Status Oh No

Tonight, my eldest daughter, who is nine, was in her first talent show ever, at her school. She sang "America the Beautiful" alone in front of a couple of hundred people. As I work a long way away from where I live, it takes about 100 minutes to commute, assuming things go well. The show began at 7, and my day job doesn't usually end until 5:30. It was also something of a hair pull of a day, really... but by working through lunch and just hustling, I was able to get out early enough to catch the earlier train.

Things were looking good until about 6:30, when the train began to crawl... and a trip that's supposed to take 40 minutes wound up taking 70, which meant that not only did I miss her big moment, but so did my wife, who was waiting to pick me up at the station. I'm told that the Shooter Kid did well, and we'll see the videotape later, but she was in tears afterward, because her parents weren't there for her.

So I'd like to really thank New Jersey Transit for their performance today. With a pair of pliers, and some imagination.

Since my daughter led off the show, there was still an hour-plus of elementary school acts to sit through (yes, I did check my Blackberry for the mobile Web game updates, because I'm just that kind of jerk during your kid's act) until I could track her down and tell her she was great and help her get her over the disappointment. Ice cream and flowers helped. I think. I did the usual bedtime reading in front of the television with half an eye watching the end of the Sixers season. All in all, not a good night, really.

So here we are again with my team, a first round loser in 6 games despite the absence in Game Six of 2/5ths of the starting lineup for the visiting Orlando Magic. The end came tonight in a game where they trailed for most of the way by double digits, were gashed by one of the very worst players in the NBA (JJ Redick), got next to nothing from starting center Samuel Dalembert (when the team is much better off with Theo Ratliff on the floor, you shouldn't have a job, really), and more or less insulted anyone who paid money to see them not force Game Seven...

(A few brief and bitter words about the Magic. They should win the next round against the staggering survivor of the Bulls-Celtics Jihad, considering that they are going to have a huge advantage in rest, and if the Bulls pull off the upset, home court advantage. They got healthier and better as this series went on, with Rashard Lewis and Hedo Turkoglu both getting up to full speed. But I'm not seeing it, because the bench is pretty bad (the reason why they kept blowing big leads), they miss too many free throws, Rafer Alston is going to get eaten alive by either Rajon Rondo or Derrick Rose, and Stan van Gundy is a loathsome piece of crap who has, over the course of this series, managed to bump off Geoge Karl and Phil Jackson from my list of coaches I'd like to throw a brick at. Moving on.)

Well, next year they presumably get Elton Brand back, and have the promise of more development from Marresse Speights, Thaddeus Young and Louis Williams. Maybe that's enough to make them go further. I don't think it's going to help to blow the squad up, and since head coach Tony DiLeo didn't even get a full year, I can't seem them committing radical surgery. But when you lose like this, at home, in the same pattern as last year... well, I'd like to see Dalembert gone by now, of nothing else. You can call him a fall guy; I call him a cancer. Let's see what life is like without him, please. Or see how he does fixing wire problems in Metuchen. That'd help, too.

The 2009 MLB Season Predictions

In the midst of all that fantasy stuff last week, I forgot to actually take care of the real-world stuff. And while it's usually easier to predict the standings than the individual performances, this year, that's quite different. Why? Well, the same reason as every other in MLB: drugs.

For the past 10 years or more, baseball has managed to play increasingly older talent, as part of its Faustian bargain with the needle. Older guys, given the same or better hand speed and injury recovery time that young guys had, along with the enhanced experience, were just able to keep going into their mid to late 30s and beyond.

But now that the testing seems to actually be effective, and more importantly, MLB looks to cut every corner as part of their overwhelming economic fear, you're going to see the same old-school turnover of older players that was in place for most of the last century. There's also, of course, the possibility that the number twirlers have made some inroads into management, and the concept of Value Over Replacement Player has rid some folks of Teh Fear of giving a young guy a chance in a non-crucial role.

Finally, there's also this: MLB is a copycat league, and the current fad is for defense -- which is, for the most part, just not something that old guys do as well, and certainly not as cheaply. When a team dramatically improves its defense in a year, then goes to the World Series despite having a payroll that's a third or less than its rivals, it gets noticed. (That would have been your Tampa Bay Rays, of course.) When the team that beats them has three-fourths of the starting infield in contention for a Gold Glove, and the outfield composed of plus defenders, provided they weren't named Pat Burrell... well, that also gets noticed.

Suddenly, the Tigers want Adam Everett's utterly non-existent bat to take over shortstop. The Rangers need to move Michael Young to third and call up rookie Elvis Andrus, not because they think Andrus is ready to carry the position at age 20 with his bat, but because by doing this, they better themselves on the entire side of the infield, with Hank Blalock and Chris Davis relegated to DH and first base, respectively. And every team but the dramatically stupid Washington Nationals avoided Adam Dunn, almost as much as he avoids fielding baseballs.

So the rules have changed. It's no longer a case of just knowing who's got the pitchers and hitters; it's now a matter of knowing who is going to age well and who is going to age badly, and who has a farm systems that can restock faster. Where everyone used to be trying to play the Yankees' game, now everyone is more or less laughing at the Yankees. (Who might still win since, well, dominant pitching can overwhelm poor defense, and they did upgrade defensively at first base and in the outfield. Too bad shortstop is still a mess. Just don't tell them; they get mad when you point that out.)

MLB is becoming, in short, more like the NFL, where fast team turnarounds are common and championships feel almost random, because by the time that a team breaks through, it's already most likely to be on the decline. Feel free to add in the warning noises about crazy people and sports betting here.

So, with that rousing call to action under our belts, here are my picks for the 2009 season. I promise that they will be as accurate as the 2008 MLB preview, when the Tigers won the Series over the Diamondbacks. Wait, that didn't happen? Well, then why the hell are you reading this? Right, because you're killing time at work. I understand.

NL East - Marlins (I know, shocking!)

NL Central - Cardinals

NL West - Dodgers

NL Wildcard - Cubs

NL Winner - Cardinals

AL East - Rays

AL Central - Indians

AL West - Angels

AL Wildcard - Red Sox

AL Winner - Red Sox

WS Winner - Cardinals

AL MVP - Grady Sizemore

NL MVP - Albert Pujols

AL Cy Young - Matt Garza

NL Cy Young - Ricky Nolasco

AL Comeback Player of the Year -- Victor Martinez

NL Comeback Player of the Year -- Chris Carpenter

NL Rookie of the Year - Jason Motte

AL Rookie of the Year - Matt Wieters

We know return you to the World Series defense by your Detroit... um, Philadelphia Phillies. (That's just for Mets Fan.)

That's the way to start the year

Word out of Milwaukee, in no way surprising, that Trevor Hoffman will start his Brewer career on the disabled list.

Of course, I own him on two out of three leagues, because that is just how I roll, bitches.

The move is retroactive to March 27, because the team doesn't think that he'll be out for a very long time, and 41 year old closers are not exactly known for their durability. So I'm not exactly cutting him. Just myself.

Luckily, I'm sure this will be the last time this year that I have to deal with hurt players. Good to get that out of the way early, really.

Just Take My Money Already

So the Poker Story has turned bitter, my children, and I know you could care less, but I can't afford therapy thanks to my donkey ways at the table, so...

On Valentine's Day, I had the best night of my life on the felt and made good coin. Five times since then I've played cards with people for money, and five times since, my wallet has regretted it.

The really nice thing is that the losses have been all over the place. I've had nights where I've been just plain card dead, and nights when I've just been outplayed. Some nights, I've had bad beats; other times, I've had the feeling that I was broadcasting my hole cards on my face, and should just have the hands dealt face up to me to make things a little less obvious.

Some nights, I've been too tight; others, too loose. When I've slow-played high pairs, they've been cracked; when I raised them pre-flop, everyone bailed and I made nothing but the blinds. It's been a joy.

Sensing my weakness, the game that I host finally broke through into the fabled Two Table stage, with 14 players making it the Friday the 13th event. That went so well that I took Nyquil afterward and slept for 24 hours, dreaming of unemployment and homelessness. Good times!

There's still room for a few more at the Home Game -- hell, maybe I'll just deal from now on -- and you never know how many players will keep coming back, so if you're local and interested, there's still seats available... but probably for not much longer, because once we get to, say, 18, we're out of table spots, and the room can't really fit that many people anyway. So long as the host is tossing out free money, I'm thinking we'll have a popular game. (And no, this isn't a case of crying poor to get some new fish into the net. Right now, I'm the fish, and I come with my own pan and spices. Dig in.)

25 Lies About Sports Blogging

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a post with 25 lies about sports blogging that you’ve made at one time or another. You do not have to specify when, how, or why you made those lies but you may do so if you so desire. At the end, spam 25 sports blogs with your list. You have to spam the person who spammed you. If I spammed you, it's because I want you to tell me 25 lies you’ve made at one time or another.

1. I never get ideas from Bill Simmons

2. Checking my site's visits and page view statistics on a near-hourly basis is beneath me

3. If there were no money in this, I'd still work as hard at it as I do now

4. My homerism is transparent and entertaining

5. I don't have a smoldering resentment for people with more popular blogs than mine who get there via The Titty

6. I don't include family members in posts just to see if they are paying attention

7. I never, ever entertain thoughts of quitting just to see how many "Please Don't Go!" e-mails and comments I'd get, like some fake suicidal angst teen girl

8. Commenters who flame me never make me want to exact a hopelessly juvenile and escalating revenge

9. Being energized by someone making a big ad buy is completely beneath me

10. I don't write just enough content to make sure that the elements on the right hand side match up

11. I pay for every image I use

12. There are no dreams of having this somehow become my full-time job

13. I have no shame about writing viral list content

14. I don't resent the world for always linking to the viral list content, rather than the thoughtful long form pieces

15. I wouldn't gladly take the press box access for fear of selling out my outsider perspective

16. There is no political agenda to the blog

17. If the World Wide Lemur gave me a shot, I wouldn't take it, despite the fact that I think they ruin just about everything they touch, and that I'm sure I'd get edited/neutered to death

18. I'm not secretly thrilled when some prominent athlete does something really regrettable in public

19. I respect other people's opinions when it comes to things like Brett Favre's leadership ability, Stephon Marbury's desire to play for another team, and the mystical importance and overall specialness of MLB+ teams

20. I can enjoy an MLB/NFL/NBA season just fine when my favorite team and fantasy team both suck

21. When it comes to a game between guys on my fantasy team(s) and my real-life team, I always and cheerfully root for my real team

22. I never think about, write or post things to the blog during Day Job hours

23. I never neglect my family to fill the bloghole

24. It's never a grind to get the last few entries in a list

25. I don't care if this post gets linked, generates traffic, or becomes a meme

I Will Then Set Myself On Fire

BEHOLD, Dear Readers and my fellow Blogfricans, the long-lost music video from my '90s rock and roll band. (No, really.)



I know you have questions.

1) Is that really you?

Yes.

2) No, seriously?

Yup. Nearly 15 years ago, but yes, yes, yes.

3) WTF?

Agreed.

4) No, seriously, dude, WTF?

You really want to know what the song is about?

5) Um...

When I was a musician (yes, that's me singing), I held a McJob at Penn. One day, I had to copy old law books, and one of the books was about the history of animal law. Animal law is what happened in Europe in the time before television when a pig that ate garbage munched an infant, or you were plagued by locusts, etc. People would actually dress the animals up and put them on trial.

6) Uh...

Yes, and also had trials when they caught someone buggering a beast. That's why the dancer has a tail. (0:45.)

7) Dude, WTF?

The song is from the point of view of an offending farmer. He takes the Marion Berry route of claiming the she-ass set him up. The town sees it differently, because, hey, that's one nice donkey. The whole song is based on a true story. Hence, the France graphic (0:18).

8) Were you high?

Later, but not during. We flew in a dancer who worked with Prince; I met her at a music conference. The whole thing was shot in a day. It even got some UHF airplay back in the day. We figured, hey, chick with a tail and FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!, it was bound to make us famous. Or something.

9) OK, OK, I'm actually watching it. What a train wreck. How did you do that whole burning at the stake thing at the end of it?

I had myself burned at the stake.

10) Seriously?

Seriously. Second degree burns, melted the hair off me in some places. One of the townspeople -- and all of these folks were friends, fans and fellow musicians in the Philly music scene, it was like a Ren Faire party -- really got into her motivation and spit in my face. It was a cooling moment, and the highlight of the day, really.

11) Um... dude. Why are you putting this up in public?

For your amusement, clearly. Go ahead and laugh. I was young and stupid. Now, I'm old and stupid.

12) And if I like the music, and want to know if you could get the band back together...

Ah, shaddup.

Fantasy Hell #1

My good Work League Team went down to ignoble defeat today. It was just Not Meant To Be. Drew Brees betrayed me by giving the damned ball to Pierre Thomas. Reggie Wayne continued to be the best-regarded empty threat in fantasy play this year; I'd have been better off starting #3 WR Anthony Gonzalez instead of him today. Greg Jennings, one of the best five WRs in football, made all of one big play today. Whoop de damn do. Derrick Ward took advantage of the Brandon Jacobs injury to have one of his worst games of the year, along with the rest of the Giants. Marion Barber can no longer be considered tough. Even on the little moments, I got screwed. The Saints chose to go for two with a quarter to play and up five, rather than give me the extra point from kicker du jour Garret Hartley. Irritating. If not for Steve Slaton, I'd have saved myself four hours of very limited suspense.

But realistically, I knew I was hosed as soon as Pierre Freaking Thomas scored. He wound up with 25 points today, and that was, oh, about 20 more than I was hoping for. The coup de grace came when Shaun Hill swung a ball in the flat to Frank Gore just before the half in the Jets-Niners game; that was, as they say, all she wrote.

Oh well. It's not like the Shooter Kids *need* any more toys. Or heat in the house. Put on more layers, you parasites!

The Poker Tournament Story

So hey. I've got a little time off from the Thanksgiving holidays. And I've been good, too, with a ton of work done at the day job. For the year, I'm up in my house game, and down only a few hundred in casinos. Clearly, it's time to try my hand at a small money hold'em tournament, especially seeing as one of my regulars in the home game has won big at them. And it's off to Atlantic City we go!

The scene was the Showboat, home to a cautionary tale bus terminal, low ceiling garages, somewhat attentive wait staff and big dang poker room where I had harpooned a few whales in cash games before. The regular and I make the drive down and get there around 5ish on Black Friday, and the streets are choked with shoppers. The plan is to play a 1/2 no limit cash game until the tournament, then see what we can do in that. Cost should be $100 for the tourney, and whatever the night holds for us in the cash games.

There's a private tournament happening for a $250 buy-in, and they wind up not having enough people for it. Since that's way too rich for my blood, we choose to stay with our lower money one... but this also means that there's a huge line for the window to get in. There's also, and here's the fun part, one person working, despite the presence of three windows. Outstanding work, Showboat!

I head over to get in line at 6:25. I ask a pit boss about buy-in conditions, but she doesn't know anything about the window. Again, outstanding work, Showboat!

Twenty minutes later, I call my friend on our cell phones, so that he can buy in without taking the line wait. As I get to the window, I'm told by the cashier that -- ha ha! -- I need to be a Total Rewards Cardholder to enter! And no, they don't do that here, they do that down the hall at check-in! Well, what the hell, there's nothing quite like dashing through a crowded casino when you are furious, so I go and get my card and get back to the window, jumping the line... only to be told that registration for said tournament is over. But I can be an alternate! Yay, Showboat!

Forty minutes later, they call for alternates and seat me, along with a whopping three other people; they also deduct $500 from my stack for all of the blinds that I missed thanks to all that fun at the window. We can't wait until the table fills up, you see, we have to go now... and so my pocket queens out of the box don't make nearly as much money as you'd hope, really. I get crap cards for 30 hands, have my blind stolen repeatedly from a guy who's got a big stack and re-raises everything, then get Ace-Jack suited for an Ace-King-8 flop. I push everyone off except a woman who hasn't played a hand all night next to me. On the turn, there's another king, and she's all in. I think it over for a minute and fold, she nicely shows me her Ace-King, and we go to break down 4K chips and short-stacked. Fun!

After the break, I get A-10 suited. The guy to my left goes in for 2K, and the whale goes for 3K. I figure it's now or never, especially considering the cards I've been getting, so I go all-in. The non-whale folds, the whale calls, and his jacks stand up. And thus ends that fun 90 minutes.

My buddy and ride is still live in the tournament, so it's back to the cash games for me... and it's one of those nights where you feel like you're broadcasting your cards on your forehead, along with the flashing DONKEY sign. I get about 10 good hands in the next four hours, win on three of them, lose on the rest, lose a little more than I was really prepared to lose, and become more or less convinced that, like golf, poker is something I enjoy but probably need to stop playing, if only for the sake of my sanity and bank account.

My buddy craps out of the tournament in 16th place, which is to say, after a lot of play, but no payday. He also gets hammered in the cash game, and we drive home knowing that the Bus Terminal of Broken Dreams exists not just for people without cars, but also for all of us, really.

(Translation: I'll go back in January, assuming that the house game doesn't wreck me. .. and, um, not to Showboat. Seats open for next Friday night, folks!)

Epic Drop: Top 11 Signs You Are A Fantasy Football Bastard

Today's link is one of those hard research pieces where I had to, you know, look in the mirror and stop cringing long enough to type.

It'll also be an interesting experiment to see how many people fly off the handle and accuse me of saying something terrible about the Matt Bryant tragedy. Of course, what I'm really doing is chastising people who would take advantage of that situation. (And for the record, no, I didn't own Bryant in any of my leagues yesterday. But what a value!)

Badly Beaten

Welcome to Atlantic City, and "Badly Beaten," Spiked TV's latest effort to fill the nation's airhole with poker coverage. Tonight, we're proud to give you live hidden camera footage of random amateurs attempting to play poker with high-larious consequences. Let's get to the action!

Biff Biffley: Tonight, we've got Shooter, a man that's held his own in a monthly basement games with friends for six months. He's walking into a casino poker room for the first time this weekend, after getting crushed at the blackjack tables. We're in for some good fun tonight, aren't we Norman?

Norman Chad: We certainly are, Biff. Not only have we stacked the deck to make sure that when Shooter folds any kind of hand it will appear on the flop, we've also given all of the other player access to his hole cards via special monitors in their cup holders. Finally, his chair has been specially wired to give us his vital medical signs. This is in addition to his usual tell, which is looking pissed off at crap hands, means we're in for hours of stepping on a rake fun!

Biff: To add to the torture, we're going to give Shooter something to play every 15 hands. We're up to that now, and he's got nine-ten clubs as his hole cards.

Chad: And he's in for the flop! Let's look at those vitals now, Biff. You see, he's so beaten down, there's barely any movement in his pulse or blood pressure. He's beaten before he even gets cards!

Biff: Seven players for the flop, bringing the pot up to a robust $14. Shooter's vitals have picked up beyond comatose, Chad. Isn't that charming -- he has hope of actually making some money on this hand.

Chad: It's like Charlie Brown with the football with this guy, Biff. You've got to respect that... all the way to the bank.

Biff: The flop is the nine of spades, the ten of hearts, and the queen of clubs. That gives Shooter the only community pairs, a chance at a flush and a straight, and his first scent of hope at getting some of his money back. How are his vitals, Chad!

Chad: Almost up to a hospital patient, Biff. With cancer in three places.

Biff: Shooter has last action, and since this is a limit game, nearly every hand goes to the river and beyond, since it's been pretty cheap to see the cards -- every other hand has at least gone to the turn tonight. And that's six players checking. Will Shooter bet and watch them all drop, or check and see more cards that will eventually kill him?

Chad: Any sane man would bet here and hope that some money would follow him in. Shooter's puzzling it out for a few seconds... oh, isn't that adorable, Biff! He's trying to actually make the other players think he has bad cards!

Biff: Nice work on the part of the other players from not busting out laughing as they look at Shooter's hole cards on the small monitors we've placed in their cup holders. Shooter finally bets, and... everyone else folds, in a new record time of 3.5 seconds. That's even faster than the last time he had cards, Norman.

Chad: Right you are, Biff. But Shooter's the big winner with a $12 profit from his first good hand in two hours. And the best part is... he's actually pleased to have won the $12. God, I love this kid. Let's take him out back and rape him after the show. Whaddya say?

Biff: Of course, Norman. You want to take him from in front or behind?

Chad: Well, I'm uglier than you, with more visible lesions. I'm going topside.

Biff: Works for me. After these hands, his ass is going to be so well-lubricated, it'll be like hitting an oil slick.

Chad: But just for you, Biff, thanks to your Humiliation brand sandpaper condoms. Remember folks, for the kind of top-shelf reaming they'll remember, look for the label that says Humiliation Brand sandpaper condoms!

Biff: And that's all the time we've got tonight on "Badly Beaten." See you again in three weeks, when Shooter returns to Atlantic City with all of his friends!

Epic Drop: Top 10 Consolations for Boston Haters

Your link is here, and I Am Gone, Baby, Gone.

Weeds Drop: Top 10 Rules for Hacks

Yes kids, another group blog wants l'il ol' me to help fill their bloghole. Your link is here.

In The Weeds is a golf-only blog, and having just ran into my best friend and golfing partner from back in the day when I had time to do such things... well, let's just say the memory has been tapped. Along with the open question of where the nearest driving range is, because I do know where my clubs are. And there we are, right back on the junk, howling at the moon, face down in the gutter...

What Women Want

Just on the off chance that, say, the one in your life is cramping your style, though referring to your need to sit on the couch like a beached whale really should not be called a style. Anyway, enjoy...

I Am Trying To Break Your Heart

At some point, Unintentional Comedy will, I am sure, provoke a massive and violent public backlash. Irony and sarcasm will be exposed for the intellectual shorthand and zero-sum end game. Craft will come back, and maybe even earnestness.

And on that day, I'll stop throwing these little grenades your way.

But until then, um, enjoy. Yes, that's the verb I was looking for.





And since I'm going this far into the public service of providing media that is best used in case you have a very limited time left on this earth, and want to make each moment seem like an eternity... well, let's just roll out that favorite of my first wife. (No, I'm not kidding. She had issues.)



Now, that's comedy!

Well, damn.

Having read this, I've lost all will to blog. For a good couple of hours.

You Bastards

Five Tool Tool had its birthday yesterday, and did any of you notice? No presents, cake, not even a lousy card or exciting game to live blog about. All we got was the Ghost of Marilyn Monroe jumping as much as she could in a dress that clearly was too tight for her, the poor girl.

That's it -- hold my calls. I'll be in the bar, drinking myself to an early grave. You ingrates.

Maximum Possible Error

At the end of today in sports, I've been able to:

a) Watch my Eagles gag away a win by letting Brian Griese go 97 yards in less than two minutes with no timeouts

b) Watch the Red Sox complete a 3-1 comeback to go to the World Series

c) Watch the Redkins, Cowboys and Giants all win

d) Watch my main fantasy team put up a riveting 40 points and lose (we now have the lowest in the league)

e) Went 4-9 in my NFL picks

And yeah, I'm bent... but I also had friends over, the weather was great, the kids had fun. It's not like this is a great Eagles team that I was expecting a ton from before today's game. It's not as if the Red Sox have won the World Series (yet). It's not like I'm losing actual money on the NFL picks, or that either of my fantasy teams are completely dead (yet). I'm also old enough to not get too wiped out by bitter sports moments, really.

But having said all of that... GAHHHHHHH. Must. Find. Liquor. NOW.

Epic Drop: Top 10 Self-Flagellation Choices For Red Sox Haters

Your list is here. Now, if you all don't mind, I'm going to go kill a hobo.