Let me just say before I begin that my brother is actually my hero. He’s going to take a bit of a beating in this post, and I didn’t exactly make him look great when I mentioned him yesterday, but trust me when I say he’s been good to me. For every bit of torture he’s visited on me throughout my life, he’s done 10 things for me that were nicer than I deserved. This is, after all, the guy who let me live with him for a FEW MONTHS after I graduated from college and moved to New York. And believe me when I say that as a younger sister, I was no picnic.
But that won’t stop me from telling this story.
OK, as promised, the time my brother almost killed me:
So, it was my brother’s sophomore year of college. He went to school in the northeast, and it was an easy few hour drive to get there from our house. I was 15 years old at the time and was pretty comfortable with his friends and the school in general – he played soccer in college, and we would go up occasionally to watch his games. So when my brother offered to have me come up for the weekend and stay with him, my parents didn’t hesitate. I would be fine. My brother would keep an eye on me.
My parents even decided to make a weekend out of it themselves. They drove me up on Saturday, dropped me off with my brother, and went off to spend the night at a nearby hotel.
Meanwhile, my brother took me for a walk around campus. We went out to lunch, met up with some of his friends – basically took it easy. However, it just so happened to be Hell Week at his fraternity. That meant he needed to keep me entertained for about an hour or two early in the evening while he did something with the pledges (I’m assuming there was torture involved, but whatever). Anyway, since my brother lived in his fraternity house, I needed to be out of the way, too. So how did my brother choose to keep me occupied?
Well, he dropped me off with a group of his fraternity brothers of course (who I guess didn’t have to be there for the pledge torturing). And since he couldn’t just drop me off empty-handed, he dropped me off with a brand new bottle of Rumplemintz. (Stupid me, I had complained that I didn’t like the wheat beer he was going to send me with – I’m a moron).
Now for those of you who don’t know, Rumplemintz is a 100 proof peppermint liqueur. It tastes yummy – and it goes down smooth. But it will kick your ass so fast, a novice drinker shouldn’t be allowed near the stuff. You give a lightweight something like Dr. McGillicutty’s, not Rumplemintz. Apparently, my brother didn’t know this rule.
So there I was, in a room with 5 of my brother’s friends. All big guys who knew how to drink. And me. So what did they do? Did they take pity on me? Did they ease me into the whole drinking thing? Nah, they put out shot glasses for everyone, provoked me by saying that I couldn’t match them shot for shot, and began pouring the Rumplemintz. Now today I would know enough not to take that challenge. When I was 15? I jumped right on in.
By the time my brother returned to pick me up, we had finished the bottle. The 6 of us had finished the bottle. I’d had just as much as each of the guys. And I was fucking hammered. My brother didn’t seem too concerned though. It was all part of the college experience.
So off we went back to his room. This time when he offered it, I didn’t mind the wheat beer. After all, I’d fried my taste buds almost an hour earlier. Why the fuck not accept more alcohol?
I don’t actually remember ever going out to dinner at this point, but my brother assures me we did. And when we returned to his frat, they were having a party. Of course they were having a party – as if I wasn’t already screwed, let’s NOW start to party.
It’s only fair to let you know that from this point on, everything that you’re hearing probably happened. Why only probably? Well, because I don’t remember much more than snippets from the rest of that night – flashes of lucidity if you will. Thanks to those snippets, and the stories I’ve been told by my brother and his friends, I’ve come up with this rough approximation of what happened.
At some point, after drinking more beer in my brother’s room with yet more of his friends, we ventured over to someone’s room. As we arrived, it seems that I missed the fact that there was a couch in the middle of the room and took a face-plant over it. But no big deal! I was fine. Happens to everybody. Let’s go downstairs and party!
Um, it would seem that at this point I had a bit of trouble with the stairs (I know – shocking), but since I had several guys “watching out for me,” I made it down to the party. Because I’m a rockstar!
Apparently the party turned out to be “boring.” This, coupled with the fact that I was doing some unauthorized flirting (never flirt in front of your brother – it’s guaranteed not to go over well), meant that we were moving on to a friend’s house. Fine by me. Whatever!
Only the whole walking thing wasn’t getting any easier for me. As we left the fraternity house, we turned at the end of the front walk and I kind of lost my balance. Thankfully, there were some bushes there to catch me. And it was while I was lying in said bushes (and yes, there was a crowd gathering at this point), this conversation took place:
Brother’s friend: Dude, I don’t think she’s okay to keep partying.
Brother: Really?
Yes, really.
So being the good guys that they were, they brought me back to my brother’s room. They deposited on the couch, gave me a garbage can, and left (which I was actually grateful for; no need for an audience at that point).
I remember very little after that – I do remember feeling like I was dying. I remember getting sick – repeatedly. And I remember coming to at some point and seeing not one, but two pledges passed out in the room with me. I’m guessing it was time for that audience.
The next morning, my brother somehow woke me up (which, looking back, was a miracle). We were late. Late for what, you ask? Late for brunch at my parent’s hotel, of course! Awesome. Just what I needed – food.
Taking one look at the garbage can, my brother walked over to his dresser, grabbed an empty garbage bag, and came over to wrap it around the outside of the can.
Me: (Mumbling. Mortified) Do you want me to clean it or something?
Brother: Nope, this one is dead. I’d really rather just buy another.
Yup. My sentiments exactly.
It took my parents all of a minute to realize the shape I was in. Not that it would have taken a genius at that point. I was green. I kept bolting for the bathroom. And I couldn’t have eaten if my life depended on it.
But did my brother feel bad? Hell no. He taunted me all throughout the meal.
In between laughingly recounting the story of the night before, he kept taking his plate of bacon and eggs and waving it in front of my nose. I mean, he had no shame. (My parents particularly liked the story of my trip into the bushes by the way.) He was cruel – and I’m more than annoyed that I’ve never been able to repay him for that. Yet somehow I made it through the meal.
Anyway, to wrap things up, the trip back to New Jersey was no fun. The fact that I threw up for 3 days after that – also no fun. And that fact that I’m ruined for life – to this day I can’t swallow anything that is liquid and minty (goodbye Scope mouthwash) – not fun at all.
In fact, years later on my 21st birthday, I was doing the rounds to all the bars in town. People were buying me shots everywhere. And at some point someone got me a shot of Dr. McGillicutty’s. The second I swallowed it – game over. It went down, I experienced a full body shudder, and let’s just say the night ended right there.
BUT, I can say that since then, I have never allowed myself to get that sick from drinking. Sick, yes. THAT SICK, no fucking way. So that’s something positive. Right?
As for my brother, his take on that night (hindsight being 20/20): “I probably should have taken you to the hospital. It was clearly alcohol poisoning…ah well.”
Yup. That’s my brother. Jesus.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Drinking with the Family
So my phone rings on Saturday morning, and it’s my mother. She has been asking me all week to come into Jersey for Saturday night dinner, and she had finally reached the end of her line. This is a woman who knows how to push and prod, and if need be she can lay on the guilt with the best of them.
I heard every argument she could come up with. There was 1) I needed to see the house (they’re in the middle of putting another addition on it), 2) I needed to see the dog (always an effective argument since I love our dog and she’s ridiculously cute), 3) my brother and his wife might come out with my nephews (a blatant lie since my brother’s out of town this weekend and I knew that, but I respected her effort), 4) I haven’t been out in over a month and my father missed me (a whole month!), 5) she would drive me into Jersey so I wouldn’t have to deal with Penn Station (a good argument actually since I’m lazy), 6) we would go for a manicure/pedicure at this great place that I like (and she would pay), and finally 7) my parents would take me to dinner at this restaurant they know I love.
All in all, I didn’t have a fighting chance. I am the child that can always be dragged home. So I took her up on the ride, got my nails done, didn’t see my brother, his wife, or my nephews, did see the house (why does it keep getting bigger now that all the kids are gone?), did see the dog (cuter than ever – got to love boxers), did see my father, and did go out to dinner where I proceeded to get drunk with my parents.
Now that may seem strange to some people, but you just need to know my parents. They are more fun than most of my friends, and I always have a good time with them. In fact, when my entire family gets together, it’s a guaranteed party. The first few times in my life that I got drunk, my family was right there. Sad but true. And while they didn’t often approve (well, except for my brother who was behind my worst offenses), they always got a good laugh out of it later.
Let’s just say that the first time I ever got drunk I did it spectacularly. I embarrassed everyone, and I did it in front of a large crowd. But that’s a story you won’t be getting. It’s reserved to holidays and my family’s first meetings with my boyfriends – kind of a way to check the guy’s sense of humor (and a way to humiliate me). It’s a multi-purpose story!
Anyway, as I dragged my ass back into Manhattan on Sunday, still recovering from the night before, I started thinking (amazing considering I was hungover). Not about how much I’ve matured (because that doesn’t seem to be happening), but about my family. They’re a cool group. My mom is chill, too sweet for words, ridiculously forgetful, and without a doubt my best friend (all together now…awww). She couldn’t care less about sports, but watches Sportscenter and reads the sports section of the paper every day. She does this because I care. Now she undoubtedly knows more about the Yankees than most fans. It’s adorable since she can’t sit through a game without mentioning how bored she is.
My dad is the serious one. Freakishly smart (I want to know how I didn’t get that gene), totally incapable of having a conversation with me when I clearly have no point (which is basically always), and sneaky funny. He is the stoic one who never shows emotion while my mother will cry at a really sweet commercial. But my dad and I get each other. We have always found the same things funny.
My sister is also serious (like my father), takes care of everyone (oldest child syndrome), but is also all sweet and emotional (like my mother). In fact, once she outgrew the whole torturing me thing, she was awesome. She always tried to keep me out of trouble.
Now my brother, he always seemed to get me into trouble. He may be a father now, but he is still the guy who crazy-glued my hands together and then bet me five bucks that I couldn’t pull them apart (my mom didn’t let him collect after we ended up in the hospital). This is the guy who orchestrated my first drunken night (see above story that won’t actually be told). This is the guy who also almost killed me when I went to visit him in college (without actually meaning to, but let’s not split hairs here).
And that is the story that I’m willing to tell. Tomorrow.
I heard every argument she could come up with. There was 1) I needed to see the house (they’re in the middle of putting another addition on it), 2) I needed to see the dog (always an effective argument since I love our dog and she’s ridiculously cute), 3) my brother and his wife might come out with my nephews (a blatant lie since my brother’s out of town this weekend and I knew that, but I respected her effort), 4) I haven’t been out in over a month and my father missed me (a whole month!), 5) she would drive me into Jersey so I wouldn’t have to deal with Penn Station (a good argument actually since I’m lazy), 6) we would go for a manicure/pedicure at this great place that I like (and she would pay), and finally 7) my parents would take me to dinner at this restaurant they know I love.
All in all, I didn’t have a fighting chance. I am the child that can always be dragged home. So I took her up on the ride, got my nails done, didn’t see my brother, his wife, or my nephews, did see the house (why does it keep getting bigger now that all the kids are gone?), did see the dog (cuter than ever – got to love boxers), did see my father, and did go out to dinner where I proceeded to get drunk with my parents.
Now that may seem strange to some people, but you just need to know my parents. They are more fun than most of my friends, and I always have a good time with them. In fact, when my entire family gets together, it’s a guaranteed party. The first few times in my life that I got drunk, my family was right there. Sad but true. And while they didn’t often approve (well, except for my brother who was behind my worst offenses), they always got a good laugh out of it later.
Let’s just say that the first time I ever got drunk I did it spectacularly. I embarrassed everyone, and I did it in front of a large crowd. But that’s a story you won’t be getting. It’s reserved to holidays and my family’s first meetings with my boyfriends – kind of a way to check the guy’s sense of humor (and a way to humiliate me). It’s a multi-purpose story!
Anyway, as I dragged my ass back into Manhattan on Sunday, still recovering from the night before, I started thinking (amazing considering I was hungover). Not about how much I’ve matured (because that doesn’t seem to be happening), but about my family. They’re a cool group. My mom is chill, too sweet for words, ridiculously forgetful, and without a doubt my best friend (all together now…awww). She couldn’t care less about sports, but watches Sportscenter and reads the sports section of the paper every day. She does this because I care. Now she undoubtedly knows more about the Yankees than most fans. It’s adorable since she can’t sit through a game without mentioning how bored she is.
My dad is the serious one. Freakishly smart (I want to know how I didn’t get that gene), totally incapable of having a conversation with me when I clearly have no point (which is basically always), and sneaky funny. He is the stoic one who never shows emotion while my mother will cry at a really sweet commercial. But my dad and I get each other. We have always found the same things funny.
My sister is also serious (like my father), takes care of everyone (oldest child syndrome), but is also all sweet and emotional (like my mother). In fact, once she outgrew the whole torturing me thing, she was awesome. She always tried to keep me out of trouble.
Now my brother, he always seemed to get me into trouble. He may be a father now, but he is still the guy who crazy-glued my hands together and then bet me five bucks that I couldn’t pull them apart (my mom didn’t let him collect after we ended up in the hospital). This is the guy who orchestrated my first drunken night (see above story that won’t actually be told). This is the guy who also almost killed me when I went to visit him in college (without actually meaning to, but let’s not split hairs here).
And that is the story that I’m willing to tell. Tomorrow.
Friday, March 9, 2007
My Wish List
Today is the day when I’m going to break down my wish list. More specifically, my wish list of men.
Guys do this all the time on their blogs (generally featuring women), and I’ve always appreciated the idea behind it – if not the actual photos (what can I say, I don’t swing that way). So I decided to give it a shot. I certainly have opinions on the subject, and searching for the photos to attach has proven to be well worth the time I’ve committed.
Let me warn everyone (who’s reading and just not commenting, right?), that they shouldn’t expect to see Orlando Bloom here – or anyone like him. He’s not my type. I like my men masculine, not pretty. The ability to grow a beard if he so chooses is a prerequisite. So if your taste goes that way, you may want to skip this post.
Oh, and one more thing. There are more than a few athletes that made the list. There are probably a lot of reasons for that, but mainly it’s because I like sports and I like men – you do the math. However, that does not mean it’s made up entirely of athletes (I’ll leave that job to the Ladies… site). I like to find my men everywhere, and I don’t follow rules very well.
Russell Crowe
Got to start off with the grand poobah for me. Russell Crowe can gain weight, lose weight, grow his hair, cut it off – I don’t care. He does it for me. His voice, his talent, those eyes. He can behave as badly as he wants, and I won’t mind. I have wanted him for about 10 years now – ever since I saw LA Confidential – and I wouldn’t be surprised if I still want him 10 years from now.
Colin Farrell
Continuing in the bad boy vein, I do like Colin Farrell. The accent is delicious, and I just know he would be a fun, fun time. He is the kind of guy you can go drinking with (well, before he went to rehab at least), go home with, and never see again with zero regrets. And those dark eyes give me the chills.
Clive Owen
He just works. Tall, dark, handsome. He sounds smart with the British accent, and he gives me the impression he would take care of me. Yum.
Eric Bana
Eric Bana and Brad Pitt’s ass were the only reasons to watch the movie Troy. But those two things were enough for me. Plus, there’s just something about Bana. He has a quality – a sort of cool guy confidence with just a touch of little boy vulnerability. He (almost) makes me want to cuddle.
Julian McMahon
Normally a little too polished for my taste, but I don’t care. I knew who McMahon was before he was starring on the show Nip/Tuck, but the more publicity he gets the better as far as I’m concerned. When I look at him, I just want to suck on his lower lip. That probably sounds weird, but it’s the truth.
Dominic Purcell
I’m mainly including him because I love the show Prison Break, but the other brother (the prettier one) doesn’t do it for me. Purcell is much sexier, and he never seems to get his due. So I’m giving it to him here.
OK, that makes 4 Australians on the list and 0 Americans so far. What gives? Well, nothing actually. I sincerely don’t have anything against American men (although I’m starting to think I should take a trip to Australia). Anyway, onto the athletes (the best part).
Mike Mussina
I’m a Yankees fan, so of course there’s at least one Yankee that I think of in a not-entirely-sports-related way. But surprise, it’s not Derek Jeter. For the past 6 years, I have really appreciated having Moose around. He’s hard working and talented (and not as whiny as my father insists he is), smart as hell (went to Stanford), sarcastic in a funny way (usually), and really, really, really nice to look at. I’ll keep him.
Mark Mulder
My other baseball crush isn’t a Yankee, but I overlook that fact for him. Mark Mulder has been a favorite of mine since he came up in Oakland, and every inch of his 6’6 body more than makes up for his inability to play for the right team. God I wish he was still in the AL.
Fredrik Ljungberg
Yeah, so I’ll admit this picture is cheesy, but look at him! Yes, I’ve always had a thing for soccer players, but he is my favorite (to look at). I could say it’s all about his face and body (and they are very, very nice), but in all honesty it’s the tattoo – it does bad things to my imagination.
John Lynch
Now I’m not a Broncos fan, but I’ve been a John Lynch fan for years. Outstanding safety? Yup. But I don’t really care about that. It’s his looks. And while I’ve heard he’s a nice guy (and seems like one in interviews), I don’t really care about that.
Alexander Popov
This one is an old school crush – I’ve liked Popov since high school; he had to make the list (even though I haven’t seen him competing in the last few years). And don’t even both asking why, just look at the picture. Got to love those swimmers.
Marat Safin
Tennis is one of those sports that I never seek out but always enjoy watching. And nothing makes me happier than to see Safin play; he just looks good out there. But enough of my amateur stylings, let’s let Wikipedia take it from here, “He is known for his large physical size, athleticism, controversial antics, and aggressive “power” style of play.” Perfect.
Alright, that’s it for now. As always, I need to get back to work.
Guys do this all the time on their blogs (generally featuring women), and I’ve always appreciated the idea behind it – if not the actual photos (what can I say, I don’t swing that way). So I decided to give it a shot. I certainly have opinions on the subject, and searching for the photos to attach has proven to be well worth the time I’ve committed.
Let me warn everyone (who’s reading and just not commenting, right?), that they shouldn’t expect to see Orlando Bloom here – or anyone like him. He’s not my type. I like my men masculine, not pretty. The ability to grow a beard if he so chooses is a prerequisite. So if your taste goes that way, you may want to skip this post.
Oh, and one more thing. There are more than a few athletes that made the list. There are probably a lot of reasons for that, but mainly it’s because I like sports and I like men – you do the math. However, that does not mean it’s made up entirely of athletes (I’ll leave that job to the Ladies… site). I like to find my men everywhere, and I don’t follow rules very well.
Russell Crowe
Got to start off with the grand poobah for me. Russell Crowe can gain weight, lose weight, grow his hair, cut it off – I don’t care. He does it for me. His voice, his talent, those eyes. He can behave as badly as he wants, and I won’t mind. I have wanted him for about 10 years now – ever since I saw LA Confidential – and I wouldn’t be surprised if I still want him 10 years from now.
Colin Farrell
Continuing in the bad boy vein, I do like Colin Farrell. The accent is delicious, and I just know he would be a fun, fun time. He is the kind of guy you can go drinking with (well, before he went to rehab at least), go home with, and never see again with zero regrets. And those dark eyes give me the chills.
Clive Owen
He just works. Tall, dark, handsome. He sounds smart with the British accent, and he gives me the impression he would take care of me. Yum.
Eric Bana
Eric Bana and Brad Pitt’s ass were the only reasons to watch the movie Troy. But those two things were enough for me. Plus, there’s just something about Bana. He has a quality – a sort of cool guy confidence with just a touch of little boy vulnerability. He (almost) makes me want to cuddle.
Julian McMahon
Normally a little too polished for my taste, but I don’t care. I knew who McMahon was before he was starring on the show Nip/Tuck, but the more publicity he gets the better as far as I’m concerned. When I look at him, I just want to suck on his lower lip. That probably sounds weird, but it’s the truth.
Dominic Purcell
I’m mainly including him because I love the show Prison Break, but the other brother (the prettier one) doesn’t do it for me. Purcell is much sexier, and he never seems to get his due. So I’m giving it to him here.
OK, that makes 4 Australians on the list and 0 Americans so far. What gives? Well, nothing actually. I sincerely don’t have anything against American men (although I’m starting to think I should take a trip to Australia). Anyway, onto the athletes (the best part).
Mike Mussina
I’m a Yankees fan, so of course there’s at least one Yankee that I think of in a not-entirely-sports-related way. But surprise, it’s not Derek Jeter. For the past 6 years, I have really appreciated having Moose around. He’s hard working and talented (and not as whiny as my father insists he is), smart as hell (went to Stanford), sarcastic in a funny way (usually), and really, really, really nice to look at. I’ll keep him.
Mark Mulder
My other baseball crush isn’t a Yankee, but I overlook that fact for him. Mark Mulder has been a favorite of mine since he came up in Oakland, and every inch of his 6’6 body more than makes up for his inability to play for the right team. God I wish he was still in the AL.
Fredrik Ljungberg
Yeah, so I’ll admit this picture is cheesy, but look at him! Yes, I’ve always had a thing for soccer players, but he is my favorite (to look at). I could say it’s all about his face and body (and they are very, very nice), but in all honesty it’s the tattoo – it does bad things to my imagination.
John Lynch
Now I’m not a Broncos fan, but I’ve been a John Lynch fan for years. Outstanding safety? Yup. But I don’t really care about that. It’s his looks. And while I’ve heard he’s a nice guy (and seems like one in interviews), I don’t really care about that.
Alexander Popov
This one is an old school crush – I’ve liked Popov since high school; he had to make the list (even though I haven’t seen him competing in the last few years). And don’t even both asking why, just look at the picture. Got to love those swimmers.
Marat Safin
Tennis is one of those sports that I never seek out but always enjoy watching. And nothing makes me happier than to see Safin play; he just looks good out there. But enough of my amateur stylings, let’s let Wikipedia take it from here, “He is known for his large physical size, athleticism, controversial antics, and aggressive “power” style of play.” Perfect.
Alright, that’s it for now. As always, I need to get back to work.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Last Night
Some quick thoughts on what I did last night (and then I really need to do some work – damn job).
So, I went to Gelf Magazine’s Varsity Letters at the Happy Ending Lounge. This particular bar is about 8 blocks from my office, so I knew there was no reason for me not to go – even though I couldn’t find one friend who was willing to go with me. But fuck it, I went anyway.
Last night’s theme was sports bloggers (I never saw it stated anywhere, but I’m guessing that’s right). And they had a particularly great group of guys lined up to speak – guys I read every day. They were reading some of their writing and answering questions. So, being a total sports dork – something I try to tone down here; we’ll see how long that actually lasts – I had known about this event for a little while. And I couldn’t stop myself from going.
I wandered over after work, slipped into the massage parlor turned bar, grabbed a scotch, and sat back to listen. It was packed. Someone told me Varsity Letters is not normally that popular, but thanks to a post on Deadspin by Will Leitch, who was one of the guys speaking last night, everyone and their mother showed up.
Now for those of you who don’t follow sports, or the sports blogging world (shame on you), Deadspin is kind of huge. And Leitch is the brains behind it. He created this blog a little over a year ago, and it has become an institution. Funny, constantly updated, has a great voice, and the commenters are first rate (not that I would know anything about commenters). I was definitely interested in hearing Leitch speak.
He didn’t disappoint. Reading just a snippet from his new book – which he promises will come out eventually and will (or, wait won’t) be called The Ballad of Ron Mexico, Leitch gave a Resources section/cliff notes overview of a few prominent sportscasters. Very smart and funny, which I already expected he would be.
What I didn’t expect was Matt Ufford. (I mean, I expected that he’d be there, but what he chose to read surprised me.) This is the guy behind some of my favorite at work reading – what can I say, I have a short attention span. His (now defunct) blog Karmic Payback was guaranteed entertainment; while not actually about sports, it was an invaluable look inside a man’s head that always made me laugh. I actually found Karmic Payback from the Kissing Suzy Kolber site (which I found from the Deadspin site – you can play this game for days), which is also a guaranteed laugh. But lately Ufford’s main job has been his With Leather site. And I’m not a huge fan of With Leather.
Why? Well, With Leather is a sports blog for guys, and I mean only guys. Blatantly not caring about a female audience, the site is definitely funny, but also definitely not aimed at me. Maybe it’s the pictures of women wearing…um, basically nothing, but I don’t get the feeling I’m wanted. Now I’m no prude, but I can take a hint.
But anyway, getting back on topic, last night I was expecting Ufford to be a guy’s guy, a showman, and a whore for a laugh. What I got was someone who came across as surprisingly deep – one of the pieces he chose to read was about 9/11 (he’s ex-military) – and (I can’t believe I’m going to say this) unexpectedly adorable. I was more than impressed.
Fuck, okay I’ve officially stepped over the line where this can be called “quick thoughts,” but I’ll leave with this: Dan Shanoff, who I never really liked that much from ESPN, was especially great (and Flowers for Algernon is one of my all-time favorite books – his piece was a parallel between his life and the book), and the guys from The Dugout were great (and everyone was psyched to have them there as they reigned from their booth in the back).
Overall, two thumbs up (good God I’m a dork). I would do it again. And now I will leave you with this photo of Ufford (on the left) and Leitch (on the right) – completely stolen off the Gelf site (photo courtesy of Keith Huang) – so you can have some sense of perspective about the people I’ve been talking about.
So, I went to Gelf Magazine’s Varsity Letters at the Happy Ending Lounge. This particular bar is about 8 blocks from my office, so I knew there was no reason for me not to go – even though I couldn’t find one friend who was willing to go with me. But fuck it, I went anyway.
Last night’s theme was sports bloggers (I never saw it stated anywhere, but I’m guessing that’s right). And they had a particularly great group of guys lined up to speak – guys I read every day. They were reading some of their writing and answering questions. So, being a total sports dork – something I try to tone down here; we’ll see how long that actually lasts – I had known about this event for a little while. And I couldn’t stop myself from going.
I wandered over after work, slipped into the massage parlor turned bar, grabbed a scotch, and sat back to listen. It was packed. Someone told me Varsity Letters is not normally that popular, but thanks to a post on Deadspin by Will Leitch, who was one of the guys speaking last night, everyone and their mother showed up.
Now for those of you who don’t follow sports, or the sports blogging world (shame on you), Deadspin is kind of huge. And Leitch is the brains behind it. He created this blog a little over a year ago, and it has become an institution. Funny, constantly updated, has a great voice, and the commenters are first rate (not that I would know anything about commenters). I was definitely interested in hearing Leitch speak.
He didn’t disappoint. Reading just a snippet from his new book – which he promises will come out eventually and will (or, wait won’t) be called The Ballad of Ron Mexico, Leitch gave a Resources section/cliff notes overview of a few prominent sportscasters. Very smart and funny, which I already expected he would be.
What I didn’t expect was Matt Ufford. (I mean, I expected that he’d be there, but what he chose to read surprised me.) This is the guy behind some of my favorite at work reading – what can I say, I have a short attention span. His (now defunct) blog Karmic Payback was guaranteed entertainment; while not actually about sports, it was an invaluable look inside a man’s head that always made me laugh. I actually found Karmic Payback from the Kissing Suzy Kolber site (which I found from the Deadspin site – you can play this game for days), which is also a guaranteed laugh. But lately Ufford’s main job has been his With Leather site. And I’m not a huge fan of With Leather.
Why? Well, With Leather is a sports blog for guys, and I mean only guys. Blatantly not caring about a female audience, the site is definitely funny, but also definitely not aimed at me. Maybe it’s the pictures of women wearing…um, basically nothing, but I don’t get the feeling I’m wanted. Now I’m no prude, but I can take a hint.
But anyway, getting back on topic, last night I was expecting Ufford to be a guy’s guy, a showman, and a whore for a laugh. What I got was someone who came across as surprisingly deep – one of the pieces he chose to read was about 9/11 (he’s ex-military) – and (I can’t believe I’m going to say this) unexpectedly adorable. I was more than impressed.
Fuck, okay I’ve officially stepped over the line where this can be called “quick thoughts,” but I’ll leave with this: Dan Shanoff, who I never really liked that much from ESPN, was especially great (and Flowers for Algernon is one of my all-time favorite books – his piece was a parallel between his life and the book), and the guys from The Dugout were great (and everyone was psyched to have them there as they reigned from their booth in the back).
Overall, two thumbs up (good God I’m a dork). I would do it again. And now I will leave you with this photo of Ufford (on the left) and Leitch (on the right) – completely stolen off the Gelf site (photo courtesy of Keith Huang) – so you can have some sense of perspective about the people I’ve been talking about.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Guys Don’t Like It When You Assume They’re Gay
OK, so I went out Saturday night with a few friends. Actually, that’s not true. I went out with one friend from high school (who’s the sweetest person I know), and her friends (who are a total bunch of losers). I mean, I had nothing to talk to these people about. They are musical theater to my baseball fan. They are Mike’s Hard Lemonade to my scotch on the rocks. They are Stevie Nicks (I’m not kidding, they had a lonnngggg conversation about how much they loved her) to my Metallica. So not surprisingly I quickly got tired of making fun of these people in my head. And I did what anyone would do – I called someone who would make fun of them with me (but quietly of course; it’s not like we’re bad people or anything).
My friend Christine was my roommate for 2 years in college. She just moved back to NY after spending a little over a year in Chicago, and we can practically guarantee a good time when we hang out. So it’s generally a safe bet whenever I drag her somewhere that it will be fun. But even so, when I called and said simply, “Get your ass over here,” she came without asking questions. That’s because she likes me. (Notice how I didn’t say she trusts me – she’s not stupid.)
Oh, I should probably also mention that she owes me. When a friend of hers from Bumblefuck, Wisconsin (real place) came to visit a while ago, I showed up and helped entertain the girl for an entire weekend. She was afraid of the subway. She didn’t like how much walking was involved. And she complained…a lot. But I hung in there because I’m cool. And because it’s always good to have friends who are indebted to you.
Anyway, Christine showed up – like an hour later – and was introduced to everybody. Immediately she turned to me with a ‘what the fuck?’ look. She knows me, and I can be lazy as hell on the weekends. I’d rather stay home than go out and pretend I’m having a good time. Practically everyone I know has gotten the “Yeah, I think I’d rather stay home than go out with you,” answer from me at least once. I don’t do it to be mean – I just tend to be painfully honest on occasion. So it was clear that Christine was wondering what I was even doing there. The short answer to that is I’d blown off my high school friend for about 6 months, and that’s a long time. Anyway, back to the story.
So after shrugging my shoulders at Christine, I bought her a drink as a kind of ‘my bad’ gesture, and we quickly settled into our usual banter – often offensive but generally good-natured. Only the group didn’t seem to find us funny. In fact, they seemed a little shocked. Which is stupid. It wasn’t like we were discussing our last trip to the gynecologist or anything.
Let me just say here that most people love us. Christine and I are laid back, have tons of great stories, and we’ll talk to anyone who’s mildly interesting. We’re not loud and obnoxious, we’re sarcastic and amusing. Only my friend from high school and her group didn’t seem to appreciate us. So Christine and I decided to branch out. And that’s where the real horror of the night began.
Soon enough a guy came over and started chatting with us. Only he was making a real effort to include the whole group and not just me and Christine. Which of course was fine, but no one can blame me for the conclusion I reached. See, he well dressed, soft-spoken, a little effeminate…gay, right? It made sense, since we had three (obviously) gay guys in our group. I mean, it’s not completely beyond the realm of possibility that he would be gay, right?
OK, I’m going to take a deep breath here and continue on with the story. (I’m dying of embarrassment right now.)
Anyway, Christine and I both tend to flirt when we’re out. So we were looking for some straight men. And after about an hour of New Guy (and the group from hell) we were relieved to see a cute group of guys enter the bar.
So upon catching eyes with them, we had this exchange:
Christine: (while looking over at the group) Let’s go say hi.
Me: Absolutely. They’re the first cute guys we’ve seen tonight. (realizing that New Guy looks hurt, I quickly explain) I mean they’re the first cute straight guys.
New Guy: (looking confused) I’m sorry?
Me: (getting a little confused and starting to blush and stammer) Um, you’re gay, right?
Christine: (choking)
New Guy: (deadly tone) I’m not gay. I’ve been hitting on you for the last hour.
Me: But you’re so…um…oh fuck.
It really went downhill from there. New Guy left in a huff. Christine started trying to explain the difference between the metrosexual and the gay man to me (while laughing hysterically). And I tried to explain that I knew the difference. That of course earned me the reply, “Doesn’t look like it.”
And now, days later, I’m still mortified. Christine won’t stop making fun of me – I get texts from her about twice a day saying things like “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” And every once in a while I get an email from her that reads simply, “Hee hee hee.”
Weirdest of all. I seem to have offended my high school friend’s friends. (Did that last sentence make sense?) I mean seriously, do these people have zero sense of humor? It’s not like I meant to offend anyone. Plus, at lease have the grace to rip on me for shoving my foot so far down my throat that a shoehorn couldn’t get it out. For fuck’s sake!
Anyway, the moral to this story - I’m a huge freaking spaz.
My friend Christine was my roommate for 2 years in college. She just moved back to NY after spending a little over a year in Chicago, and we can practically guarantee a good time when we hang out. So it’s generally a safe bet whenever I drag her somewhere that it will be fun. But even so, when I called and said simply, “Get your ass over here,” she came without asking questions. That’s because she likes me. (Notice how I didn’t say she trusts me – she’s not stupid.)
Oh, I should probably also mention that she owes me. When a friend of hers from Bumblefuck, Wisconsin (real place) came to visit a while ago, I showed up and helped entertain the girl for an entire weekend. She was afraid of the subway. She didn’t like how much walking was involved. And she complained…a lot. But I hung in there because I’m cool. And because it’s always good to have friends who are indebted to you.
Anyway, Christine showed up – like an hour later – and was introduced to everybody. Immediately she turned to me with a ‘what the fuck?’ look. She knows me, and I can be lazy as hell on the weekends. I’d rather stay home than go out and pretend I’m having a good time. Practically everyone I know has gotten the “Yeah, I think I’d rather stay home than go out with you,” answer from me at least once. I don’t do it to be mean – I just tend to be painfully honest on occasion. So it was clear that Christine was wondering what I was even doing there. The short answer to that is I’d blown off my high school friend for about 6 months, and that’s a long time. Anyway, back to the story.
So after shrugging my shoulders at Christine, I bought her a drink as a kind of ‘my bad’ gesture, and we quickly settled into our usual banter – often offensive but generally good-natured. Only the group didn’t seem to find us funny. In fact, they seemed a little shocked. Which is stupid. It wasn’t like we were discussing our last trip to the gynecologist or anything.
Let me just say here that most people love us. Christine and I are laid back, have tons of great stories, and we’ll talk to anyone who’s mildly interesting. We’re not loud and obnoxious, we’re sarcastic and amusing. Only my friend from high school and her group didn’t seem to appreciate us. So Christine and I decided to branch out. And that’s where the real horror of the night began.
Soon enough a guy came over and started chatting with us. Only he was making a real effort to include the whole group and not just me and Christine. Which of course was fine, but no one can blame me for the conclusion I reached. See, he well dressed, soft-spoken, a little effeminate…gay, right? It made sense, since we had three (obviously) gay guys in our group. I mean, it’s not completely beyond the realm of possibility that he would be gay, right?
OK, I’m going to take a deep breath here and continue on with the story. (I’m dying of embarrassment right now.)
Anyway, Christine and I both tend to flirt when we’re out. So we were looking for some straight men. And after about an hour of New Guy (and the group from hell) we were relieved to see a cute group of guys enter the bar.
So upon catching eyes with them, we had this exchange:
Christine: (while looking over at the group) Let’s go say hi.
Me: Absolutely. They’re the first cute guys we’ve seen tonight. (realizing that New Guy looks hurt, I quickly explain) I mean they’re the first cute straight guys.
New Guy: (looking confused) I’m sorry?
Me: (getting a little confused and starting to blush and stammer) Um, you’re gay, right?
Christine: (choking)
New Guy: (deadly tone) I’m not gay. I’ve been hitting on you for the last hour.
Me: But you’re so…um…oh fuck.
It really went downhill from there. New Guy left in a huff. Christine started trying to explain the difference between the metrosexual and the gay man to me (while laughing hysterically). And I tried to explain that I knew the difference. That of course earned me the reply, “Doesn’t look like it.”
And now, days later, I’m still mortified. Christine won’t stop making fun of me – I get texts from her about twice a day saying things like “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” And every once in a while I get an email from her that reads simply, “Hee hee hee.”
Weirdest of all. I seem to have offended my high school friend’s friends. (Did that last sentence make sense?) I mean seriously, do these people have zero sense of humor? It’s not like I meant to offend anyone. Plus, at lease have the grace to rip on me for shoving my foot so far down my throat that a shoehorn couldn’t get it out. For fuck’s sake!
Anyway, the moral to this story - I’m a huge freaking spaz.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Random Suggestion
If you ever want to test how cool a person is, I suggest playing them the Sublime song Date Rape. It’s on 40 oz. to Freedom. And while the song is undeniably offensive – in the best way possible – I guarantee it will tell you within a few minutes whether you’re dealing with a loser or not. (It’s all about the sense of humor.)
The first time I heard Date Rape, I had the classic reaction. I was talking to a friend of my then-boyfriend, and I wasn’t really paying attention to the music. Then it started to filter in, and I stopped talking mid-sentence to really listen. My mouth dropped open, and I didn’t move or say a word until the song was over. And when it was, I almost didn’t know how to react. I mean, what the hell? Did I really just hear that?
And then I started laughing. That had to be one of the craziest songs ever – and I fucking loved it! Immediately I told then-boyfriend to play it again. That (of course) meant I was cool – it’s always important for boyfriend’s to realize this as soon as possible. It also meant he was cool for playing it – and he was in a lot of ways (except for that whole sleeping with a stripper thing).
Anyway, I’m getting off topic. What I was saying was that Date Rape made me probably 10% horrified and 90% entertained/amused/fascinated. Basically, the awesomeness of Sublime spoke to the awesomeness in me.
So that’s how I judge people in my mind now. I ask myself if they would pass the Date Rape test. (That last sentence sounded really bad.)
Anyway, let’s just say that I went out with a bunch of people on Saturday night who wouldn’t have passed the test. More on that tomorrow.
The first time I heard Date Rape, I had the classic reaction. I was talking to a friend of my then-boyfriend, and I wasn’t really paying attention to the music. Then it started to filter in, and I stopped talking mid-sentence to really listen. My mouth dropped open, and I didn’t move or say a word until the song was over. And when it was, I almost didn’t know how to react. I mean, what the hell? Did I really just hear that?
And then I started laughing. That had to be one of the craziest songs ever – and I fucking loved it! Immediately I told then-boyfriend to play it again. That (of course) meant I was cool – it’s always important for boyfriend’s to realize this as soon as possible. It also meant he was cool for playing it – and he was in a lot of ways (except for that whole sleeping with a stripper thing).
Anyway, I’m getting off topic. What I was saying was that Date Rape made me probably 10% horrified and 90% entertained/amused/fascinated. Basically, the awesomeness of Sublime spoke to the awesomeness in me.
So that’s how I judge people in my mind now. I ask myself if they would pass the Date Rape test. (That last sentence sounded really bad.)
Anyway, let’s just say that I went out with a bunch of people on Saturday night who wouldn’t have passed the test. More on that tomorrow.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Confession
I’m kind of obsessed with this show on A&E called, “Dog the Bounty Hunter.” How did it start, you ask? Well, one day I was sitting around doing nothing on a Sunday – which pretty much describes most of my Sundays – and I was flipping through the channels on tv. As I came across A&E, the screen was suddenly filled with the sight of a guy wearing a leather vest, no shirt, tight pants, cowboy boots, and a long blonde mullet. Excellent, I thought, and stopped flipping.
As luck would have it, I had just tuned in during a “Dog the Bounty Hunter” marathon. And for the next few hours, I was transfixed. I didn’t change the channel once. Between Duane “Dog” Chapman (the guy I described above), his wife Beth – a rather large woman with dyed platinum blonde hair and WAAYYY too tight clothes, and his team of family members/friends, it really is too good to be true. This reality show follows them as they run around Hawaii arresting “fugitives from the law,” and talking about drugs and God. Occasionally they mace people. I’m almost giddy describing it. I mean, the person who thought of giving Dog his own show was a genius.
After all, bounty hunters are fun in general, but these guys…they’re outstanding. I can only describe the show as trashtastic. Because it is, in the best was way possible. I go out of my way to watch them every Tuesday night now. And I freely admit that. I’m not even slightly embarrassed about that.
But there’s one thing I won’t admit. It’s too upsetting. And if this blog wasn’t anonymous, I would never own up to it. But since it is, here goes:
I am totally attracted to Dog’s son, Leland. I mean, when I watch this show I find myself wanting this guy bad. And trust me when I tell you that’s upsetting.
Now you don’t really know me, so let me just say that this is out of character for me. I’m attracted to clean-cut guys. Long hair does not fly with me. And Leland has more than just long hair (which he braids on occasion), he has the long hair on top and shaved head from the ears down thing going on. He looks like he’s maybe 5’5. And he doesn’t strike me as the sharpest knife in the drawer. On top of all of this, his family is horrifying. But it doesn’t matter. When I watch the show, I want to * cough * him. In fact, the only thing he has going for him is the tattoos. He has some hot tattoos. (What can I say, I like clean-cut to a point.)
When I want to amuse myself, I imagine introducing Leland to my father. That would be…nope, there are no words for what that would be.
As for what my friends would think, let’s just say I would never live it down. But that’s okay, because they’re never going to find out. And while they would never even imagine something like this, if they did suspect something I would simply deny, deny, deny. I look at it like this: when you want your friend’s boyfriend, you never admit it. To anyone. Ever. For any reason. Maybe not even to yourself. And this is kind of like wanting your friend’s boyfriend. It only exists in the dark recesses of your mind. And maybe on your blog.
Until next time…
As luck would have it, I had just tuned in during a “Dog the Bounty Hunter” marathon. And for the next few hours, I was transfixed. I didn’t change the channel once. Between Duane “Dog” Chapman (the guy I described above), his wife Beth – a rather large woman with dyed platinum blonde hair and WAAYYY too tight clothes, and his team of family members/friends, it really is too good to be true. This reality show follows them as they run around Hawaii arresting “fugitives from the law,” and talking about drugs and God. Occasionally they mace people. I’m almost giddy describing it. I mean, the person who thought of giving Dog his own show was a genius.
After all, bounty hunters are fun in general, but these guys…they’re outstanding. I can only describe the show as trashtastic. Because it is, in the best was way possible. I go out of my way to watch them every Tuesday night now. And I freely admit that. I’m not even slightly embarrassed about that.
But there’s one thing I won’t admit. It’s too upsetting. And if this blog wasn’t anonymous, I would never own up to it. But since it is, here goes:
I am totally attracted to Dog’s son, Leland. I mean, when I watch this show I find myself wanting this guy bad. And trust me when I tell you that’s upsetting.
Now you don’t really know me, so let me just say that this is out of character for me. I’m attracted to clean-cut guys. Long hair does not fly with me. And Leland has more than just long hair (which he braids on occasion), he has the long hair on top and shaved head from the ears down thing going on. He looks like he’s maybe 5’5. And he doesn’t strike me as the sharpest knife in the drawer. On top of all of this, his family is horrifying. But it doesn’t matter. When I watch the show, I want to * cough * him. In fact, the only thing he has going for him is the tattoos. He has some hot tattoos. (What can I say, I like clean-cut to a point.)
When I want to amuse myself, I imagine introducing Leland to my father. That would be…nope, there are no words for what that would be.
As for what my friends would think, let’s just say I would never live it down. But that’s okay, because they’re never going to find out. And while they would never even imagine something like this, if they did suspect something I would simply deny, deny, deny. I look at it like this: when you want your friend’s boyfriend, you never admit it. To anyone. Ever. For any reason. Maybe not even to yourself. And this is kind of like wanting your friend’s boyfriend. It only exists in the dark recesses of your mind. And maybe on your blog.
Until next time…
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