post office, I won't have to avert my eyes from his vapid, incurious stare. If I get called to jury duty, I won't have to studiously avoid looking at his pampered, entitled face for hours on end.

When Bush appears on TV from not on, it will only be to nervously defend his monstrous legacy, He'll only appear on Fox News every now and then to prop up some more fiction about how his administration "inherited" every evil thing it did or caused or allowed to happen.

So I won't feel obligated to keep watching him because he just might make some announcement that will make our lives even worse. Like, "Oh, by the way, we're invading France. Just 'cause. Try and stop me, assholes!"

In fact, I wonder if even Fox News will continue to defend the Bush legacy. Because before long, defending Bush won't be necessary for anyone anymore. Even people who will oppose Obama at every turn will do so on terms defined by the new political reality he represents, not by the rotten scraps Bush left behind.

I never want to see this asshole again, for any reason. I can learn nothing from even hating him anymore.

On MSNBC, Chris Matthews just articulated something I felt but couldn't quite put into words until now. He got offended when someone compared Bush to Nixon. In his opinion, Nixon was a tragic figure, almost Shakespearean, felled by his hubris and ambition.

That's the primary difference: Nixon was a fascinating man, and Bush is anything but. You can imagine Nixon wandering around San Clemente, wondering where he went wrong, even feeling some remorse for his evils at times.

We'll continue to study Nixon. We'll study the Bush Presidency, but Bush the Man will stay untouched by historians. There is nothing under his surface to touch.

When a tornado hits, you examine the wreckage, and you look at the meterological causes, but you don't study the tornado itself because it doesn't exist. It touches the ground, destroys everything in its path, and dissipates into the air from whence it came.

Don't you understand? Now we all can ignore Bush. Even people who agree with him on certain political issues, so they felt forced to defend him even in his most idiotic, clueless, wreckless, monstrous moments. Conservative, liberal, it doesn't matter--we're all free of this moron now.

We all can choose to ignore him for the rest of our natural lives. I know it seems hard to believe. We're all like battered spouses who've finally escaped an abusive mate--even though it's all over, it's still hard to believe that it's all over.

This realization is probably the smallest thing that will happen today, or in the next few months. But after eight years of Bush, it feels huge.

Oh, you thought you could kill it, didn't you? YOU CAN'T KILL IT! HOW CAN KILL DEATH ITSELF!

Of course, "death itself" in this case refers to Holy Goddamn!, the official Scratchbomb.com podcast, which makes its triumphant return to the interweb airwaves TODAY!

In episode 001, I speak on my current preoccupation with Food Competitions, and interview the proprietor of Winger's, which will explain the presence of that horrid ad just above you. Plus, I spin some tunes (listed below for you completists), interspersed with some obscure sound clips that no one but me will remember or enjoy. Fun!

How can you get all this audio hotness? Well, you can play it in your web browser by clicking on the audio player below. If you want to subscribe to the podcast and you have iTunes, click here. Otherwise, you can click on the xml feed contained in the banner above your head or in the navigation bar just to your right. Or here, if you're really lazy.

Oh, and you're welcome.




Holy Goddamn 001 Selist:

Cupid Car Club, "Grape Juice Plus," Cupid Car Club M.P. 7"
Minor Threat, "Salad Days," Discograpy     buy
Elijah and the Ebonites, "Hot Grits," Eccentric Soul: The Capsoul Label (v/a)     buy
Jay Reatard, "All Over Again," Singles 06/07     buy
Future of the Left, "Manchasm," Last Night I Saved Her from Vampires     buy
The Zombies, "Care of Cell 44," Odessy & Oracle     buy
The Hold Steady, "Slapped Actress," Stay Positive     buy

Scratchbomb hands over the reins to nationally syndicated sports columnist Skitch Hanson, as we've done many times before. You may know him as the author of the highly popular syndicated column "Up The Middle." You may also have read his best-selling book I Liked It Better When Home Run Hitters Drank Like Fish. He's also a frequent guest on ESPN's sportswriters panel show 4th and Forever. Without further ado, here's Skitch.

Within the week, we could witness something truly historic. Something that people have been waiting for, hoping for, some even praying for, for years. Centuries, even. And when that moment happens, I will stand and applaud with my fellow Americans, maybe choke back a tear, and wonder what wonders the future holds for all of us.

Of course, I'm speaking of the possibility of an all-Pennsylvania Super Bowl.

Some people like to think of how far we've come, but I wonder why it's taken us this long. Do you realize that before this weekend, two Pennsylvania teams had never even made the semifinals of any major professional sport at the same time? That is a shame our nation must live with.

While we're on the subject of Music That Is Good, give Franz Nicolay's Major General a virtual spin here, while it's still streaming free o' charge.

Spin didn't dig it, but that rag's deader than disco, baby. I wouldn't put any more stock in that than a negative review from Collier's.

A few nights ago, I got a chance to listen to music. Just sit and listen and to music, not doing anything else. If that doesn't sound remarkable to you, I assume you don't have the disease I have which forces me to do twelve things at once. You also must not have a 2-year-old stomping around your house. Kids prevent you from doing the darnedest things!

It was a weirdly liberating experience, because I was able to reacquaint myself with music I'd almost forgotten I loved. One track really popped out for me, and made the hair on my neck stand up (which is, sadly, the only hair near my head): "Wolf Boys" by Life Detecting Coffins. That song completely destroys me every time I hear it.

Their album Catatonic Begat Napoleonic is so unbelievable...I won't even attempt to describe it. I can't think of any meaningful comparisons that won't dilute what I mean. I have this very short list of albums that create this atmosphere, this self-contained universe that, when I'm listening to them, I don't want to leave. Catatonic Begat Napoleonic is one of those albums.*

* Also on that list (though not limited to the following):

Miles Ahead, Miles Davis
Get Happy and Trust, Elvis Costello (I love all of the early albums, but these two kill me; I think because Elvis was so worn out and pained when he wrote them)
Double Nickels on the Dime, The Minutemen
Black Star, Mos Def and Talib Kweli

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I know the guys in the band. I guess you could say I grew up with some of them (depending on your definition of "grew up", and if I have, in fact, grown up). But I think I'd feel the same way even if I didn't know them from Adam. Believe me, if had friends who were in a band that sucked, I'd have no problem politely ignoring their artistic endeavors.*

*Although, if I think about it, I've known tons of people who played in bands, and very very extremely very few of those bands were bad. I don't think it's because I cut those bands slack--I think I just lucked out. Or I have high standards in friends.

I'm genuinely baffled as to why LDC didn't become The New Hotness at some point. Not that they should be selling out stadiums and playing on The Tonight Show. But they used to play a lot of shows with spiritually similar bands who were much more popular--Off Minor most often, since Kevin played bass in both bands.

I thought for sure that this exposure would earn them a much deserved wider audience. And yet, they never blew up the way I thought they would. It was especially annoying to watch a crowd politely applaud them, then go nuts for some other band with a fraction of the creativity.*

*Not referring to Off Minor, who I genuinely like. But I saw LDC play with a ton of blah, ordinary hardcore bands that people went nuts for. It was intensely frustrating for me just to watch; I can't imagine what it was like for them to live.

I don't think LDC is broken up per se, but its members are not in close geographic proximity to one another anymore. So I fear they may be defunct, for all intents and purposes. But do yourself a favor: point yourself to their MySpace page and give "The Island Song" a spin. If you like what you hear, get Catatonic Begat Napoleonic. I promise good things.

Yesterday I received a note from the IRS, telling me I underpaid my 2006 tax return. The damage comes to less than 60 bucks. So of course I will pay it, because I have no desire to get audited or lose any hope of ever owning anything of value.

But here's the thing: A 2006 return is for the 2005 calendar year. That's 4 years ago now. I have no effing clue what I did that year. I mean, I do, but I couldn't prove it. I might have receipts and documents somewhere, but I wouldn't count on it. At least, I wouldn't count on having everything I need. I probably have my W2's, but anything else is probably tucked away in some envelope shoved at the bottom of a milk crate, next to old seven-inches.

So it occurs to me that this is actually a fradulent revenue-raising tactic for the federal government. You take people who make a certain amount of money. You pick a year that's long ago enough to be hazy in people's memories, but not so long ago that it's ridiculous. Then, you pick an amount of money that they "owe" that won't kill anyone.

Say you get eight digits of Americans to just write a check. That ain't chump change.

What if you fight it? Then you get summoned to your local IRS office. They seat you in a dimly lit room with one long desk and two seats. They make you sit there for a while and sweat it out. Then some officious looking person enters, sits across from you, and slides a manila envelope your way. You open it up and discover 8-by-10 glossies of yourself doing something awful.

YOU: Where'd you get these?
IRS GUY: That's not important. What is important is for you to pay that fine.
YOU: Yeah, but what I'm doing here...technically, it's not illegal.
IRS GUY: No, but I'd bet you still don't want those pictures posted all over the Internet.
YOU: *sigh* Fine, I'll get my checkbook.

We're through the looking glass here, people...

Just heard (thanks to eagle-eyed reader TheWhiteBoomBoom) that the kid from Jersey named Adolf Hitler has been taken from his parents. Contain your shock if you can, please.

Most people, I'm sure, are happy to hear this. Me, I just hope his home situation was actually abusive or unsafe enough to warrant this move, because I think kids should only be put into foster care under extreme circumstances. I fear that the town Adolf lives in was embarrassed by the attention and pressured into doing something, even if his parents provided him a reasonable home.

Maybe reasonable isn't the right word. How about adequate? Tolerable? Sufficient in all respects except for constant stream of hatred issuing from dad's mouth?

My point is, yeah, I yelled bout this case when it popped up like everyone else. But on further reflection, I just hope the relocation was necessary. Being racist doesn't necessarily make you an unfit parent. If it did, then at least half of the kids I grew up with should have been taken away by Child Protective Services.

Then again, simply naming your kid Adolf Hitler is a form of abuse. That's a scar that ain't gonna heal.

Last night I was watching VH1's Greatest Hip Hop Songs of All Time or whatever the hell it was called (too lazy to look up real title). "C.R.E.A.M." by Wu Tang came in pretty high on the list, of course. When noting Wu Tang's current hiatus, the narrator mentioned "the tragic death of ODB in 2004."

I think the proper adjective in this case would be untimely. I don't think Ol' Dirty Bastard's death can really be termed tragic. In fact, considering his many, many vices, he probably exceeded his life expectancy.  

Not that I'm glad the guy's dead, but saying ODB's death was tragic is kinda like saying GG Allin's death was tragic. Can't keep putting your tongue on the third rail and not get zapped some day.

Then again, it is a kind of tragedy that we're all robbed of the chance to see something like this again:

 

Thus far, the MLB Network has played things pretty much by the book. A Hot Stove show, incessant World Series highlights, the occasional poorly chosen retrospective. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing remotely daring.

But they have been daring in one respect: their news crawl.

Watch any news network these days, and you will see a news crawl. Nearly all of them employ the present tense, as in OBAMA ISSUES STATEMENT ON ECONOMY or BRETT FAVRE CONTEMPLATES RETIREMENT, NAPS. In fact, I would say all of them do, except that I haven't seen every network in the entire world. Don't worry, I plan to.

But when you watch the MLB Network, their news crawl only uses the past tense. As in RICKEY HENDERSON ELECTED TO HALL OF FAME or ATLANTA BRAVES SIGNED DEREK LOWE TO RIDONKULOUS CONTRACT.

This completely flies in the face of News Crawl Protocol. And yet, it's more grammatically correct. Because these events, for the most part, are not ongoing events. They are finite things that have been done and will not be repeated.

The use of the present tense is journalism shorthand, used in headlines and quick blurbs at the top of broadcasts to stress the URGENCY and IMMEDIACY of the news. Technically, it's grammatically incorrect. But we're used to present tense being used in this manner, so we don't think twice about it.

In fact, when I first noticed the MLB Network opted for past tense, my first instinct was that someone had screwed up. My Copyeditor's Sense detected something wrong. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was everyone except MLB who was wrong.

And that is the last time you will read the words 'everyone except MLB was wrong'.

I applaud MLB Network, because I'm sure there was somebody in that style meeting who fought to keep present tense, because past tense sounded weird. And this visionary said, "NO! We will single-handedly undo 8 years of News Crawl Grammar Tyrrany!"

Or, knowing MLB, they picked a style with little regard for tradition or public preferences and just ran with it. In either case, kudos!

I wasted at least a dozen people's time this weekend discussing the bizarreness of this ad. So allow me to waste your time, too, won't you?

Perhaps you've seen Budweiser's latest ad campaign. In it, a man who appears to be a Bud employee schools various beer consumers on the finer points of Bud's brewing process. "Lager Lessons" if you will. Which you will, since that's what Bud is calling them.

I'm not sure who this ad campaign is intended to sway. Beer snobs will poke holes in their claims. You know, like how Bud brews their beer with rice, not because it adds any unique flavor, but because it's stupid cheap.

Everyone else won't give two doodies about their brewing process. Budweiser's slogan should be, Hey, you've been drinkin' it since high school--why stop now?

But there's one ad in particular that has me scratchin' me noggin. In it, we see two schlubs bring their beer purchases to a convenience store checkout. Their six pack holders have no names, but based on their color schemes, we're meant to understand that they're Miller Lite and Heineken.

The Loyal Bud Employee says, "Oh, it's 3 o'clock. You know what 3 o'clock is, don't you?" He then rattles of Bud's impressive daily inspection process, which shames them into changing their beers for Bud. Because as well know, Budweiser is the only brewer who actually inspects their beer. Every other brewing company lets rats and dogs swim around in their vats.

But as the two schlubs leave the counter to exchange their choice of beer, the convenience store clerk/owner/whatever says "You're veddy good!" (because of course the convenience store guy is Indian)

My question is, Why does the convenience store guy care what beer the schlubs buy? Maybe if they were going to buy smaller craft brews he'd care, since presumably he'd make less of a profit on those. Poor guy probably loses a couple cents every time he sells a sixer of Sierra Nevada.

But since the schlubs originally intended to buy other Big-Ass Beers like Miller Lite, what's the difference between that and Bud to this owner guy? It should mean pretty much the same amount of dough in his pocket, unless he owns stock in InBev.

It's not even that horrible a commercial, particularly by Budweiser standards. I just don't get it. Am I missing something? If so, please inform me, gentle reader.

Skitch Hanson will be joining us later this week to preview the NFL championship games. In the meantime, I have finally added his Scratchbomb oeuvre to the new site. If you'd like to revel in his mastery of the sporting language, click here.

You can also check out Skitch Hanson's exciting Twitter updates here.

The Newspaper, as an industry, is clearly on the ropes. (As opposed to all other industries, which are doing just fine.) Every week, it seems, some paper closes bureaus, scales back its coverage, or folds altogether. Pundits wonder what needs to be done to save newspapers (which supply the precious media real estate that keeps them employed).

I'm not sure newspapers need to be saved. I get all my news online, be it from CNN or Hot Chicks with Douchebags. I don't need to read the news in a physical form, anymore than I need to watch a movie in a theatre. Newspapers aren't historic landmarks or endangered species. They're businesses. Adapt or perish, it's that simple.

Not that I want newspapers to die off. Although sometimes I do, when I read articles in them like Bono's op-ed in The New York Times last Friday.

Once upon a couple of weeks ago ...

I'm in a crush in a Dublin pub around New Year's. Glasses clinking clicking, clashing crashing in Gaelic revelry: swinging doors, sweethearts falling in and out of the season's blessings, family feuds subsumed or resumed. Malt joy and ginger despair are all in the queue to be served on this, the quarter-of-a-millennium mark since Arthur Guinness first put velvety blackness in a pint glass.

Interesting mood. The new Irish money has been gambled and lost; the Celtic Tiger's tail is between its legs as builders and bankers laugh uneasy and hard at the last year, and swallow uneasy and hard at the new.

I sense a great disturbance in the English language. It was as if a million full sentences and non-dangling participles cried out, and were then silenced...

Bono just dug out something he wrote for his high school literary magazine, right? Or maybe he was sick and asked one of his kids to write it for him? Because I refuse to believe an adult wrote this.

Remember, this appeared in The New York Times. The paper that spells out every number lower than 100. The paper that adds "Mr." in front of everyone's name, no matter how ridiculous it looks. ("Seen here at last year's Grammys, Mr. Ludicris wowed the crowd with his rendition of 'What Them Girls Like'.")

The paper I've pitched stuff to on many occasions, always receiving back polite rejection letters in return. I thought maybe somebody else was working on something similar, or my ideas just weren't good enough. But now I know better. What I really need to do to get in the Times is eat copies of On the Road and Ham on Rye, then throw up on my MacBook.

Hey, what's the deal with that quote-unquote truck you're driving?
Do I know you?
Um, yeah, you should, if you've been living on a little place called PLANET EARTH. Howie Long: pro football hall of famer, sports analyst extraordinaire, and Chevy truck spokes-beast. I'm here to school you on that hunk of junk you call a truck. What kind of mileage you get in that thing?
I dunno, 19 mpg or so.
Oh, so you must have a V8 on it, right?
No, actually...
Hey, Einstein, I know that truck is only a V6, okay? What do you think, I just fell off the turnip truck? Grow a pair and get yourself the new Chevy Behemoth. It's got enough torque to pull a sequoia stump out of solid concrete.

On Flushing, just past Metropolitan, I see a billboard on the side of a building for the soon-to-be-released He's Just Not That Into You. Having just watched the trailer, I assure you it's pretty much whatever you think it is.

My beef is not with the movie, but the curious placement of this ad. The building it was attached to houses an auto parts store. And not a Napa or a Pep Boys, but one of those dingy, oily places that sells used carburetors and wallpapers itself with centerfolds.

On one side of this building is another auto parts store--bigger and more well lit, but in the same spiritual ballpark.

On the other side is a yard of some kind. I can't tell what it houses--lumber, granite, sheetrock, construction equipment--because the yard is fenced in by a 15-foot-high brick wall topped with razor wire. For good measure, there's a black metal watchtower in the middle of the yard. Any resemblance between this and a prison is purely intentional.

The entire surrounding neighborhood is intensely industrial, full of the kind of businesses no one ever thinks about. Like truck tire patchers, or fake crystal chandelier suppliers. I would be shocked to find out that more than five women work in this neighborhood. And out of those five, four of them probably run the only bodega in a 20-block radius.

In other words, I'd like to suggest to the folks at New Line Cinema that their advertising budget would be best spent elsewhere.

Rickey accepts this honor on behalf of Rickey. Rickey hopes that this recognition will finally allow Rickey to get paid like Rickey deserves. Lastly, Rickey would like to thank Rickey for all the support Rickey has show Rickey over the years.

Rickey would also like to congratulate Jim Rice for joining him in Rickey's Hall of Fame. Sure, Rickey never saw Jim Rice steal no bases. But Rickey thinks there are many paths to the Hall, because Rickey is feeling magnanimous today.

Rickey thinks it's just a shame that it took so long to get Jim in the Hall, all because a bunch of old fart sportswriters didn't like him back in day. So what Jim Rice didn't talk to no reporters? Rickey never talked to no reporters. Rickey didn't have to. Rickey let his feet do the talking. And his bat. And sometimes both at the same time, which is extremely difficult to pull off. That is, if you ain't Rickey. Which Rickey happens to be, thank you very much.

As for Andre Dawson and Bert Blyleven, Rickey wishes you best of luck next year. Rickey was honored to honor y'all by playing against you.

In one episode of Mystery Science Theatre 3000, the featured movie is so awful--the legendarily putrid Manos: The Hands of Fate--that Joel and the 'bots are almost rendered speechless by its sheer ineptitude. One long stretch passes where none of them say anything, because there's nothing they can say that will compete with the film's epic failure. After what seems like forever, Tom Servo simply comments, "This movie has certain flaws."

I felt the same way the MST3K scribes must have as I watched the premiere episode of The United States of Tara, the new Showtime series and brainchild of Juno screenwriter Diablo Cody.

The show is nowhere near as awful Manos--few things short of war crimes are--but it is almost as hard to watch. I watched the premiere on Showtime's website, and seriously, I had to pause it every five minutes because I couldn't believe what I was watching. Calling it a train wreck would be insulting to disasters.

Premise: The titular character is a 40-something mom of two with multiple personality disorder. She's like Bruce Banner, except that when she gets all stressed out, she doesn't transform into The Hulk, but one of an array of hilariously costumed "alts" (as her family refers to her other selves). 

I don't know enough about multiple personality disorder to say how someone suffering from it should act, or react, or what would trigger their transformations. But I also shouldn't have to read the DSM-IV to enjoy a show. Thus, I have no problem saying that Tara's transformations are way too broad to be believable.

The first episode shows her as a horny, credit card-stealing teenage girl named T, and a redneck lout named Buck. I won't describe them further, because it's unnecessary. Just let the stereotypical look/mannerisms pop in your head; I'm sure your brain will match them perfectly.

Why did Cody stop at these two archetypes? Why not have Tara think she's Napoleon, or Abe Lincoln, or a frog? It'd be just as plausible, and definitely more subtle.

"Most N.F.L. stadiums now post telephone numbers for fans to send text messages to summon security personnel...By using text messages to summon security guards, offended fans do not have to confront fellow spectators who may react with verbal abuse or violence; they need not look obvious when seeking ushers or guards." -- NY Times, 1/10/09

philly fan taunting me bout mets collapse even though i'm wearing a jeter jersey. help!

just saw guy in freddie mitchell jersey. srsly? wtf!

blinded by tom coughlin's red red face

sitting in sec 127, clearly see mcnabb not harrassed all day. disgraceful.

cannot see field, too many yellow flags.

huge fat ass blocking like 90% of my view. oops, sorry, it's andy reid.

puked into urinal, can't flush it down. lil help?

pickin up weird sense of superiority and entitlement from philly fans. think apocalypse is upon us. repent!

Guess I'm in an angry mood this morning. Maybe I shouldn't listen to Jay Reatard on the way to work. But whatever the cause, I spotted four people along my commute that I wanted to hit really hard.

Victim #1: Corner of Flushing and Wythe, youngish man wearing gray trenchcoat, stovepipe pants, black/white saddle shoes and a Homburg hat. Presumably he doesn't want to be late to his audition for a Noel Coward play revival, or the F. Scott Fitzgerald Lookalike Contest. He walks gingerly over the ice-covered sidewalk in this fey, tip-toey gait that makes me hate him even more for some reason. He could have skimped on some of that vintage wear and used the money to buy winter boots, so he wouldn't dirty his spats by slipping and breaking an ankle.

Victim #2: Further down Flushing, by the Navy Yard. Guy in suit walks very casually down cross street. As the bus nears him, he signals it with two hands, like he's hailing a cab. Mind you, he makes no effort to speed up in any way. He clearly expects this bus to screech to a halt and await his arrival like he was the King of Busville. To his credit, the bus driver keeps right on driving.

Victim #3: Further yet down Flushing, after making a stop the bus pulls away from the curb in a normal bus-like fashion. We are beeped at by an aggressive driver who wants to make a left into the studio entrance we are now blocking as we wait for the light to turn green. I take a peek at the car. It's a white Mercedes. From my angle, I can just make out the driver's left hand, encased in a leather glove, clutching a Starbucks coffee cup. I think to myself, Wow, I can only see about 5% of this guy's body, and I hate him.

Victim #4: Off the bus, walking down Front Street. Half a block away, guy in puffy jacket and backpack doing overly demonstrative tai-chi exercise. Not in a park or on his porch, but on the sidewalk. Arms flailing, big leg kicks, like he works at the Ministry of Silly Walks. I think he must see me staring at him hatefully, because he stops doing it and crosses the street. Mind you, he was at least 50 feet away from me.

And it's only Monday. Shoot me now.

Today, we preview the weekend's playoff games with a whole buncha celebrity guests. To discuss the exciting Baltimore-Tennessee matchup, here's Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis, who agreed to talk with Scratchbomb as long as I didn't broach certain subjects.

This has to be a great season for the Ravens. No one expected you to do anything this year, and now you find yourself one win away from the AFC Championship game. How does that feel?

I always believed that we could cut through the competition in the AFC, ever since training camp, when I saw Joe Flacco firing those absolute daggers down the field.

He's turned out to be quite a draft steal.

I bet there's a lot of teams out there who feel like stabbing themselves for passing him up!

That's a curious turn of phrase, but yes, I would think so. Of course, the backbone of your team remains the defense, with veterans like you and Ed Reed. How do you stay so fresh after so many years in the league?

I don't know how you can't stay fresh! This is the greatest job in the world! Every time I go out on the field, it's like the first time I put on pads. I just wanna go out there and slash that offense to ribbons!

So how do you explain your continued success? Is it a strong work ethic or a rigorous training regimen?

Any success I have in my life, it all comes from my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Through Him all things are possible. When I let Him into my life, it was like I'd been stabbed in the soul with a 13-inch knife. But His knife filled me with love and forgiveness, rather than caused me to bleed to death from my carotid artery.

That's some curious religious imagery.

Faith is a curious thing. To the faithless man, it may make no sense. But to those who believe, it's an exhilirating, transcendent feeling. The only thing I can compare it to is, oh, I don't know, stabbing two guys to death and totally getting away with it.

C'mon, you're not even trying anymore!

It's so hard, man, it's so hard.

SB prediction: Ravens 24, Titans 12.

Today, we preview the weekend's playoff games with a whole buncha celebrity guests. To discuss the exciting San Diego-Pittsburgh matchup, here's Chargers running back LaDainian Tomlinson.

First off, are you feeling okay? Right now, there's still some question about your availability for the game in Pittsburgh. Groin injuries would be bad for any running back, and especially for your type of game. Can you be 100 percent effective this weekend?

/stares soullessly
/watches own breath fog and crystalllize
Alright, we don't have to talk about that. But it has to be frustrating to be injured during the playoffs for a second year in a row. You work hard all season, and it's like deja vu all over again. You must feel down sometimes. How do you work against that and get yourself pumped up for this game?

/stares soullessly
Okay, let's just drop the injury talk altogether. Assuming you do play, you can't be looking forward to playing against that tough Steeler defense. Do you think your offensive line can open up some holes for your to do your thing? Or do you think the new threat of Darren Sproles will allow you to go unnoticed and sneak up on Pittsburgh?

/bikes furiously
I get it, you don't wanna give away any secrets. Here's a fun question: You've been one of the best fantasy players for the past few years. I mean, there's not a lot of players out there who can run, catch and throw touchdowns! Would you pick yourself first in a fantasy league?

/stares soullessly
/adjusts shoulder pads
/stares soullessly
Last question: Are you LaDainian Tomlinson or the Ghost of Christmas Future?

/stares soullessly
/extends bony finger from droopy sleeve.
SB's prediction: Steelers 17, Chargers 9.

Somewhere in the Dominican Republic:

/ding dong

Who is it?
Who is it?! World effin' champions, that's who!
Yeah, and we're here to tell you that the Giants are goin' DOWN on Sunday!
I don't think the Giants play again until April.
Pfft! You thought we were talking about San Francisco, you DUNCE?! No, we're talking about the NY Giants. Or should I say, the NY TINIES, because they're gonna feel two feet tall once they get stomped by the IGGLES!
How bout dem birds, baby? The firm leadership of Donovan McNabb! The explosive running game of Brian Westbrook! The competent blocking of L.J. Smith! They're gonna poop all over the Giants' heads like a red convertible fresh out of the car wash!
Allow me to imply that the following members of the Giants are gay: Eli Manning, Brandon Jacobs, Antonio Pierce, Phil Simms, Frank Gifford, Y.A. Tittle...

Today, we preview this weekend's playoff games with a whole buncha celebrity guests. To discuss the exciting Carolina-Arizona matchup, here's Cardinals backup QB, Matt Leinart.

Last weekend, the Cardinals played their first home playoff game in over 60 years. It must have been exciting to be a part of that historic event.

Yeah, whatevs. Mind if I burn one? Coach was really ridin' my ass in practice today. I'm like, "Sheesh, it's not like I'm gonna play," and he's all like, "blah blah what if something happens to Warner?" Total buzzkill.

Um, okay. After enjoying so much success at USC, is it hard to sit on the sidelines and watch Kurt Warner take charge, or are you just happy to be along for the ride?

Bro, the only thing that's hard is me, when I'm checkin' out the primo babeage in the crowd. Runnin' slant routes in my pants, if you know what I mean.

Eww...So what does Arizona need to do take care of business in Carolina this weekend?

An experienced wingman and endless Jagerbombs for the ladies. Keep 'em comin'!

I was talking about the game.

So was I bro--the game of 'tang. And when you play that game with the Lein-man, you always win. You just strap in for three minutes of pure adrenaline.

Ick. Wow, you really are a factory-wrapped douche, aren't you?

Got a Sonic 'round here? I could drink like a hundred of them cheesecake shakes.

SB prediction: Panthers 28, Cardinals 10.

I kinda browbeat Sean from Massapequa into creating a Twitter account, and now he's mad at me for not mentioning it in my last post. In fact, he threatened my dog. I told him I don't have a dog, and all he said was, "I know." I have no idea what that means, but I'm terrified.

So anyway, Sean from Massapequa has a Twitter account. So does frequent Scratchbomb contributor Skitch Hanson. So go and follow them, won't you?

Wait, first follow me, okay? 'Cause right now I only have 3 followers--two of which are mentioned above. Man, it's just like high school all over again.

I often write about the Mets on this site, but I realize that my perspective is not necessarily that of the average fan. So as the Hot Stove League heats up, I want to get the viewpoint of another Amazins enthusiast. Today Scratchbomb welcomes back Sean from Massapequa, a union pipefitter and frequent WFAN caller, to discuss the Mets' pursuit of Derek Lowe.

It looks like the Mets' next free agent target is Derek Lowe. Do you think he'll round out the rotation?

Yeah, if by "round it out" you mean "ruin it." That guy's a bum! I don't want him nowhere near my team!

He's not an ace, but you can't call him a bum. He's won a World Series, he's got a good track record in the post season, he's a solid starter, groundball pitcher, throws 200 innings every year...

Yeah, 200 innings of solid suck! Once again, we see the Freddy Coupons cheapin' out on this team and not goin' for the big guns.

Alright, moving on with our Senate confirmations, what's the deal with this Roland Burris fella from Illinois?
That's a funny subject. Seems he was appointed by a disgraced governor, and no one ever told him that this was gonna be a huge issue. I don't know how he couldn't figure that out on his own. But anyway, we made sure the Illinois secretary of state didn't sign his certificate of appointment.
So we're rejecting his appointment?
No, see, we fixed the certificate so that you can't officially accept his appointment. So the problem's fixed from your end. We try to avoid conflict as much as possible.
Mm hm.
Later, in the Senate chamber:

Excuse me, I'd like to sign the roll book now, because I'm the junior senator from Illinois and...
Yeah, Burris, we're gonna need your office to put some old files, so I'm gonna need you to take your press conference on to the Capitol steps.
Yes, but I was told that I would be a senator by the man with the crazy Richie Rich hair...
Yeah, so if you could get on out of the Senate chamber as soon as possible, that'd be great.
/raps cubible wall with knuckles, walks away
Okay, so I'm go back to Illinois and burn Blogojevich's house down.

One great thing about living in NYC (among many) is that you get to see fashion in progress. I don't mean Bryant Park during Fashion Week, or guys pushing garment racks down 7th Avenue. I mean, you see the future fashions of the world exhibited by the eternal fount of all style: urban teenagers.

F'rinstance, the current steez amongst teens in this city is a sort of mutant hip-hop/punk rock/rockabilly hybrid. Ed Hardy-mania is its most obvious manifestation. Nowadays, kids in Brooklyn dress like a weird mix of Jay-Z and Mike Ness.

This hasn't taken hold everywhere, near as I can tell, but I'm guessing it won't be too long before it does. And I, for one, am totally on board with it. This is probably the first time since I've been alive that I've thought, "I actually like the way teenagers dress right now!"

But that train of thought came to a screeching halt this morning. Because I saw a kid this morning on Atlantic Avenue, dressed in all black (hoodie, jeans), holding a matching murse.

Not a messenger bag, or a laptop bag. It couldn't possibly be slung over his shoulder. In fact, I would even hesitate to call this thing a murse.  It was no bigger than small grapefruit, and he held it with as few fingers as possible. It was a man-clutch.

Mind you, this kid was not even the slightest bit precious. He totally had the look of someone who would beat you up for thinking about thinking about messing with him.

I don't hate this idea because it's girly. I hate it because it's so dumb and impractical. Like when punk/emo kids were doing that ear stretching thing a few years back. Do they still do that? Please tell me they don't still do that.

Google tells me that at least some kids still do this. C'mon, kids, cut it out.

My plea to the kids of NYC: You were doing so good on the fashion front. Please do not adopt the man-clutch. Thank you.

/stirring orchestral music/

Oscar season is here, the buzz is brewing, and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is...well, it's one of those movies we should be talking about right now, right?

"I was really looking forward to Benjamin Button and...I don't know, I was looking for something, and I don't even know what it is. I don't even know why I'm disappointed, I just know I am. You know what I mean?"
-- Roger Ebert

The critics have spoken, and one thing you can say is that they have expressed themselves through the use of words.

"Look, it's not like I hated it, I just..I don't think there's a word...just...meh."
-- J. Hoberman

"Brad Pitt turns in his best performance to date." Did anyone say that? No? Then what did they say?

"Brad Pitt is, you know, he's okay. There's the makeup and the cgi and...I guess I can't say anything bad about his performance. It's just...man, it's on the tip of my tongue..."
-- Janet Maslin

Critics agree: they will probably bring themselves to vote for Benjamin Button for one Oscar or another.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, what, I'm gonna vote for Dark Knight? A superhero movie wins an acting Oscar, or, god forbid, Best Picture? Yeah, sure, that's happening."
-- Jeffrey Lyons