The Writer's Bloc

2002-06-25T06:00:00.000-04:00

More photographs in your future. But not many here, nor the verbal assault. For that, look for me Elsewhere. I still write, and more than ever.

Above: Ween.

Above: Ween, naturally lighted.

Above: Ween.

2002-05-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

As promised, this blog has slowed. I am Elsewhere, but I haven't forgotten those of you who check in here now and then.

Last weekend, I went to the wedding of an old neighbor. Inherent in my enjoyment of the afternoon and evening was Tara. Those photos, if they're viewable from your seat, are just a few relaxed shots. There are more, but none of them show the depth of intelligence and warmth she possesses. She is something.

I am sick. I cough like anything. I'm stuffed up. My voice went away and then came back. I haven't gone to the doctor; I trust the crappy items from the drug store. I am stupid like that.

Angelina, who was vacationing in Delaware for two weeks (thanks to a long game of hide and seek), is back in Hoboken, and she's a bit sweeter for it. Some believe otherwise, but I can see it in her. She's glad that I'm alive, I think. I can't ask for much more from her. She's something else.

I have to use the restroom.

2002-05-27T23:13:00.000-04:00

2002-05-24T22:09:00.000-04:00

Short-lived, but quite true to life 20 minutes into the future. Am I the only one who remembers?

2002-05-24T03:19:00.000-04:00

Bought one. With more ink. And a neat, bendable miniature black tripod. And papers. Now, if I had an online thumbnail section of my photographs, you could support me with more than donations of fellatio.

It's sleepy, and I'm late.

2002-05-22T00:25:00.000-04:00

I haven't done one yet. I've been invited to a bunch of tryouts for MTV shows, and few have grabbed me. It's nothing exclusive -- you, too, can be added to the list of people who receive garbled messages through e-mail, which come replete with misused variations of "your" and other such difficult English terms. Lately, they've been pleading for people to try out for their new "Becoming: Wannabe's" series. Yeah. You sing the most poppy of pop songs, which, of course, are selected by the rebellious bad-asses at eMpTy tV. I mean, if you want to do this, you're more or less getting the gig. They'll put a live band behind you, add stage effects, and you sing a song before a live audience. It sounds great, but the latest pleas are for people to Wannabe the Backstreet Boys and InSink. (No notes, please. I'm aware of that last word.) Besides that, there are the usual MTV blowjob givers: Fred Durst. Britney Spears. Eminem. Jay-Z. Jennifer Lopez (I'm not going to call her by that lazy-ass shorthand name anymore. What a joke.). In other words, the music they're asking you to sing sucks. It's played out, and they want it played out more by people who have no experience ruining songs. So it's a copy of a copy of shit.

But to the point, now. A girl I know is a v.j. on MTV2. I've met her once, but she's friends with another girl I know quite well. She sent out word that there'll be an outdoor barbeque/boozefest/party this Thursday at noon at Chelsea Piers. It'll be taped and will air on MTV2 on Memorial Day, which, for those of you who are as oblivious as I am to the calendar of the outside world, is Monday.

Details for you:
| Thursday. Be there by 11:30 a.m.
| Chelsea Piers (around 23rd & the West Side Highway).
| The dock at the Frying Pan.
| Food and drink will be served.
| Dress -- and this is straight from the broad's message -- dress casual. More cleavage means more airtime. (Girls, you, too, may consider showing cleavage.)

Me? I probably won't go. Eleven-thirty is early for me. But if you're in the area, even if I don't know you, let me know that you want to drop in for an hour or less or more. We'll go. Might as well. Get on television. Be a moo-cow. Oh! Music Television is so with the now! It's in the know! Hey! What of that Carson Daly! What a smart fellow, yes? Ho!

Seriously, this chick Abby -- she does some countdown once a week, and it gets replayed e v e r y a f t e r n o o n -- she's a cutie. Sort of like Ms. Lopez, except a bit trimmer. Yes, good now. Let's say goodnight.

2002-05-19T22:29:00.000-04:00

I want to be 15. I want to go back and be who I wasn't. I want to not listen. I want to not waste. I want to fucking qualify as a genious at something, and it seems the only way to do that is to have started bucking long ago. I took too long. I'm 24, and I'm an old man. I want to be Tony Alva.

I've been wanting to see this movie for a while. It's not a movie, really. It's a documentary. "Dogtown and Z-Boys." Went to the Angelika Film Center on Houston Street for an afternoon show. Sean Penn narrates, which is fitting. Jeff Spicoli, his character in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High," would have fit right in with the Zephyr skate team.

This thing is like a jagged, intelligent, true music video. Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix and Ted Nugent and Black Sabbath and and just buy the fucking soundtrack already. The cinematography is just livid. It's a collection of scarred vintage footage and photographs from the early 1970s, and still it manages to zig and zag and open and close and swim and jump and yell and f l o a t away into the Neveragain. It was created by members of the original crew, and that makes me flip. So many talents.

I'm thinking about buying a skateboard. The one I have at home -- well, there are two, but my first board was this little rubbery-plastic blue getup that wasn't much of anything -- is old and white and has a drab design. Still has the thin plastic guard rails alongside the left and right of its belly. They're horribly intact. I wasn't much of a skater. I couldn't even master the ollie.

Now I find myself playing Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3 on my roommate's PlayStation 2, and I'm fixed. It's incredibly vivid. But I want to drag my fingertips along the asphalt as I squat like a bent rubber stem above my liquid feet. I want to drain a swimming pool and get some other kids and sli i i ide up the side and off the lip and into the air, and just for an instant, and then maybe fall and crash and scrape the skin off my knees and tear my shorts and watch the sounds of my board skidding to the shallow end with its wheels whirring in the air.

Where'd it go, man? Where that youth? Where that body? Where that attitude. I'll tell you where that attitude. I've grown it now. I made it sometime recently. Maybe it's still growing. I know it is. And if I had it back then, back when I was a kid, maybe I'd have done some things I should've done. Which is to say, maybe I'd have done some things I shouldn't have done. Which is to say, maybe I'd be stronger.

||| .on another note. |||
"The X-Files" ended six minutes ago. I am at work. My mom taped it for me. Two hours of resolutions, but I doubt it. Movies in the future. Cris Carter says so. I remember first flipping the channel to watch what I thought was supposed to be an "Unsolved Mysteries" sort of program. Instead, I got invisible elephants clamoring stompily down a long road, pulverizing cars and the people inside them. I fell in love. And then I invented the word stompily.

||| .warning. |||
I have taken residence Elsewhere. My posts dwindle here. Write me, and maybe I'll send you the address. Also, maybe not. Just know that I've opted for an approach that favors the less civilized part of my personality. It's often raw, which does not mean it's poorly written. Just means it's raw. If you take offense, take the next train.

2002-05-07T20:36:00.000-04:00

Addendum to previous entry: After lunch at the Gramercy Park Cafe, we went to Fifth Avenue to look at some stores. Outside Express, a man was selling handbags that he had made and on which he had painted. Tara was smitten. He also was selling sketches and paintings. I asked him about the process of selling such items on the street. Told me all I needed to do was to get a tax form at 41st and Broadway. (Or was it 41st and Sixth?) Just keep track of the income for tax purposes. No license. No permit. Any sidewalk. Store tells you to move? Don't have to. Legal. But smart to have a rapport with folks inside.

So I'm thinking this: Come September, once I leave this job, I'm spending a month or two selling my photographs and words and paintings in SoHo or the Village. What the hell. Guy said you can make a good amount. Shit. Think: $75 for a framed, medium-sized print. Sell one in an hour. Stay outside for 10 hours. $750. Not a bad day. Don't think people scoop that up? It's New York, kid. Money is only paper here.

I might mix things up. Some disjointed words coupled with an image. Put it together as a piece. Sell that shit. I'm Davey fuckin Crockett.

2002-05-07T20:25:00.000-04:00

Planning to visit Triple 5 Soul tomorrow. Have an urge to shop for hip and for retro. Partly thank my red Chucks hightops for this frame of mind. Partly the documentary movie "Dogtown and Z-Boys," which I hope to see tomorrow or soon thereafter. Would like to see it with roommates, perhaps? It's about the early days of skateboarding in Venice, Calif. Yeah. Drained backyard swimming pools. Surfing on vertical pavement. Sean Penn narrates. Crisp choice by the filmmakers. Want to buy "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" on DVD.

|||

Went to Gramercy Park today with Tara. Actually, went to just outside Gramercy Park. Seems a person can't get inside the gated park without a key. Some lady was watching a kid and had a gate open. We raced to enter. She asked if we had a key. No, we said. You'd need a key to get out, she said. That's why I'm not letting you in. This was moments after she'd let out a few people. What a bitch. It was like that episode of "Seinfeld" when Jerry wouldn't let his neighbor into the building. I hope an awkward situation finds its way to that woman at the park. She's a dope.

2002-05-05T19:37:00.000-04:00

2002-05-03T19:34:00.000-04:00

I totally stole everything in this entry from Stereogum. He doesn't like the Gap. Neither much do I. But I'm glad they're not sending out those "Everybody in Blahteeblah" commercials. The most recent slew is somewhat interesting, although I hate to speak of commercials in that way. Just happens to be that more commercials have unique qualities these days than do films or television shows. So, look:

#1
Title: Two White Shirts
Directed by: the Coen brothers
The Scene: Dennis Hopper and Christina Ricci enjoy a poolside chess match.
Version 1 Soundtrack: "Hang On To Your Ego" by the Beach Boys
Version 2 Soundtrack: "I See The Rain" by the Marmalade

#2
Title: Down On Khaki Street
Directed by: Roman Coppola
The Scene: Jay Hernandez, Zooey Deschanel, Scarlett Johannson and Ashton Kutcher ride bicycles.
Version 1 Soundtrack: "Feelin'" by the La's
Version 2 Soundtrack: "Whoa, Trish!" by the Shins

#3
Title: Denim Invasion
Directed by: Cameron Crowe
The Scene: Kate Beckinsale and Orlando Bloom are pursued by a throng of adoring fans.
Version 1 Soundtrack: "Sorry" by the Easybeats
Version 2 Soundtrack: "Love Is All Around" by the Troggs

2002-05-01T00:40:00.000-04:00

A favored line from a recent selection of personal literature, not by me:
"I like the way you taste when I see you after work. Like the day."

What a liquid writer she can be.

||| ||| |||

Today, May 1, is my mom's 50th birthday. Going home to Delaware to tell her I love her. The method: 50 installments of flying knuckles to her left shoulder. Then, 50 shots of Jack. She's an animal, fellas. But she's taken, so stay the fuck away.

In ten days, my brother graduates from Virginia Tech. He's a smart shit. Works his ass off down there. Gonna be a fancy guy after he gets back from some summer traveling. Bet he's a bitch and isn't reading this. You there, Mike? You there? I'm looking forward to our extended visit to Blacksburg in a week. Get some Southern ho's lined up for me. Proper.

2002-04-29T03:08:00.000-04:00

Oh, and find out what Mr. T would call you, should you happen to meet.

2002-04-29T03:00:00.000-04:00

Your roommate cannot play guitar.

2002-04-28T23:47:00.000-04:00

The beginnings of my wishes at B&N, or wherever you'd like to buy me books. I'm not partial. I don't even care if they're hardcover.

Also, if this link does not work, oops.

2002-04-28T23:38:00.000-04:00

Transactions
BASEBALL
American League
KANSAS CITY ROYALS—Called up RHP Brad Voyles from Omaha of the PCL. Optioned RHP Nate Field to Omaha.
TEXAS RANGERS—Recalled RHP Rob Bell from Oklahoma of the PCL. Optioned OF Kevin Mench to Oklahoma.

Damn. Soon enough, Mench. Mickey spent a good portion of his life in Oklahoma, too.

2002-04-26T12:31:00.000-04:00

Unless you're a professionally-mandated weekend recluse like me, consider visiting The Triad tonight at 9 p.m. My good friend Rebeca, a multilingual jazz singer from Madrid, will be performing with her band. The dilly:

Friday 26th @ 9pm
The Triad (72nd St., between Broadway & Amsterdam avenues)
Rebeca Vallejo Project
with
BEN CASSORLA on the guitar
OSWALDO AMORIM playing bass
DAVE CASEY, saxophone
VANDER LEI PEREIRA on the beat

Show up. Bring a guy or a girl. Get your drink on. Listen to notes flapping.

2002-04-24T12:48:00.000-04:00

Check out these fly-ass Dillta coochies.

2002-04-24T05:38:00.000-04:00

Karen notified me of an article in the most recent issue of The Review that was of particular interest to me. The author of the column apparently is unsmart. He says I "guaranteed" that Mike Brey, the former Delaware men's basketball coach, would lead the team for years to come. And this is because I said what, exactly? That he was happy at the time, yes. And had no plans to leave, yes. And he enjoyed the local atmosphere, yes. Let's see. ... guaranteed ... guarantee ... stay for __ years ... hmm ... Nope. No word there about them thar ga-run-tees. Well said, sir!

[Note to Brian Pakett: When asserting that your forebear made an erroneous guarantee, take an extra moment to find a passage that better lampoons him. "'And for now, that's enough,'" hardly qualifies as a guarantee that Brey would remain "at the helm" for years.]

[Addendum to note to Brian Pakett: When starting a barb with the vibrant sentence, "Newsflash!," first understand that the passage under attack was, in fact, a fact. Brey had signed a contract extension. He had agreed to coach the team until the 2003-04 season. His failure to complete his contract was the byproduct of another agreement, one in which the university and the coach dissolved his remaining obligations so that Brey could pursue an opportunity better suited to his personal and professional needs at the time.]

Our lesson for today: A newspaper column is different than a news article. Also, newspaper columns can be either explanatory or progosticative.

Also: "it's the year 2002"? Is this Conan O'Brien? Should we borrow black turtlenecks and point flashlights to our chins? And that Messier analogy? Almost as cheesey as half of my collegiate attempts at clever writing.

A final note: Know those little diamond-shaped bugs in the QuarkXPress sports library? Yeah, the cyan ones with the name of the sport written through the center? Right. That's there so that the names of the sports don't get used in the headlines. For example -- and these are purely fictional headlines, used solely to illustrate a point -- "Tennis streak and season ends." Or "Lax travels to Long Island." Also, "Rowing heads south for Tennessee." And, just to round out the sports, "Football looks for second win." Entire sports, it seems, can travel, streak, end and look.

My prediction? That new asshole is hurting a bit right about now. There's ointment in the file cabinets. Use Tylenol for any headaches, Midol for any cramps.

2002-04-24T04:07:00.000-04:00

Scissors to tha front.
Practice.
The official rules.
The Official Ninja Webpage: REAL Ultimate Power!!!!
Possibly the best thing every created.
Oh, man. I laughed all the way to Colorado.

2002-04-22T20:31:00.000-04:00

Last hour, I walked to the corner Ben & Jerry's, where today is Free Cone Day. Got a sweet-cream-and-cookies cone. Licked it up. Was v. tasty. Stuffed two dollars into the box for The Dwelling Place, which is on the same street as both the Times and B&J's. One of the women who lives there has claimed and occupied a nook on West 43rd Street. She hides there, holding a bag or two, and when a passerby crosses her position -- at that precise moment and no earlier -- she chomps her mouth softly with her tongue, then mutters, "Fitty cent, nah." It often catches people by surprise, and as they glance and continue on their way, the old lady's plea segues into the tactful, "Fuckhoff." It's a touching display, truly.

2002-04-22T14:35:00.000-04:00

Play with the rabbit. Get the cursor from his kung-fu grip. He's fancy in the pants-y.

2002-04-22T00:55:00.000-04:00

I'm feeling retarded tonight. No joke. My head is like flip-flopping pizza dough spinning in the air. I had a McGrilled Chicken meal for dinner and then stopped at a convenience store on the corner of West 43rd Street and Eighth Avenue for a snack to hold me over for the rest of my shift. I got a 99-cent bag of "roast in shell" peanuts. (That's what the bag's label says.) And I bought an energy drink that looks like a bullet. (Or like a penis. Depending on whether you agree with one of my co-workers.)

And yo. Check out what the AriZona site says about the drink. It's really clever:

5.....4....3.....2.....1.....Blast Off with AriZona Rx Extreme Energy Shot. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to realize what Rx Extreme Energy Shot can do for you.

* The AriZona Brand Imagery of innovative, good-for-you, delicious beverages.
* The 1st energy drink with 10% real juice. Delicious and good-for-you.
* Innovative can package with the addition of an industry-first sanitary cap that doubles as a "shot" cup.
* Maximum Performance blend of real juices, Taurine, Ginseng, Guarana, D-Ribose, and Vitamins B6 and B12.
* Not just another "me too" to Red Bull. Rx Extreme Energy Shot not only looks more cutting edge, it tastes good too!

I like how they call the bullet head a "sanitary cap" and a " 'shot' cup." How "innovative."

Shit. I fell for it.

2002-04-22T00:38:00.000-04:00

This isn't anything new, but it's still as funny as a toddler who falls smack onto his face. Read the story in today's Styles section about the Internet comic strip "Get Your War On." After that, check the fourth strip from the top. When you're done with that, start over. And then and then and then, lookit the rest of this dude's shite. I like how the money he makes from his book is going to remove mines from Afghanistan's minefields. Because that's practical.

Now hiring: Want to help your countrymen AND make a buck or two? Look no further! The Afghan people are looking for hard-working individuals to WALK THROUGH FUCKING MINEFIELDS! Get some exercise! Get some sun! Have a BLAST!

||| ||| |||

And, hey now! Isn't it so weird how, like, some people have no choice but to find dates through online services? I mean, I totally feel sorry for these people. I'm really hyped that I'm not such a dweeb. Because we all know that only dorky dweebs use computers these days! Am I right? Am I?

I predict that 63 percent of you will post a free personal on Nerve.com after reading that story. And that makes you total losers!!! Am I right? Am I?

2002-04-21T23:46:00.000-04:00

I make important pages. Want to see? Good. Look below. I giggled like a schoolboy when I read about the paper money. Because a) I like it when fans make players look like dunces, and b) I believe that dollar bills qualify as paper money. So they used, um, real money? Probably no. So, hey! Good job by the Associated Press writer! Two points for clarity, Smartface!

Mariners 5, Rangers 3: Ichiro Suzuki tripled twice and scored two runs as host Seattle overcame two home runs by Alex Rodriguez in his former ballpark to defeat Texas.

Rodriguez homered twice in a game for the second time this season against Seattle. It was his 22nd career multihomer game. But Rodriguez’s offense was not enough, as the Rangers dropped to 5-13 for the team’s worst start. They go outside the A.L. West to play Toronto starting tomorrow.

Texas has lost 12 of its last 14 against Seattle, and is 6-21 since Rodriguez left the Mariners after the 2000 season to sign a $252 million, 10-year contract.

Rodriguez has hit five of his eight homers this year against his former team. His former fans booed him and tossed paper money in all three games of the series, his first in Seattle this season.

||| ||| |||

Hey! Let's pay lots of money for a guy. Then, let's suck! Who's with me!

Rangers: Put Mench in, full time. He's good, and you're not. He'll jump to a better club otherwise. At least, he should.

2002-04-21T20:33:00.000-04:00

Random snippet of my Times life: Let's call this bit The Also-Rans. Names of horses that didn't place today at Aqueduct: Me Me Me Me, Sultry Swinger, Mybingo, Sundae Bride, Pure Risk, Zapoteca, Polka Queen, C’Est Exact, Billy Haggard, Cobra Celtic, Wild Look, Zigeuner, Marie’s Pal, Charmico, Captain Natural, Run Up the Flag, Barrington, Faneuil Lad, Cat Rocket, Mysterious Angel, Lifebythedrop, Lost in the Woods, Mischief Boy, Midnite Deelite, Herzblatt, Piano Chimes, Brandala, Enter, Halley’s Field, Dancing Blues, Hillary’s Fantasy, Katelyn Rose Deane, Brianna Grace, Bo Bo’s Thunder, Seeyouinmydreams, Cosmic Green, Totally Selfish, Getiton, Pleasant Success, Hennessy’s Best, Red Carpet, Apotheotic, He’s Bluffing, Rise to the Top.

2002-04-19T19:49:00.000-04:00

The Sky Was Green.

I believe it has been awhile since I wrote an ode to the rain. But now the winter is gone, and it seems that spring forgot to play this year. It's been as hot as June this April, and today the weather joined in on the fun.

Clouds floated dark above my head when I left my apartment building for the PATH train. I was wearing long pants and a short-sleeve shirt. No umbrella. Copies of The Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News in my left arm. People were walking at me, as usual, the practical effect of beginning my job at 6 p.m. on a Friday. They weren't running because it wasn't raining. But they seemed to walk with the potential energy to sprint to the nearest awning should the sky grow disturbed.

I took the train. I walked the tunnel that connects the PATH station at 33rd Street to the New York Subway terminal. The usual aroma of stale urine didn't bother me so much. I saw people moving en masse at the bottom of the stairwell ahead. When I reached that area, I looked up, toward the street and the sky. It was darker than I'd seen it in a long time. Blacks and greens dominated the scheme. It was magnetic. I wanted to skip work and sit on a bench in a park with an open view of the sky.

I walked the stairs and headed to Times Square. Heard thunder immediately followed by the excited groans of pedestrians without cover. Looked up and saw flashes of lightning crackle within the cumulus. That was to the west. To the east, the opposite of where the brightest rays of the sun should be in the late afternoon, there was a glowing whiteness about the air. I know when a great rain is coming because the sky contradicts itself. It's bright and dark. It invents colors that don't belong. It strobes and shouts. No steady rain presents itself; large drops of hard water choose their targets and strike. A large portion of the front page of a newspaper can be made into a washcloth if a droplet breaks on its surface in the right manner.

These are the warnings, and they work. Then the wind sideswipes people as they increase their pace. It flicks aside umbrellas and lifts strange particles into eyes. It brings warm air for a time, and then it turns cooler.

I made it to work without much of a story. No floods. No rolling waves of splashing raindrops on the blacktop. No piercing slaps of thunder. What a bitch.

2002-04-17T10:44:00.000-04:00

Check out the "Agenda Suicide" video. Fucking cool.

Also, Karen -- I've got some contact sheets from 1993 that I saved from the trash at the Times. Bunch of them. Includes Buck Showalter and George Steinbrenner. You want?

2002-04-16T19:31:00.000-04:00

On the chances of winning the lottery

Outside my apartment building, which is on Washington Street in Hoboken, there was an absurdly long line today to buy lottery tickets. Toss a few hundred million dollars into the ether, and people will wait in 90-degree heat for a half-hour to spend tens or hundreds of dollars on the illusion of happiness.

I walked down the street and bought a sub at Blimpie's. Sat outside in the fenced-in area of the sidewalk. A woman walked by, talking with a man she apparently had just met. "I know," she said. "By me, there's a place with no lines. That's where I got mine. Third and Garden." The man thanked her, and they diverged.

I finished my lunch, read a bit of the sports section, and I went for a walk to Third and Garden. There was an Indian woman behind the counter in the small store, and a Latin-looking short man with a big bubble for a belly. He was humming something funny. She was speaking in a foreign tongue to someone out of sight.

The man made his purchase, and I stepped forward.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to buy lotto tickets."

"How many?"

"How many do people normally buy?"

Her face jumped.

"Oh -- tin, one hoondrit, two hoondrit. Ool kinds."

"I'll take three."

So, tonight, I'll have a bit of a laugh if my number is announced at 11. And then, I'll quit my job and buy a motorcycle.

2002-04-15T19:47:00.000-04:00

Hello. I'm a bestial Internet mogul: We at The New York Times pride ourselves on crisp, economic prose. We strive to present information with class, and we usually succeed. At times, however, we suck. And, apparently, we suck ass.

The Corrections section in today's edition included this as its final item:

• The On the Ground column in Business Day on Tuesday, about places to stay, eat and visit in Silicon Valley, misspelled the name of a beach where visitors can watch elephant seals. It is Año Nuevo (with a tilde on the "n"), not Ano Neuvo.

Now, I didn't take Spanish. But after four and a half years of Italian, and since living in the New York City area exposes me to Spanish on a daily basis, I had an idea of why that tilde was so important. Still, I turned to translate.dictionary.com to clarify. I saw this:

In Spanish:
Ano Nuevo

In English:
New Anus

The moral of the story is this: Don't eat near elephant seals who swim in the wondrous waters of New Anus.

2002-04-13T21:54:00.000-04:00

Fortune cookie told me: You have a curious smile and a mysterious nature.

Of interest: Broken New York. [As seen in today's New York Times.]

Shot: A 25-year-old man defending himself and his friend.

2002-04-13T00:25:00.000-04:00

Saw a sneak preview of "Human Nature" on Wednesday. Odd, quirky, funny and fucking weird. Nerve interviewed Patricia Arquette about her pubic display of affection. And that's not a typo.

2002-04-12T18:48:00.000-04:00

I have little to say at the moment. That's not true, actually. I have plenty to say. Too much, in fact. So, rather than try to touch on it all, I'll opt out. My contribution today has more impact than I could provide, anyway.

A few years ago, a guy with whom I went to high school made his name at the University of Delaware. He was a baseball player. He played right field, but his strength lived in his bat (and his massive forearms). A year before he arrived, another fellow St. Mark's High School alum had nipped away at Delaware's home run record. A good player, yes. But his performance paled in comparison to what his younger teammate did.

This player hacked and hacked at the meat thrown at him by clueless collegiate pitchers. I watched as he easily surpassed his former teammate's record, then the career mark, then took the Golden Spikes award for national player of the year. The previous winner was J.D. Drew, now a St. Louis Cardinal.

The difference between Kevin Mench and every other small-town slugger was the nature of his home runs. They left his bat in a fury. They rose, but not in the arching manner so often seen with homers. Instead, they raced and screamed and painted diagonal lines that zipped away from the plate. I saw him hit balls that landed at least 450 feet away, dead center. People would stop what they were doing to catch a glimpse of his at-bats. He was a mad, spinning top. He was Popeye with a Louisville Slugger, only his bat at the time was aluminum. He adjusted well to the wooden bats of the professional world, and he rose through the ranks of the Texas Rangers like a bubble to the surface of the sea.

Kevin Mench hit a two-run homer yesterday off of the Oakland Athletics pitcher Mark Mulder. I haven't spoken with him since he left Delaware early to hit the minor leagues. But I'm guessing he wasn't surprised that he exploded so early.

Few people visit the diamond at the University of Delaware. Baseball isn't popular among the students there, but neither are sports in general. It's a shame, really. Probably the best program, per capita, that the athletics department there has to offer.

Mench is not a sensation of the moment. Watch Juan Gonzalez get healthy, and watch the Rangers make room for Mench on a more regular basis. If Barry Bonds, who only two years ago swore he'd never hit 50 homers, can take control of pitchers the way he has, Kevin Mench isn't far behind. Not a hyperbole, this. Watch the next Rangers telecast. Or watch SportsCenter or Baseball Tonight for highlights. If he's in the lineup that day, there's a significant chance he'll be a big part of the game's outcome.

2002-04-08T22:00:00.000-04:00

The Pulitzers are in, and The Times took a record seven. A year ago, Joseph Lelyveld, then the executive editor, was elated to find that his concerted effort in the Race in America series yielded a prize. It was a big deal for him and for everyone. Now Howell Raines comes in, and he wins seven in his first year. Insane.

Here's a list of the winners in each category.

Much happened in the past couple of weeks. Briefly: ice skated in Central Park, painted pottery at A Time to Kiln, went to the Maury Povich show for "Who's my baby's daddy?" That's the short version. More later, if I remember.

2002-03-26T17:22:00.000-05:00

The indecency police have lost. Seems that several million people who watched the show weren't immoral. Hooray for this!

Went to court this morning. Waited for an hour and a half to fight a couple of tickets -- one was for an expired parking meter (an officer left two tickets on my windshield during a three-hour span) and another was for blocking a crosswalk. I arrived with a check written for the first expired meter offense. Fifteen dollars. The prosecutor threw out the second ticket. Then I fought the ticket for blocking a crosswalk. I provided a print of several photos I'd taken that night of my car and its relation to the crosswalk. The photos showed there was no crosswalk. The prosecutor hacked the fine in half (to $22), and labeled it as court costs.

Having saved nearly $40 in tickets, I made way to Tunes, where I bought three CDs to make up the difference. I deserved them. One: White Stripes. Two: De La Soul. Three: A Tribe Called Quest. The De La Soul album is a new version of the 1989 album. It's got a second disc with alternate versions of old tracks, including the ol' "Me, Myself, and I." No doubt.

People in courtrooms are odd. I'd write more about it, but I have to catch a train and get to work.

Tonight at 10:30: The Osbournes. Ozzy's hilarious because he has no idea that he's funny. He's more baked than a, um, than a, a twice-baked potato. Yes! What a gone guy!

2002-03-23T19:35:00.000-05:00

A few brief items to laugh at:
1
2
3

2002-03-18T19:34:00.000-05:00

I have at least five entries' worth of, well, entries, sitting at home and in my inbox. I haven't gotten around to plugging them in yet -- hopefully tonight -- and neither have I posted from work. I'm at the office now. Using Explorer rather than Netscape, which no longer allows me to post entries here. (Netscape is physically retarded, don't you know. At least it is on this Macintosh G4.)

It snowed last night. It was raining, and I left the office into a steady drizzle. Before I reached Seventh Avenue at 43rd Street, the drops had become flakes. Giant, wet feathers of crystallized water. Some raindrops survived the changeover, and the puddles on the street didn't know whether rain or snow was disturbing their sleep. My leather jacket collected pieces of water. So did my face. And once on Broadway, I leaned my head back and tried to catch snowflakes on my tongue. I would have chased them as they fell, but I didn't want to look like a madman, switching footpaths rapidly while looking to the soaked sky. It was 12:45 a.m. Sometimes I think too much.

Here is a brief comment about Alan Keyes, the MSNBC host of "Alan Keyes Is Making Sense": He supports the notion that Big Brother represents. He is blinded by his idea of what it means to be patriotic. He seems to partially understand that he is hypocritical, but he isn't clear-minded enough to recognize it.

The context of all of this is Keyes's response to a political cartoon by Ted Rall. The cartoon angered some people. The New York Times and The Washington Post removed it from their Web sites after receiving complaints from readers. The cartoon portrayed several widows of terrorists' victims as selfish and crass. It was, no doubt, a harsh statement -- I struggled to understand the purpose of lambasting the slain journalist Daniel Pearl's wife -- but it made people ask questions, and that is good. Rall's cartoon, he told Editor & Publisher in a recent interview, "isn't about all those who lost people in 9/11. It's about a half-dozen publicity hounds."

Rall's explanation didn't do it for me. "[Pearl's widow] kept appearing on television and it seemed pointless and tacky," he said in the E&P interview. "If your husband is dead, don't you have more important things to do than go on television?" It's a rhetorical question based not on a political opinion but on the artist's take on things. Rall turned the issue into a matter of taste. In doing so, he created a cartoon that had its share of tastelessness. With different wording, it might have been a more effective conduit of his opinion.

But none of this matters -- I understand Rall's intention, and he therefore has done his job. Moreover, he has the right to say or print or draw whatever he likes. Keyes doesn't seem to understand that. He believes that the First Amendment should have limitations during times of war: "It is worth remembering that when serious and sustained attempts to undermine public opinion on a matter genuinely essential to national life cannot be resisted by other means, governmental action may be necessary." First off, what is "serious and sustained" about one cartoon? Rall hasn't been churning out a Selfish Widows Series for the dailies. Second, what is the public opinion? If the online poll attached to his own column ("If you were an editor during wartime, how would you deal with a political cartoon some would deem offensive or unpatriotic?") counts for anything, most people (35 percent of 3,678 votes) said they would run the cartoon and keep the cartoonist on staff. (The other options were "Yank the cartoon, but keep the cartoonist," "Yank the cartoon and fire the cartoonist," and "None of the above.")

Governmental action may be necessary? What a dictator. What a dipshit.

2002-03-09T02:54:00.000-05:00

Stopped by Dr. Jackson's place this afternoon. (For those of you who aren't in the know, Dr. Jackson is the eccentric, bearded Southern professor who raised so many of us University of Delaware journalism kids. He is warm and honest and a great storyteller. He likes to talk.) I planned to swing by and deliver a couple of stories of mine (from more than a year ago, of course, considering that my current job does not include writing and therefore sucks donkey balls). So I get to his house, walk to the front door and find that he and his wife are home. She greets me, invites me inside. He joins me in the reading room at the front of the house.

Two and a half hours later . . .

Many stories, most of which I'd heard before. Knew the endings, but enjoyed hearing them told again. He has that way about him -- you can't stop him mid-sentence. (Or mid-paragraph, mid-chapter, mid-volume or midnight.) It's wonderful to see him after so long an absence on my part. And here, for your viewing and listening pleasure, is the apex of his stories this go-around: A former student of his, a model who liked to write and who had a crush on a staffer at The Review. Her name is Maria Di Angelis. She is the basis of a cartoonized vixen. That, my friends, is how you spell "hot."

2002-03-08T19:45:00.000-05:00

Entries by way of Photographica. First update: Tuesday.

I'm slow to edit and post pictures. So live through my Tuesday, and then I'll tell you what I did on Wednesday. It involves Bacardi O and Ferris Bueller -- the person who played him, not the movie itself.

2002-03-04T00:26:00.000-05:00

I just now realized how long it's been since I last posted to the Bloc. What a ball-ringer. It's sort of like my tendencies with replying to e-mail -- I get a letter from a good friend, and rather than responding at that moment, I decide that it's worth much more time and attention than I have presently. So I put it off until a more suitable window opens, which is to say that I don't reply for days or weeks. Sometimes I forget altogether. And so here I am, filling this space with this bullshit, ready to run like a startled zebra from this ugly old building in Times Square.

If you missed the party and are expecting a photographic essay on what happened, don't. My roommates and I had a sensitive problem in our apartment yesterday -- there was beer, much beer, and we had to find a way to make it go away. While making a few last-minute preparations for our expected guests, I cracked open a Yuengling Light -- yes, they make it in a light version -- and got to work. Jasen and Brett saw me working at this, and they volunteered to help me out. It was 11:30 a.m.

The sequence of events that followed varies according to the person who shares them. Mine is this: I was boisterous and silly. I drank from a gigantic glass mug. I wore for a brief time a green plastic headband that spouted two shamrocks at the ends of springs. (Many thanks to Penny for the props.) My hands have words and numbers written on them in magic marker. Two girls who I believe I did not know -- actually, one was the former roommate of a girl I once dated -- penned their e-mail addresses on my right hand. I suppose that's the telephone number of our day; exchanging e-mail addresses seems far less intrusive and allows the players to assess the grammatical worth of a potential mate. This is more important than most people realize. For example, consider the following two sentences, and decide which is more appealing:

1. I'm glad you stopped me at the door. I meant to ask for your number (or e-mail address) before I left, but I was a bit sloppy.
2. Its good that you saw me before I left ,becaus Im the kind fo person whose not "the best" at remembering to talk when I've been drinking!

What I'm saying is that I forgot to take pictures. That helps to illustrate just how much beer we helped eliminate.

This Wednesday, my friend Patty and I plan to spend the day waiting outide the box office for standing-room tickets to "The Producers." I'm not jumping to see the show, but I suppose the hype must be based on something. The waiting in line is what excites me -- we're bringing a supply of games (well, she's organizing most of this), a Discman with little portable speakers, some snacks, pens and paper and a slyly cloaked supply of spirits.

2002-02-19T06:12:00.000-05:00

The Big One.

2002-02-18T22:32:00.000-05:00

The first installment of my return to the actively contributing Photographica community.

Also, the gruff Tubby Raymond, who coached the University of Delaware's football team for 36 seasons, retired today. Last season, he became the ninth coach in college football to win 300 games at one school.

An excerpt from a brief on The News Journal's site:

"I think that you recognize that nothing lasts forever," Raymond said. "I realized that there are other things I want to do and that I haven't had time to do them."

Raymond was given a standing ovation by the roughly 100 people in attendance when he entered the room at 2 p.m. Surrounded by family, UD officials and current and former players, Raymond told of plans to paint, write a book, maybe take some classes and "be available for anything -- or almost anything."

(An aside: What's up with the red lollipops on Delaware Online to designate Web-only content? Is that supposed to entice me? Because if that was the intention, I'd prefer to see a green lollipop, which would signify a sour apple flavor.)

2002-02-17T21:24:00.000-05:00

It seemed for a while that Sterling Marlin would capture his third Daytona 500 victory yesterday. Then he made the mistake of trying to pull his fender away from a tire during a red flag. The offense pushed him to the rear of the leading pack and virtually out of contention. Three laps remained, and he lost. So, unfortunately, did the attractive woman who entered the contest.

Not long ago, I wouldn't have cared to watch the race. But NASCAR has garnered a bit more of my interest with each race. For that, I have to thank Brad Jennings, an old friend who was with me through critical stages of my writing career. More than that, he is a great friend who will listen to me ramble about anything. During my days with him at the York Daily Record, we often would cap a night of beer-drinking with a trip back to his apartment and a whole lot of racing with his NASCAR video game. (It was on Sony Playstation, I believe.) Popcorn and Coronas (with wedges of lime to mask the taste, of course), and at least a half-dozen full-length races. It was a part of my time in the slow-paced city that I truly enjoyed.

Soon -- this week, perhaps -- my Swiss neighbor Patrik and I will pitch in for NASCAR 2002 on Playstation 2, which one of my roommates owns. Last week, we bought two additional controllers, and now we're able to have four-person meleŽs in the name of hockey or football or racing or basketball or -- well, in the name of any sport that will allow. I'm hoping this is enough to lure Mr. Jennings and his fianceŽ, Chrissi, out of seclusion and up to Hoboken. There are several others in York, Pa., who ought to consider tagging along. One of them is Eduardo A. Encina -- don't forget the A., please -- who must be ecstatic considering Maryland's victory over Duke. Two others are Lyzz and Wendy. Then there's Helsabeck and Tha Manne, Dean. (Any others in York -- you come, too.)

Your incentive, if you needed any, is the St. Patrick's Day Parade party that my roommates and a neighbor will be throwing on March 2. Hoboken has a parade to celebrate each St. Patrick's Day. It runs on the first Saturday of March. They begin at 1 p.m., and so do we. The streets swell with pedestrians. The bars vomit patrons. It's Hoboken's version of Mardi Gras, except with less flashing of the jumblies. (Rest assured, however, that if viewing dirty pillows is what you'd like to be doing, you may feel free to ask our guests for the privelege. Ice packs are in the freezer.)

This goes for my Delaware comrades, as well. Ryan and Tad should make it a point to attend. So should Mugsy, who hasn't returned my phone calls in quite some time. (Poop on the top of you, may I say.) And those in Philadelphia and New York and other parts of New Jersey who showed at the Fall 2001 Nudefest have many reasons to return.

Later tonight, after several video games and perhaps a beverage or two, I plan to post a slew of photographs on Photographica.org. Many will be pulled from the archives, since I haven't contributed original material since November. (Remember "Bitch Night"?) Some of you may find yourself among the selected shots. Some of you may not. All of you, however, will gaze with wide-eyed wonder at the joy you have found.

And for you baseball fans, I'll end this entry with a brief Associated Press article about the great Ted Williams. Spring training has begun, my friends, and that means the Phillies are tied with every team in the majors.
::..

A frail Ted Williams made a brief and emotional surprise visit yesterday at a ceremony honoring Cal Ripken Jr., Don Mattingly and Jason Giambi at the Ted Williams Museum and Hitters Hall of Fame in Hernando, Fla.

The crowd of more than 2,000 buzzed when onlookers spotted a van pull up to the ceremony tent. Williams was lowered to the ground in his wheelchair and rolled to the podium, where he was greeted by a thunderous ovation.

His son, John Henry, spoke for Williams, the 83-year-old Boston Red Sox Hall of Famer, saying that he and his sister, Claudia, have been buoyed by their fatherÕs emotional strength in the face of strokes, congestive heart failure and kidney problems.

2002-02-13T00:43:00.000-05:00

Help a fellow commit suicide! I have used this space to complain about my job on several occasions. Just in case you need further proof that it is a wretched position, consider this: For the past two nights, the bulk of my energy has been spent copying information from the Westminster Kennel Club's Web site and pasting it into the pages I've worked on. My life, it seems, has gone to the dogs.

This is a harrowing moment. A beauty pageant for dogs is not, so far as I can see, an athletic endeavor. But the elitist Moneybags who own this newspaper or are good friends with those who do have had their way for ages, and it doesn't look like it will end anytime soon.

Here is an example of what has passed before my eyes:
HOUNDS GROUP
Beagles, Over 13 In. But Not Exceeding 15 In. Ñ Sandra CarpenterÕs Ch Kountry's Sir Beauregard.

The name of the breed in the above example reminds me of a joke I know. It's a universal joke, and it involves my pants. If you've been to The Writer's Bloc before, or if you know Ryan, no further explanation is necessary.

The only good thing to come of the Westminster show is a segment with Triumph the Insult Comic Dog on "Late Night with Conan O'Brien." It should be broadcast this week. Anyone know when? As an incentive, here's where you can find last year's visit.

Oh. Here's the bitch who was voted Best in Show.

2002-02-08T22:06:00.000-05:00

Matthew Broderick has just more than a month remaining in his starring role in "The Producers." I am assuming that I won't get a chance to see the Broadway play, which is all right, considering I don't particularly care. Nonetheless, Broderick, who played the ingenious school-skipper in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," can be a funny man. Proof can be found in a recent TV column in The Washington Post:

They sure play for keeps at Fox News Channel. New York magazine reports in next Monday's Intelligencer column that Matthew Broderick, appearing this week at an AIDS research fundraiser at Cipriani 42nd Street, joked about the historic building that houses the Manhattan restaurant: "It's a structural wonder that's rivaled only by Greta Van Susteren's eye job."

New York obtained the following riposte -- attacking Broderick and his wife, Sarah Jessica Parker -- from the Fox News rep who handles Van Susteren: "Maybe he needs some surgery to repair his marriage."

Spelling counts, peeple. Disagree? Take this! Oh yeah? Want more? How 'bout a little bitta that! You like it, don't you? I know what you like, baby. Ohhh, yeah.

2002-02-04T21:16:00.000-05:00

Due to sheer laziness, today's installment contains little more than links to oddities. For instance, this man hides lots of money in his underwear. Don't worry -- he doesn't wear them at the time. He's just inside a stranger's house waiting for Meg Ryan, who doesn't live there. This is the same guy who approached George W. Bush's Texas ranch last year with guns in his car. What a nut. Wouldn't it be odd if this were a case in which the man was transported from an alternate universe in which he really was married to Ryan? The answer is yes. It would be weird.

Playing the part of Greta Van Susteren tonight, a sexy bitch. This is an eyelift? Right. Let's get John Madden to look like Brad Pitt and call it a cheeklift. I wonder if Van Susteren will still have the same grovelly voice and frozen lips.

I'm talking 'bout freedom from crappy songs. Does Paul McCartney have a clue that his quickly produced song inspired by the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11 is absolutely without quality? (He played it last night before the Super Bowl. That's my news hook.) Here are the lyrics:

This is my right,
a right given by God,
to live a free life,
to live in freedom.

Talkin' 'bout freedom.
I'm talkin' 'bout free-e-e-dom.
I will fight
for the right
to live in freedom.

Anyone tries to take it away,
they'll have to answer,
'cause this is my right.

And then it goes on to repeat the touching second verse five more times, albeit with a slight variation among contractions and pronouns.

Paul -- what the hell? It's heartwarming to know that you wanted to help the United States by sharing your talent, but please, next time, set aside twenty-five minutes instead of just twenty.

How inspiring can it be when you recycle the Beastie Boys' lyrics and insert "freedom" in place of "party"? Answer: not very.

2002-01-30T00:11:00.000-05:00

I've been reading. Throughout high school and college, I was a cheat. Literature bored me, and so I decided to stop after the first 50 pages or so of any particular assignment. I bought the Cliffs Notes for many of them, and even those couldn't hold my attention most days. I'd read the one- or two-page synopsis near the front of the thin, yellow booklet, and I'd browse the essay questions near the back of it. The next day in class, I'd volunteer a point from the information I'd gathered within those selections. The teacher or professor usually was impressed and asked other students to comment on my statement. I'd sit back and resume my doodling.

So I'm here, and I'm reading. Reading, reading, reading. And no one is assigning me anything. I am seeking literature. The old classics that I hopscotched past during my years in school now seem worth the time. Of course, I have more time these days, what with the boring job and all. I am catching up. During the past year, I have read "The Catcher in the Rye," "The Great Gatsby" and parts of compilations of short stories by Edgar Allen Poe and poems by Emily Dickinson (thanks, Wendy).

I am pecking at Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood" with the intermittent style that fashions itself in the frequency of my weblog postings -- five pages here, three weeks of nothing, 25 pages there. I'm two-thirds through "1984." I've read Elizabeth Wurtzel's "Prozac Nation" and I've been introduced to Charles Bukowski, a dicey voice from the Beat generation, by my good friend Rebeca from Madrid. My brother gave me Bukowski's "Post Office" for Christmas. He didn't know what it was, only that I'd asked for a novel by Bukowski. But he glanced inside, and he said he liked what he saw. Maybe he'll be turned on to read his works before he's 24.

Bukowski, from what I have gathered, doesn't have much of a point, except that life is fucked up and people do weird things. He doesn't necessarily say these things, but they are easily inferred from his stories. He writes in the first person. Most of his books are categorized as fiction, but the majority of material is autobiographically based. Next on my list is his "Women." It is quite raunchy, from what I've heard. I like raunchy.

This brief rant matters because I feel most comfortable when I think of myself as the sort of writer who would write such things. I am far more turned on by the thought of putting my words into a book about everything and nothing. I bought Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" today from a woman with a sidewalk table near Astor Place. I'm sure I'm the first person to dream of being a voice that is known during and after its generation as a source of fresh and free thought. An original aspiration, no doubt. But that flimsy wish and photography are the only things, besides my family, that keep me going sometimes. I have to hope that at least one of them works itself out.

I flubbed out with NaNoWriMo. So what? I'll start my own month dedicated to a novel. Bukowski wrote his first in 21 nights. (Nights, I say, because he wouldn't begin until 6:18 p.m., which was the time he reported to work during his final 12 years at the post office. His goal was 10 pages a night. He'd go through two six-packs of beer and a pint of whisky each time around. Sleep was sometime near dawn. Sometimes he'd write 12 pages. Sometimes, 15, 23, 25. Always more than 10. Of course, in the morning, he'd have to walk into the front room of his place and check to see how many pages he'd typed. Then, he'd vomit. He whittled down and reworked the pages, on account of how drunk he had been while writing them, and in the end he had his novel.)

People have odd ways to reach their zone. I flipped through a book by Steve Martin while at Barnes & Noble today. I found a quotation that I liked, but it made me reconsider the name of this weblog. It went a little sumthin like-a dis: "Writer's block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol." Steve Martin is a very smart man.

But perhaps the oddest route to writing can be claimed by a murderer. Or, I should say, used to be claimed by a murderer. Ray Barham, who killed the boyfriend of his estranged wife, spent most of the last 20 years of his life writing columns for a local newspaper from inside the prison. His story reminds me a bit of Hannibal Lecter, except without the eating of the people or the multiple murders.

2002-01-22T21:34:00.000-05:00

I've heard so little about the Boeing 767 that China bought from an American company and found upon delivery to be loaded with satellite-controlled bugs. There was a story in today's Times about it, though, and I soon was distracted by what seemed to be a swaying of style. Consider this passage:

"They added that, apparently, heads had already rolled both in China's civil aviation office, which arranged to buy and refurbish the plane, and in the Chinese Air Force, which was assigned to guard it. Two senior executives of the civil aviation office have 'disappeared,' a Western diplomat said, and a senior air force officer who was supervising security has been detained."

Excuse me. Heads rolled? Is this Russel Simmons's "Def International News Jam"? For a paper that is utterly anal about professional style, that wording seems a bit relaxed for a story about possible international espionage.

Aside from that, two officials have disappeared? Is this "1984"? People are being vaporized? I have an idea for a new reality television show. It's called "China." People are there one minute -- ho hum, here i am, being here -- and then they are not. The flow of information will be controlled by the "government," and families will be restricted to one "child" each. This show, I am convinced, will outlast "The Chamber" and "The Chair" combined.

Which brings me to my last complaint. Are you weak enough to watch these shows? Do you allow yourself to believe that any of the contestants are within a mile of true danger? "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" plus jets of cold water does not equal good television. You want good game shows? Watch the Game Show Network. The original "Family Feud." The classic from my childhood, "Press Your Luck."

2002-01-22T20:28:00.000-05:00

2002-01-21T23:25:00.000-05:00

A couple of items, quickly, to prove that I haven't forgotten The Bloc. A more detailed entry is forthcoming, I swear, and it will lead you to photographs that you will like. Once you like them, you will send me an e-mail and tell me so. I will respond with a heart-felt "Thank you!"

On Wednesday, I went with a friend to see "The Royal Tenenbaums" at the 34th Street Loews. The movie was sold out, though, and so we watched "Orange County." Jack Black was funny, but the movie was a solid disappointment. Not bad, but a disappointment. I didn't laugh as much as I expected. And Colin Hanks, as nice as he may seem, was annoying, if only because he looked, sounded and acted like his dad. Moment of clarity regarding similarities between father and son: Colin's character is asked why he must go to college, to which he replies, arms flailing, "Because that's what you do after high school!"

And Jack Black's appearance on "Saturday Night Live"? Since I saw only snippets of the show, I won't make a broad generalization. But what I saw of it was not funny. I was convinced that the value of the "Applause" signs must have skyrocketed during the broadcast. The only remaining funny people on the show are Will Ferrel, Chris Kattan and Tina Fey. Jimmy Fallon is overrated, and the others are simply weird. Ladies and gentlemen, we are in an SNL Dark Age. It happens every few years, usually once members of a popular long-running cast have trickled into other media, such as television and "movies." The latter is in quotation marks because the "movies" often blow.

While at the Loews theater, I noticed a familiar face walking by. Turned out to be Chris Jansing from MSNBC. She was with a dorky looking guy. I said to myself, "Wow. That looks like that woman from either Fox News Channel or MSNBC." And then I was over it. My first close celebrity sighting. (I saw Meg Ryan as a scene from "Kate and Leopold" was filmed along Central Park West during the late summer, but that didn't count.) What a gyp.

2002-01-15T00:28:00.000-05:00

Giuliani was no Man of the Year. His place in history was fortified because an incredible disaster happened while he was in office and he did not break down in public. If you don't believe that another man (or woman) would have been a similar pillar of strength, think again. Think real hard.

What Rudolph Giuliani did was this: He brokered last-minute deals with the Yankees and the Mets, promising each a new stadium worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He told them the city would pay for half of each. He said to the public that the incumbent mayor, Michael Bloomberg, held the same notion. (Bloomberg has since stressed that two new ballparks are low on the city's list of priorities.) On top of it all, Giuliani slyly loosened the current leases that each team held.

What does it all mean? It means that once 2003 hits, the Yankees and the Mets have the option to leave town on 60 days notice. Under the old lease, the Yankees would have had to renegotiate by the end of the next baseball season, or about two months earlier than the current date. The new plans give the teams leverage in their push for shiny stadiums.

I can't think of anything the city could have put $400 million toward. Can you? Certainly not public schools. And we all know that none of the businesses downtown need any fiscal assistance. Yes, this is the perfect time to spend time, energy and public money on two rich baseball teams.

Giuliani. He was on Saturday Night Live a couple of times. That's where my admiration for him ends. Aside from his walk-off dealings, he was notorious for infringing on the First Amendment rights of artists and their venues. For the record, his repeated attacks on street artists -- having the police confiscate their works, for example -- went for nought. Long-fought court battles granted artists the right to freely display and sell their works in many parts of the city. If only we could fight for the same in Hoboken.

2002-01-14T19:38:00.000-05:00

The voice is back, and so is most of my strength. At the moment, though, I am tired. My Christmas tree kicked and stabbed at me with its brittle needles, but I managed to wrestle it into a body bag. The living room has a bit more space now. That was the accomplishment of my day. (Moving my car for the weekly street cleaning and shopping for groceries don't count.)

Out of sheer curiosity, how many of the Bush supporters among my friends still see him as a strong leader? I mean, pretzels? Wait, check this out -- pretzels?! Who chokes on pretzels? What I want to know is what sort of pretzels they were. Were they Rold Gold, those little hard numbers that come in a bag? Are we talking SuperPretzels, all warm and soft? If they were Rold Gold, Bush must have one small esophagus. I'm eager to see how the late-night hosts address this. It's the first instance in months that allows for the acceptable public reaming of the president. About time. And that abrasion on his left cheek? The perfect ice-breaker.

"George, how are -- hey, what's that cut on your face?"

"I choked on a pretzel and fell."

What is it about Bushes and food? The current dildo's dad puked on the Japanese's laps, and now Junior here gags on a pretzel and faints. Reflections of America, my friends. Feel the power.

I still haven't visited the exhibition at Grand Central that I mentioned in my last post. But I am a bit closer to choosing an LCD panel monitor. This is the front-runner. It can be removed from its base and hung on a wall. Here are the others that I know of. Tell me if you know of a better option.

I haven't posted to Photographica in a long time. I check it daily, and so should you. Some contributions are frickin cool. Today, there was a link to a site that offers a random quotation about photography each time you visit. My favorite was this: "The illiterate of the future will be the person ignorant of the use of the camera as well as the pen" -- Laszlo Maholy-Nagy (1936)

My weekend begins tomorrow, sometime around midnight. If all goes well, I plan to upload several photos by Wednesday. I'll link to them when it happens. Aren't you lucky.

Not important, but I submitted my resignation at the Times and have accepted an offer to fill this man's shoes at Sports Illustrated. Oh, and read Rick Reilly's column about what lip-readers hear while watching football games.

2002-01-11T21:10:00.000-05:00

Be glad that you cannot hear me speak. Even if you were standing beside me, you would have a difficult time understanding me. I sound like a late-night disc jockey on one of those community-run, commercial-free stations. You know the kind of person I'm talking about -- an old man who speaks with a scruffy whisper and spins records from the era when ragtime was edgy. That's me with bronchitis.

I'm at work tonight, and barring another crash on this shit-laden Macintosh G4, this note will be my only clear method of communication with distant friends. You might have wondered whether I had died. I assure you that I have not.

Photographs are forthcoming (and long overdue), but first I have a bit of a problem to fix. My home computer's monitor is ill. One day last week, before I left for an extended visit to Delaware, I turned it on and noticed that the wallpaper seemed darker than usual. My photographs also looked darker. I adjusted the monitor's contrast and brightness, but little changed. Seems I'm in the market for a new monitor.

If I have to buy a monitor, I'm going to get a flat-screen LCD panel. I'd link to a photo of it here, but I couldn't find one I liked. The best thing about a flat-screen monitor is that it would open my desk to so much additional space. That would make it easier to be even more messy than I already am.

Quick, before I go. There is a photography exhibition at Grand Central Terminal that features 87 giant Polaroid portraits of people who are somehow connected to the attacks on the World Trade Center. It will be on display until Jan. 20, so if you're in the area, visit. Here's a bonus for those who live in a warped time zone, three hours behind me: The exhibition will visit several cities, including San Francisco.

Lastly, I was visiting the electronic home of my college haunt, The Review, and I searched for articles written by a dear friend of mine. One of the stories I cfound was about a quirky art store on Main Street in Newark, Del., called Perfection. The story was filled with details, none of them extraneous. I came away from it feeling as though I had met the shop's owner. Laura Carney wrote it with a smooth style and with a voice that rang of expertise. I was damn impressed.

2001-12-23T20:15:00.000-05:00

TheHolyOne497: what's up?
LilSatan666: nothin'... just trying to destroy all that is good on Earth
TheHolyOne497: oh... k... c-ya... :)

2001-12-19T15:03:00.000-05:00

Today is Saturday. For me, at least. I got home from work late last night. Celebrated the start of my weekend a bit by myself, then ate everything in the metropolitan area. Seriously, I finished off a small bucket of Ben & Jerry's chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Then I ate Triscuits and peanut butter. I went into the living room to bask in the soft, undulating glow of the Christmas lights -- on Monday, I put up a big tree and decorated it -- and I lay down on the couch nearest the windows. Next thing I know, my roommate Jasen is asking me if I waited up for him last night. Which I didn't. But it sure looked that way.

Today, I've been absolutely useless. My alarm told me to wake up at 9:30, but I coerced it into nudging me at 10. That's when I told it to shut the hell up. I nuzzled beneath my warm flannel sheets and watched an old movie with a young Drew Barrymore and thought about Tom Green and whether he's going to make any more funny television shows or movies. That Tom Green. What a character.

I think it's time to head into the city and do some Christmas shopping. That's right. This qualifies as my first attempt this year. What a guy. If you haven't received a card from me, you should feel priveleged -- I neglect only my closest of friends. Not having addresses makes it a bit difficult.

A surprise visitor over the weekend: A girly who was a good friend of mine in high school, Christina, and whom I hadn't seen in about 4 or 5 years, came through the area to visit her best friend from college and then to attend a family function in Brooklyn. She stopped into Hoboken on Friday night with her college pal. By the time I met up with them at the Cadillac Bar, Christina was seven sheets to the wind. Good times. We met again on Sunday for a coffee and a walk in Pier A Park. For a brief peek, stare at my album.

I spoke with her on the phone a few minutes ago. She works at a cable company in the Baltimore area. One of the perks of her job is that she gets to examine the list of pornos that customers order. Here's a breakdown of some of the favorites:

*Body and Clyde 4
*He's the Man, 24-7
*Fresh Euro Flesh
*Lusty Busty Dolls
*Naughty Amateur Home Videos (Slip 'n Slide)
*Liquid Lovin'
* Junk in the Trunk (1-3)
* Lola gets Nasty
* Big, Bigger, Biggest
* One Size Fits All
* Eating Alone
* Naughty Amateur Home Videos: Toys
* Hot Bods & Tail Pipe

and last but not least...
* Lust, Lies & Lingerie.

From the Spare Me department: Received a Christmas card from an ex-girlfriend yesterday. It came complete with annoying little sparkly stars and speckles that stuck to my fingers. She even wrote a crappy couplet at the top: "Remembering someone special is an easy thing to do, especially if that someone happens to be you." And then, with her signature -- which came with a heart -- was this: "May your holiday be full of peace, love and delight." Isn't this the same person who criticized everything from the way I eat to the way I drive? Hello? O.J. Simpson called. He wants his tendency to misplace affection back. Gag me.

2001-12-15T19:40:00.000-05:00

One thing you may have noticed is that I tend to be lackadaisical about updating The Writer's Bloc. And by lackadaisical, I mean lazy. This will change. I have scores of photographs to upload to Photographica and to an online photo album that I haven't yet secured. When I do, I'll post a notice. For now, though, I'll provide a brief written diversion.

Last week, I visited some friends in York, Pa., my first trip to the White Rose City since March. Pictures are forthcoming, but Brad and Chrissi were wonderful hosts. They took me into their home despite my late arrival -- imagine: me, late -- and offered Angelina, my lovely but sometimes ill-tempered cat, a bowl of food. I visited the York Daily Record, the small but spunky newspaper that offered me my first full-time professional writing opportunity. There, I spoke with a dozen old friends who were taken aback by my statements, which included, "I've been looking forward to coming back to York for so long," and, "It feels so good to be back."

Ed and I went to Damon's, a sports restaurant and bar, where we consumed two tall glasses of beer and tasty desserts. The waitress and her trainee wanted us. We said to them, "Please, your emotional reaction to our presence is understandable, but we came here for the drinks and service. Back that thing up."

Afterward, we hit Cobblestones, which is just about the only halfway decent big bar in the York area. Several YDR staffers joined us later. We all got silly.

Further recounting of the evening's -- and the morning's -- events is on hold. I'll let the photographs explain.

The Great Hoboken Nudefest was a riotous success. No one came clothed. Several beverages were consumed. Jokes were told. A few guests got lucky. The fourth person who arrived was a fellow named Scott. We did not know Scott. He provided the printed Evite in his pocket. Sarah and another girl forwarded the information to him. We did not know Sarah and the other girl. They did not attend Nudefest. But Scott was not dismayed. He stayed for several hours and got rather drunky. Then he left. His mere presence was a sign that our party was successful.

Be forewarned: Our next party most likely will climax in February. Build your stamina.

Before The Onion, the best of the fake news made its home in the supermarket tabloids. Return to them, and you find stories such as this. The Globe had a super lead story, but I can't find it online. Shit.

If you like pants -- and, let's face it, we all like pants -- please take a moment to visit Alison's pants. She has qualified for an invitation to our next party.

2001-12-14T23:38:00.000-05:00

One thing you may have noticed is that I tend to be lackadaisical about updating The Writer's Bloc. And by lackadaisical, I mean lazy. This will change. I have a scores of photographs to upload to Photographica and to an online photo album that I haven't yet secured. When I do, I'll post a notice. For now, though, I'll provide a brief written diversion.

Last week, I visited some friends in York, Pa., my first trip to the White Rose City since March. Pictures are forthcoming, but Brad and Chrissi were wonderful hosts. They took me into their home despite my late arrival -- imagine: me, late -- and offered Angelina, my lovely but sometimes ill-tempered cat, a bowl of food. I visited the York Daily Record, the small but spunky newspaper that offered me my first full-time professional writing opportunity. There, I spoke with a dozen old friends who were taken aback by my statements, which included, "I've been looking forward to coming back to York for so long," and, "It feels so good to be back."

2001-12-01T23:41:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one who doesn't get this headline?

Bush: Hey fellas, ya got any ideas for our next strategerie?
Bush aide: Mr. President, I'd suggest that we focus our attention on butter. Recent studies have shown that it isn't half as harmful to one's health as previously thought, and it continues to taste considerably better than margarine.
Bush: Hot damn! I knew it! Laura, fire up the barby -- we're havin' goat burgers tonight!

2001-11-28T17:52:00.000-05:00

I'm on my into the city and will post more later, but first, here is my latest (overdue) contribution to Photographica. Enjoy.

Also, I've sent out the invitations to The Great Hoboken Nudefest via Evite.com. If you haven't received one, e-mail me (look at the left-hand column). I either had the wrong address, forgot to add your address to the list or do not like you.

To my peeps in York, I have off from next Tuesday through Friday. The party is Friday. I'll be in Delaware on Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday morning, I'll be heading to York. I will stay overnight. We will party. If you work that night, please don't do that. But if you must, no biggie, we'll hang out before and after. Call me.

2001-11-25T22:32:00.000-05:00

The Great Hoboken Nudefest will be held on Friday, Dec. 7, at my recently inhabited apartment on Washington Street. Exquisite details will follow, but here are the basics:

1. There will be many people. Some will be people I know. Some will be people my two roommates know. Some will be people none of us know.
2. There will be beer.
3. People will drink the beer.
4. There will be compliments on our apartment and its location.
5. At least one person will press the wrong call button at our front door. (It is button No. 4. We live in apartment 3A. Know this.)
6. There will be music.
7. The music will be good, and it will be loud.
8. There will be people on the rooftop, where tiki torches and open air make the night move.
9. I will be there from the start, which is significant because a) I usually work on Fridays, and b) I am extremely sexy.
10. There will be people from several countries.
11. There will be people from here.
12. There will be no Christmas tree. (That comes a week or so later.)
13. There will be no compensation for strippers.
14. There will be strippers.
15. Would you like to strip?
16. Thank you.
17. For security reasons, all underpants must be checked at the door.
18. The Nudefest will begin at 6 p.m., when my roommates and I begin testing the drinks for purity.
19. People will arrive whenever they want to arrive. This most likely will occur around 7 or 8.
20. The Nudefest will not end. Ever.
21. Sleeping arrangements can be made. Just tell me whether you prefer a tall or short mate.
22. We live above a pizza parlor that is open until 4 a.m.
23. Photographs of each person in attendance will be produced by me. These will go on the Tablet of Visitation, which is a floor-to-ceiling space on which guests must write messages or paint pictures or have their photographs displayed.
24. You may invite anyone you please.
25. You must offer me an estimate of the people you are bringing with you.
26. You must e-mail me with the status of your attendance.
27. All Reviewites must attend.

This is an apartment-warming party. The music will be eclectic. "Fight Club" may run on the television in the background. That, or the Cartoon Network.

You have a nearly two-week notice. Please behave.

2001-11-25T22:20:00.000-05:00

My God. I haven't posted in a week and a half. The outcry from readers has been enormous, and I thank you. Be at ease, knowing that you will not be without my words for so long again. There, there.

I ended up in Alphabet City last night. I met my Swiss neighbor and his friend from Spain at Kate's Korner, I think it was called. We wandered around after that, stopping into a cool but stuffy Drinkland and, finally, some other place that played some Stevie Wonder tunes. I lit a candle and tossed the match into the candle holder. It caught aflame and leaned against the glass. The glass overheated and a piece burst into my arm, which was covered by my jacket. It was cool.

I had a cafe mocha at Starbucks a few minutes ago. It was my break. No dinner tonight. I finished my mom's delicious Thanksgiving dinner leftovers for breakfast/lunch/dinner. Left some of the chicken soup for later consumption, though, because I love her food. So good. So nice.

I'm reading "1984." Last night, I walked down St. Mark's Place and passed a row of old buildings that seemed abandoned but probably weren't. Some of them are stores with modest facades -- one vintage clothing store is named "Search and Destroy" and has those words stenciled on each step of the front stoop. One upright piece of plywood bore the phrase "Big Brother is watching." I thought that was a fine coincidence.

2001-11-14T14:37:00.000-05:00

From Maureen Dowd's column in today's paper:

Mr. Bush said yesterday that the war on terrorism had "transformationed" the U.S.-Russia relationship.

I cannot believe that we have a fool as a president. I see him and my insides condense. He is stupidity in its purest form. He is the Grinch, except that his brain is what is three sizes too small. I heard an NPR news report the other day. The newscaster said that Bush was asked whether he thinks Osama bin Laden has nuclear weapons. Bush said that the only thing he was sure of was that bin Laden is evil. As an American citizen, I'd like to thank Mr. Bush for that bit of enlightenment. The scary part is that I'd bet he's telling us the truth -- that really is all that he knows. Powell and Cheney and Rumsfeld just put him up there and prime him like so: "Now, George, remember -- bin Laden is evil, his people are evildoers, the American resolve is strong and we will prevail. Toss in something negative about terror. It wouldn't hurt to say we're slowly but surely progressing in Afghanistan. But for God's sake, don't smirk when you talk about this stuff. It's just creepy. And it makes you look dumb. Oh, and quit turning nouns into verbs. Putin seemed confused when the translation of 'transformationed' reached his ears."

2001-11-12T22:54:00.000-05:00

When Bush and Gore began their tango in the wee hours after last year's election, my first knowledge arrived via a message on my answering machine that was left at 4 a.m. "Shit is going down!" Ryan said. "Who's the president? Is it Bush? Is it Gore? I don't know." That was what greeted me at about 10 in the morning.

On Sept. 11, the ringing telephone woke me at 9:30. I leapt from my bed -- a small miracle considering my love of the soft mattress -- and ran into the living room to pick up the phone. It was Ryan. He told me to turn on CNN or the Fox News Channel. I saw two tall buildings spouting black clouds into the sky. I stared at the screen for a few minutes, talking with Ryan about how crazy it all was, and then I remembered to look through the window to my right. In the distance, above the angled roof of a Hoboken building that is closer to the Hudson River, I saw the towers and their smoke jutting into the blue. It was the nearly the same vie w that I saw on the television.

This morning -- the time of this post, actually, will make it yesterday morning -- I woke up to the telephone ringing at 9:30. It was my mom calling. She asked if I'd seen the news on the television. By now, my emotional d etachment was a full-grown animal. I turned on the television, watched and talked. After hanging up the phone, I spent the next two and a half hours flipping through the local and national stations, hunting for fresh and gripping video of the scene, thi rsty to hear breaking leads on the context of the crash. What struck me throughout the day was the way that I, and seemingly most of the residents in the New York City area, felt a sense of relief at the prospect that this was not a terrorist's act. It w a s merely a passenger plane that crashed into a residential neighborhood and killed at least 255 people.

This story does a good job of describing the local mood.

I found humor in a q u ot ation in the story. It contains an aside about the vocabulary used in the preceding sentence. Juxtaposed with the grim nature of the situation, it's just plain funny.

"It's just not stopping," said Assemblywoman Audrey I. Pheffer, whose district includes much of the Rockaways. "I don't know what I would say to people right now to make them feel unscared -- even though unscared is not a word."{

2001-11-09T02:47:00.000-05:00

Though busy, I am still alive. Tonight, I posted to Photographica. It'll give you a glimpse at my past week. (Granted, it's a small glimpse, but it should tide you over for another day or two. ... Did I say that right? Is it "tide"? Educate me.)

2001-11-07T00:04:00.000-05:00

Bloomberg News is running this report on its wires:

NEW YORK (Bloomberg) -- Reports that I am losing to Mark Green in the New York City mayoral race are false. The Associated Press reported that with 49 percent of precincts reporting, Mark Green had 279,530 votes, or 49 percent, to 275,584, or 48 percent, for me. This is wrong. In real life, I am ahead, according to myself.

"I am doing pretty well over here," I said, as 2,001 bottles of champagne rested in beds of ice surrounding my podium. "And if you all want to be on my 'A' list, you'll agree with me."

My speech was met with resounding applause.

A self-made billionaire, I spent more than $50 million of my own money on this campaign. That's more than anyone else has spent while running for mayor. Green, whose name rhymes with "mean," spent $15 million.

"I'm not sure if that's something I should be bragging about," I said, "but what the hey -- I can edit it out later."

2001-11-06T20:17:00.000-05:00

It was imminent. The decision baseball owners made today to eliminate two teams was not a surprise to those who follow the game. The economic climate has foreshadowed the contraction for years. Potentially under the blade are the Montreal Expos, the Minnesota Twins, the Florida Marlins, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays and the Oakland Athletics. Major League Baseball has not revealed this information, of course, but all of the aforementioned franchises have been floating for quite some time among rumors of relocation and elimination. Speculation among pundits puts the Expos and Twins at the front of the line.

What irks me is not that two teams will disappear, but that Bud Selig, the commissioner, and the rest of his owner cronies lacked the foresight while gleefully expanding by two teams in 1993 and by another two in 1998. They added four teams in five years. Both Florida franchises, the Marlins (1993) and the Devil Rays (1998) are in danger of elimination.

And Selig, a former owner of the Milwaukee Brewers who inextricably acts as the marionette of the owners, has the gall to speak thus: "It makes no sense for major league baseball to be in markets that generate insufficient local revenues to justify the investment in the franchise. The teams to be contracted have a long record of failing to generate enough revenues to operate a viable major league franchise."

That is a wonderful appraisal, especially since it came from a man whose Milwaukee franchise fit that description for many years. The Brewers, of course, were awarded a publicly funded ballpark that opened this season. They finished with a 68-94 record, the same as the Expos. The Brewers drew an average of 34,674 fans to each game in 2001, 74 percent more than in their final season in County Stadium.

I don't believe that a new stadium would save the Expos. Montreal is a hockey town, and despite the talent fielded by the Expos during many of the past 20 years, the team's low-market status has prevented it from retaining stars.

But Minnesota is a viable franchise. The Twins played high-quality baseball through much of the season, and despite a late-season falloff, Metrodome attendance grew by 70 percent from 2000. If you have seen pictures from inside the Metrodome, you know that it is like Veterans Stadium, but without the fresh air. In other words, the Twins draw well when playing well, even though their stadium is a horrible lugnut. Imagine if they were to erect a new ballpark.

Therein lies the trick of today's decision -- by announcing that two unspecified teams will cease to exist by the start of the 2002 season, the owners have given themselves leverage in their negotiations with local government officials to have taxpayers fund the bulk of the costs for new parks. The Twins' owner can say to legislators, Hey, if you don't help me out, Minnesota won't have a team.

Thankfully, politicians already have responded by reaffirming their stance. Gov. Jesse Ventura, whom I detest for his fascist approach to media relations, said that he would not support funding a stadium. So did another guy whose name I don't recall. (He was important, though. Trust me.)

In conclusion, owners bad, fewer teams good; expansion dumb, Selig ... dumb.

2001-11-04T03:17:00.000-05:00

My prediction for Game 7 of the World Series: Curt Schilling throws one-hit ball and, this time, does not get pulled. The Yankees load the bases in the ninth inning, trailing by 3-0, and with two outs and Derek Jeter at the plate, a pop-up to second base ends the game. It sounds ultradramatic, but so has most everything during this postseason. Of course, I'm out to see good baseball, and so I'm looking to be surprised and impressed by these two teams. Whatever the outcome, I want to be entertained. It's difficult for me not to wish the best for Schilling -- three outstanding starts in a seven-game series? It's a throwback to the first half of the 20th century.

NaNoWriMo word count: 304/50,000.

2001-11-02T13:25:00.000-05:00

If you want a couch, I've got one for you. Here is the description. I've got one person interested already, but if that falls through, good for you.

2001-11-02T01:19:00.000-05:00

Due to laziness, I have used the copy and paste functions on my computer to reproduce a passage from a note I sent earlier tonight to Karen. It was mostly about the recent fanciness of the New York Yankees, who play baseball and are good. This was written before Alfonso Soriano's game-winning single. And I quote (myself):

What a World Series this is. The Yankees are old, we think, and this is their final go at the multi-flagged trophy. Then the tracks shift, and our minds feel almost as though they've been commandeered by something wilder. An instant before the big hit, our adrenalized body rhythms settle into a soothing calm. We watch and listen as it happens, and we taste the story in action. Some love it, some hate it, but we all feel the moment. And, yes, there have been times when the Yankees failed to slip through a window space, but those times have been outdone by games like last night.

(I didn't say it was good. I only said that I wrote it.)

Cah-wull mi now fer yer free schemin'! I noticed on the news last night that something happened regarding Miss Cleo, the televised psychic phenom. I wasn't paying attention -- I was in the midst of moving, as I am now and will be for several years -- so I'm glad that Ryan provided a link to a story about Miss Cleo's troubles. My favorite part is this quotation, which spilled from the lips of C. Adrienne Rhodes, the executive director of the Consumer Protection Board:

"This so-called 'psychic' service appears to be a scam to keep people on the telephone for as long as possible."

Really? D'ya think? Good work, Ms. Holmes. Let's get her on the terrorist beat -- she's sure to pick up on the minutiae. What she should've said is, "I believe in the validity of psychic readings via telephone connections -- I have an array of examples that support my stance -- and this particular service does *not* match my standards."

NaNoWriMo word count: 0/50,000.

2001-11-01T08:50:00.000-05:00

Got the score right, but picked the wrong team. Curt Schilling was wonderful last night. He'd thrown around 80 pitches through seven innings and had a 3-1 lead. Then Arizona manager Bob Brenly pulled him. You know the rest. Keep an eye on Karen's site for the perspective of a fan who's been there through the bad and the good. (The bad was a long, long time ago.)

2001-10-31T02:21:00.000-05:00

Did you see Bush's ceremonial first pitch in Game 3 of the World Series last night? I've seen him throw one before -- it wasn't exceptional -- and I expected to see him flub this one on at least one bounce at Yankee Stadium. Instead, he hit the mark. And I didn't hear him say "evil-door" once. (I did, however, overhear a snippet of his odd pregame comment, and distinctly heard him say "prevail." Mr. Bush seems oblivious to the concept of hackneyed terms.) Afterward, he returned to the practice of smokin' them outta thur holes.

Why wasn't he wearing a Texas Rangers cap? Was it perhaps because the team is horrible? Silly former owner.

A couple of random things before I sleep: I too have joined the ranks of NaNoWriMo, which is a clever quasi-acronym for the National Novel Writing Month, which is November. The idea is that you write a crappy but lengthy novel by Nov. 30. It must be at least 50,000 words. I am sure that I will forget within the week that I have enlisted, so please remind me. ... The final phase of my move is tomorrow. This phase, known as Phase Zeta, will include the assistance of Dad, who arrives before noon. Recent obstacles, many of which have not been overcome, include: no cable-ready wires; no visible telephone jacks; no light switches (we instead are blessed with pull cords); a medieval gas stove with stubborn pilot lights; a lamp and fan above the stove that are without electrical attachment and, therefore, are useless; an obscenely small bathroom that is doubly bothersome to me considering the expanse of the bathroom in the apartment I am leaving; and a refrigerator without a light. Now, this seems like a list of reasons why you should avoid my apartment. But you shouldn't. In fact, you should visit, and I'll tell you why: Because I am cool. And the place is huge. And it rocks. And my two roommates are cool. And we know how to party, if you know what I mean. (And if you do know what I mean, please let me know, because I'm not sure what I mean.) ... Curt Schilling pitches Wednesday night in Game 4 of the World Series, which is significant because he is throwing with just three days of rest. He has not done this yet, and people are debating the effectiveness of this maneuver. I say there's no debate -- Arizona is up, two games to one, and a victory in Game 4 puts them one away from the championship. Why hold your best pitcher for an extra day just because he hasn't pitched on such little rest before? Schilling is obviously skilled at his craft -- he honed his talents over many years while in Philadelphia -- and you know he wants to be on the mound. Though I like watching the Yankees, I'm a Phillies fan and, therefore, am grateful to Schilling for his years of wonderful baseball with the team. My prediction for Game 4: Diamondbacks 4, Yankees 3. ... Here is a detailed most-wanted list.

2001-10-29T23:26:00.000-05:00

I have grown angry at the words of Ari Fleischer, the White House's spokesman, several times since G.W. Bush took office. He has a tendency to scold reporters for printing anything that criticizes the administration. Last month, he said that Americans should "watch what they say" and "watch what they do." Fleischer later clarified his intentions, but it was a disturbing passage coming from the appointed mouth of the United States government.

In Tuesday's edition of The New York Times, there is a profile about Fleischer in the midst of his redefined role. My favorite part of the story comes near the end, when the writer speaks of Fleischer's karaoke rendition of Young MC's "Bust a Move" this summer.

2001-10-29T20:37:00.000-05:00

During my daily visit to MediaNews.org, I found an article about a disturbing editing process recently installed by the managing editor of the Salem, Ore., Statesman Journal. In an effort to avoid offending members of a particular religion or ancestry, he had local Muslims edit the pages for questionable material. The editor is a former sports editor of The News Journal in Wilmington, Del. I freelanced several stories for him a couple of years ago, and I am hardly surprised that his methods go against the basic principle of journalism -- the uninhibited sharing of information.

What also bugs me is that the Society of Professional Journalists endorses such behavior. The organization, as described in the article to which I've provided a link, is one of the many casualties of the Evil Empire of Politically Correct Zealots. It makes me glad that I was too lazy to explore the possibility of joining the SPJ.

2001-10-29T00:38:00.000-05:00

Time, once again, for a brief rant about my job. It is 12:23 a.m., and I have spent virtually every minute of the past three hours waiting. I am not even waiting for a game to end. I am waiting for someone in production to call and give word that it is time to set pages. Mine is the N.F.L. page -- D4, for those of you who have a copy of today's Times. An editor here failed to tell me that my page was not scheduled to be updated for the midnight edition in the city, which meant that I would have to wait until the 1 a.m. edition to set it. I happened to overhear her discussing which pages were off with another editor. This angers me -- when I say that I often feel invisible at this place, it is not an exaggeration. So, tonight, as with most nights here, my job has been to wait, and wait, and wait, and then to press a button. Word arrived a moment ago. Time to press the button and go home.

The move, by the way, is nearing completion. Saturday was spent transfering the furniture and personal items of my new roommates from their apartment to our place, which is downstairs from my current apartment. We moved a few of my larger pieces of furniture today, but several remain. The daytime hours of the next couple of days will be busy. Angelina, my cat, knows something is up. She was especially frazzled today.

2001-10-27T01:43:00.000-04:00

Perhaps this makes me an expatriate, but I don't believe government officials who claim that the second bombing of a Red Cross facility in Afghanistan was a "human error in the targeting process."

Here we have the most advanced military system in the world (or so we are led to trust from an early age), and fighter jets accidentally attack the same relief site twice in 10 days? Military planners say they picked the wrong target.

Gen. Schmucko: Now, gentlemen, for our next target, we must be sure to avoid destroying places that provide food, clothing and other relief products to the civilians of this battered country. Last week, we goofed. Let's be more careful. Suggestions?
Lt. G.W.O. Bush III: Sir, if I may, what about this place on the satellite picture that has a big red plus sign on the roof? Maybe the rebels helped us out by painting an X on top of the Taliban's secret lair, and we're just lookin' at it sideways!
Gen. Schmucko: Good work, Lieutenant! Send the B-52's.
Lt. G.W.O. Bush III: Won't be a love shack for long ...
All: [Laughing heartily.]

Is our military really this stupid? From the article to which I provided a link above: "The bombing took place just after a detailed review by Pentagon and Red Cross officials of the places where the relief agency has installations in Afghanistan. That meeting, which followed the first bombing of the Red Cross compound, was designed to prevent exactly what happened today."

Think about these Red Cross employees. The Taliban has raided several of their buildings and confiscated supplies. The United States has worked to garner support by dropping leaflets that show an Afghan shaking hands with an American soldier; then, the U.S. destroys a major lifeline to civilians. All of this comes as a harsh winter approaches.

These planes did not miss their targets. (That is not entirely true. One plane misjudged its objective and struck a residential neighborhood.) The Pentagon's official response? It "sincerely regrets" the outcome.

Sincerely regrets? Your honor, I know I was just released last week and was told not to shoot the bullets at the old man in the wheelchair, but it was an accident this time. Again. I sincerely regret what happened.

And it wasn't just one burst of a mistake -- it came in two waves. One before sunrise, and another before noon. Did they bother to look at the buildings? From the article: "As was the case in the previous incident, [the Red Cross] said the buildings had been marked with large red crosses on white backgrounds, about 10 yards square, on each roof."

Where is the "evil one" that G.W. Bush keeps blabbing about? Was this the hole we were gunna smoke'm out of? This series of episodes helps me to understand how foreigners could view the United States as a trigger-happy entity. I realize there are civilian casualties in any war -- and I know that no one was killed during this bombing of the Red Cross site -- but there's something unnerving about repeated destructive mistakes at a major source of relief to the Afghan people.

2001-10-26T22:40:00.000-04:00

I tripped over another Ryan Cormier. Strange as it may seem that this one also was the editor-in-chief of his school's newspaper, the article you'll read could very well have come from the Delaware Cormier's mouth. (Albeit in a less eloquent form.)

Come to think of it, maybe this is the Cormier I know. Consider these highlights of the author's comments regarding several foreign beers:
“This stuff goes down like Kool-Aid.”
“I can’t believe we were colonized by a country that drinks this crap.”
“Stupid Communist beer.”
“My pen’s out of ink.”

After laughing until you pee, visit Ryan's site.

2001-10-25T16:59:00.000-04:00

I wrote a detailed explanation of the new additions to my "Worth your click" index at the left, but the posting program decided to swallow it. (Or spit. I'm not sure.) Instead, here's another picture for you to see.

2001-10-23T20:45:00.000-04:00

Here's a well-put statement in an editorial cartoon from the Arizona Republic. While you're there, check out the artist's Diamondbacks-related drawings.

2001-10-23T17:14:00.000-04:00

Something silly I saw last night.

2001-10-23T15:37:00.000-04:00

H to the izz-O, V to the izz-A.
Fo' shizzle my nizzle used to dribble down in V-A.

Want to know what it means? [Randi showed me.]

2001-10-23T04:23:00.000-04:00

Last Friday, I went to an exhibit in SoHo called "This Is New York." It's a collection of photographs taken by a large number of people -- amateurs and professionals alike -- before, during and after the World Trade Center was hit. As I seem to do quite often these days, I'll refer you to my post at Photographica. More info is there.

And, while I'm here, I might as well say how glad I am to see Curt Schilling in the World Series again. Granted, he's no longer a Phillie, but he was helping his old team scout West Division batters during the regular season -- he shared parts of his immense computer catalog of batters' tendencies -- and besides, he's my only link to the Series. Incidentally, today (Tuesday) is the eighth anniversary of Joe Carter's Series-ending home run off of Mitch Williams, the heart(ache) of the 1993 Phils.

So, Curt, as much as I dislike the idea of a fourth-year Arizona franchise advancing to the World Series, I'm pulling for you and that gangly fellow thrower of yours, Randy Johnson. Your manager may be a rookie who is dimwitted at times -- remember the brilliant suicide squeeze play that backfired in Game 5 of the division series against St. Louis? -- and your next opponents, the Yankees, may seem predestined to win it all, but you've got a distinct chance because of this schmuck in Hoboken. And if you suck on the mound -- wait, that sounds bad -- I'll fix the box score so that you go down in the books with great numbers.

Zooma zooma, I'm tired. Thanks, Ryan, for passing word of Leonard Cohen's "Ten New Songs" -- I downloaded it and now am feeling the approach of a coma.

2001-10-20T16:52:00.000-04:00

If you'd like to see what I saw on Thursday, go here. Be sure to post your thoughts.

2001-10-19T21:49:00.000-04:00

Last night, I hung out with a guy who has lived on my floor since March. We'd talked in the stairwell before, but we hadn't gotten together for that beer we spoke about. With the Yankees playing in Game 2 of the American League Championship Series, I figured a sports bar would be a good place to have a Yuengling or four. And, since he's from Switzerland and has no knowledge of baseball's ways, it provided a good opportunity to explain how it works.

It turned out to be a good game -- Yanks beat Seattle, 3-2 -- and it featured an excellent catch in center field (by a Mariner) and a bonehead fumble in center field (by a Yankee). It's challenging to have to explain the purpose of the pitch count -- that 3-2 means three balls and two strikes -- and, to boot, to have to explain what, exactly, is a ball or a strike.

We watched the game on the gargantuan screen that hangs from the ceiling at the Black Bear on Washington Street. (Plentiful in attractive women, by the way.) And, once the final out was secured, the DJ cued Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York," just as they play after victories at Yankee Stadium. The whole drunken bar offered its rendition.

So, several beers and good conversation made for a quality night. We tossed around ideas of how to exploit his accent while flirting with girls. He may opt to sound especially primitive with his English, which would be a spectacular tactic. I, meanwhile, may take on the guise of a German who recently moved to the U.S. (He can tutor me on the details -- he lived in Germany for a time.) One of us will be the pilot, the other a wingman. Tonight may be the first test of our proposition -- we're going to meet up in the city after I get out of work.

How's this: "Ah, Hallo, mine friend -- would you to please show me the time of clock?"

I'm going to have a girl on each arm.

I love "Fight Club," and today I finally bought the original book. The first chapter already showed differences from the movie. And what's weird is that it includes a description of how the tallest building in the world is about to topple. Nothing to do with the World Trade Center, but eery nonetheless.

2001-10-19T21:22:00.000-04:00

We've all heard of the Cub Scout tradition called the Pinewood Derby. We know of soapbox races and go-kart contests. Here is a brief note that includes pictures from an outhouse race. No joke. They makes outhouses, put wheels on them and race them down a hill.

Shit, yeah.

I'm still moving at the end of this month, but not to the apartment four blocks away that I mentioned last week. My new roommates and I will invade and colonize a large two-bedroom apartment that rests one floor below my current residence. It has an enormous living room and also a dining room, which we'll convert into the third bedroom. Due to the place's size, I may not have to get rid of some pieces of furniture that I figured I'd have to let go. (To those who inquired, I'll let you know if the situation changes. And, just for the hell of it, I'll still send a photo of the couch.)

My knowledge of independent bands is limited. To be precise, it is negligent. And the group I've been listening to non-stop for the past two days isn't even on an independent label -- they're signed with RCA. But they're less than pop (for now). One of you has already mentioned this group on your page, but I saw that after I formed this opinion.

The band is called "The Strokes." They're based in Manhattan -- used to sell out regularly at downtown venues -- but their music began spreading after they released a single in the U.K. It rose to No. 16 there, and they recently debuted in the U.S. with a full album.

I ran across a video for "Last Night" on MTV, and I dug it. So, I logged onto BearShare and downloaded the album. I haven't stopped listening to it. They've got a unique sound, and it's edgy enough so that it doesn't feel like pop music (which I don't particularly like). But they'll be huge in the near future. Trust me. Check out "New York City Cops." That's a cool tune. Also, "Barely Legal."

The preceding was a paid advertisement for the band I just talked about. They dress like they're from the '70s and '80s.

2001-10-17T02:40:00.000-04:00

Another post for you to see. (You may remember these.)

2001-10-16T05:04:00.000-04:00

Please visit my most recent post at Photographica.

2001-10-16T03:57:00.000-04:00

The future of war coverage, as you may have heard, will rely heavily on the use of videophones. The networks applaud them because of their mobility, but the quality of the images is notably lacking. As an example, I've captured a frame from CNN's exclusive Jalalabad broadcast.

2001-10-15T23:09:00.000-04:00

Mister, won't you please help my pony? He's over there, behind the tree.

2001-10-15T17:37:00.000-04:00

This morning, I stopped at the A&P to buy some groceries and to expunge my apartment of the 3.5 cubic tons of spare change I had atop my dresser and in a Country Time lemonade container on the fridge. I knew I had a lot of coins -- they've decorated my place for the past year -- but I didn't imagine they'd add up to this: $115.02. And that's after the 8.9 percent charge for the machine's service.

If anyone tells you that spare change doesn't matter, refer him or her to me.

2001-10-15T15:45:00.000-04:00

Two new posts at Photographica.

2001-10-13T00:53:00.000-04:00

Below, you'll find a vignette I wrote three days after the collapse of the Twin Towers. It was intended for a collection of brief staff-written accounts that appeared in that Sunday's paper, but for whatever reason -- a lack of space, the last-minute filing of the story due to my awkward schedule, or simply being of lesser quality than the many magnificent tales -- it remained in electronic limbo. Because I ran across it tonight, here it is:

Across the Hudson River in Hoboken, N.J., a sense of detached helplessness wandered the streets on Tuesday. The upper portions of the World Trade Center towers were visible from here. On a hazy day, the New York skyline looks like a painting, as viewed from the park on Pier A. The outlines of the buildings are defined, and taxis are visible as they move along the West Side Highway, but the scene almost seems two-dimensional, as if it were the set for a grand play.

The smoke, curling toward the sky in black fury, altered that. Pier A was blocked off, but from nearby rooftops it looked much the same -- bright flames climbing from the gaping holes, dark clouds choking the sky. The television showed the collapse, but from a mile away, the eyes disagreed. The towers seemed to remain standing for most of the day, hiding behind the dark cloak of soot that continued to rise. Surely, the reports were mistaken. The tall blackness would recede, and the towers would emerge.

At dawn on Wednesday, a man rolled his child in a stroller to the edge of the park. The orange rays of the sun glanced off the sides of downtown buildings. The man squatted, leaned toward his child and pointed at the smokey void.

2001-10-12T21:33:00.000-04:00

For those of you interested in the newsroom's reaction to today's anthrax threat at The New York Times, I've provided an intra-office e-mail that we all received this afternoon. The mood, at least up here on the fourth floor, is lighthearted and relaxed. Still, security is amplified and mail distribution has been suspended. Read on:

Subject: Message from Arthur, Russ, Janet, Howell and Cindy
Date: Fri, 12 Oct 2001 18:28:48 -0400

Dear Colleagues,

We want to bring you up to date about the situation in the Times
headquarters building.

As you know, this morning our reporter Judy Miller received an
envelope that contained a white powdery substance. The appropriate
authorities were called in and the letter has been taken for testing.
While the likelihood is that this is simply a hoax, we and the authorities
are taking the matter very seriously, particularly given the situation at
NBC. The NYPD, the City Health Department and the FBI have all responded
and the Mayor has called to make certain that matters are under control and
being well handled.

Since the envelope was opened in the newsroom, the City's Health
Department, which has jurisdiction, has decided that Judy and approximately
24 individuals who were in the immediate area should be tested and started
on prophylactic antibiotics. Howell will be having an additional meeting
with the newsroom staff to make certain that they receive a detailed
briefing on that topic. The Health Department has told us and the Mayor's
office has confirmed that, for now, no other individuals need be tested or
put on medication. Initial laboratory results should be available Saturday
and we will announce the results promptly. Even if these turn out to be
negative, as we anticipate, further tests to confirm this result will be
done, including tests done by the Center for Disease Control. All of
these tests will likely take several days. In the event that we get a
positive result at any point in the testing-- which we don't anticipate--
further medical action would be taken promptly by the Health Department.
Again, we'll make this information available immediately.

If, notwithstanding the advice of these health officials, you feel
that you should take more aggressive medical action at this time, you
should contact your personal physician.

To keep you informed of test results or other medical information we
will communicate with you in a variety of ways: We will send out broadcast
e-mails and broadcast voice mails to all e-mail addresses and phones in the
building. You can also call into the following number - 212- 556- **** to
get the same information.

With respect to opening regular mail: we will continue to x-ray all
mail and packages, but obviously that does not prevent incidents like
today's. Therefore in the future, any suspicious mail that you receive,
including any mail that does not have a recognizable return address should
be turned over to the security department and not opened. Call the
security department and they will take it from you. The letter that was
received by Judy Miller was postmarked from St. Petersburg, Florida. Please
do not open any mail with that postmark unless you are certain that you
know the person who is sending it, and that it otherwise does not appear to
be out of the ordinary. More detailed instructions on these and other
precautions will be forthcoming.

As you know, we are gathering all of your telephone numbers and the
floors you were on today. Please do not leave the building without ensuring
that we have that information.

We will keep you informed throughout the weekend and next week.

Arthur Russ Janet Howell Cindy

2001-10-12T20:55:00.000-04:00

Through MediaNews, I found the following item:

On Tuesday, Oct. 2, Jay T. Harris, the former publisher of the San Jose Mercury News, spoke to journalism students at San Francisco State University in a speech titled, "Making the Economic Case for Diversity."

--- This is the final question on the transcript of the speech. ---

Q: What is the story that you are most proud of?

A: Always what first pops into my mind was the first time I saw a story I wrote make a
difference in someone's life. I was in Wilmington, Delaware. A woman in the community got
her electricity turned off by accident. I wrote about it and her electricity had gotten turned back
on. While I had written bigger stories with a broader impact that really confirmed for me for
the first time that doing journalism can actually have an impact on people living in our
communities.

2001-10-11T02:42:00.000-04:00

More postings at Photographica:

A college roommate's wedding.
Several photographs taken during the past few weeks.

2001-10-10T04:45:00.000-04:00

Last thing, and then to bed. Two of the many recent Web searches that have led folks to my site:

danny almonte shirtless
home made bombs

I'm not sure which scares me more.

2001-10-10T04:27:00.000-04:00

At long last, I'm back at Photographica. Visit, peruse and enjoy.

2001-10-08T18:46:00.000-04:00

A few items from my life, major and minor, that are changing:

1> Beginning tomorrow, the Sports section here at The Times will appear inverted, attached to the Metro section. Basically, you'll pick up the Metro section -- labeled "D," most likely -- and flip the bottom to the top. What would have appeared upside down on the back page then becomes the front of a "separate" section -- labeled "S" for "So Fancy." This way, we can more easily use color on the front page, and we actually get a front page. It'll be like this for the foreseeable future, on account of the stuff that's happening in the mountains overseas.

This, of course, is not entirely foreign to me or my cronies from "The Review." There, the Sports section appeared for quite a while on the back of the second section. It wasn't inverted, though -- you had to turn pages in the opposite direction as in the rest of the paper.

Tomorrow, somewhere in the subways, a pretty woman will be reading the Metro section, and a man opposite from her will be turning his head to get an easier read of the Sports section. He will be slapped.

2> By this time in November, I likely will have moved into an apartment four blocks from my current place at First and Washington. This new place isn't really new at all -- two guys live there, and a third is moving out. I'll be taking his place. It'll save me a good $500 or so per month on rent, but more importantly, it'll allow me to meet new people, which has been difficult given my schedule and my one-bedroom residence.

I'm quite nervous about this whole thing. I met the guys through an ad, and they seem like fun to hang out with. But living alone for two years, having all of that privacy and freedom to do whatever, whenever, whereever with whomever -- it's a big change to move into a place with two relative strangers. I'm going on the hope that we'll get along well, and that through them I'll meet at least a few others who will become friends. (Last year, on the St. Patrick's Day parade along Washington Street in Hoboken, these guys had about 30 people in their apartment and on the rooftop.)

I think this is an attempt to reclaim a bit of the roommate camaraderie that college life fosters. I know far more people who have roommates than who don't. For two years, though, I haven't. And for someone who has always had someone either in the same bedroom or the same house, that's difficult. There is time for me to have my own apartment with all of my own things. Right now, though, isn't that time.

... Which brings me to say that there will be a few things I may sell for reasonable prices -- a couch, maybe a kitchen table with four chairs. If you're interested, e-mail me.

2001-10-06T00:13:00.000-04:00

Tonight, Barry Bonds of the San Francisco Giants hit his 71st home run of the season. From the East Coast, from New York City (and, I'm guessing, from most everywhere outside of the Bay Area), the first-inning stroke was anticlimactic.

Here was a man who hadn't hit more than 49 home runs in a season before this one began. Throughout Bonds's career, he has earned the distinction of the prototypically selfish athlete. His own teammates are slow to find kind words on his behalf.

They were there last night, though. The Giants rose from their dugout at Pacific Bell Park and dashed toward home plate like metallic snowflakes jerked by a magnet's pull. The single-season home run record has a tendency, at its culmination, to unite opposing forces -- revisit Mickey Mantle supporting his teammate and challenger, Roger Maris, as the 1961 season waned; recall Sammy Sosa embracing Mark McGwire just three years ago. Likewise, Bonds has melded with his teammates and fans during this chase.

The half-life of this once incredible feat, however, seems to have gotten lost somewhere between New York and San Francisco. Babe Ruth hit 60 in 1927, more than most teams produced that season. "Sixty, count 'em! Sixty!" he said. "Let's see some son of a bitch beat that!"

It took 34 years before Maris hit No. 61, and for years afterward the public's perception of the new record was tinted by the vise of the eight additional games that Maris had to accomplish the distinction. (Maris played in a 162-game schedule; Ruth's was 154.)

Thirty-seven years later, McGwire and Sosa surpassed Maris. Sosa finished with 66. McGwire amassed 70. The 1998 baseball season grabbed the country and rattled its bones. The celebrations after McGwire hit Nos. 62 through 70 were -- and most home runs before them -- were gargantuan. It had the feel, even from the living room television set, of a lifetime achievement.

Three years, and it is gone. As I write this, Bonds has hit No. 72. The senses are dulled. People are celebrating in San Francisco, and, surely, in scattered places throughout the country. But the single-season home run record has lost its luster. In 1998, Babe Ruth was second on the list. In 2001, he is eighth. McGwire holds two of those spots; Sosa holds three.

What strikes me most about tonight is not that Bonds hit his 71st and 72nd home runs. It is that Sosa hit his 62nd and hardly created a ripple. Here at The New York Times, the story has been relegated to the third string of the National League roundup, behind the accounts of Atlanta and Arizona clinching their division titles. An editor in the sports department made a comment that baffled me with its plain truth -- Sosa has hit more than 60 home runs three times, and he has not won a home-run title.

2001-09-23T01:46:00.000-04:00

Recent search strings that led to The Writer's Bloc:

pictures bin laden comedy
bin laden and the sopranos
Tamim Ansary AND Afghanistan
Sopranos and Bin Laden
pictures of American soldiers leaving their families September 2001
jon stewart transcript world trade center
"John R. MacArthur" news flag
Golden Boy Mpeg

... and, my favorite, ...
Osama Bin Shithead

2001-09-22T02:42:00.000-04:00

I didn't get to see the return of The Daily Show this week, but Comedy Central's Web site provides a transcript of Jon Stewart's opening monologue and links to the video.

Also, out of pure curiosity, who from the University of Maryland is looking for me? That person, and one other, searched for me by name. Who be it?