So Poof! Vamoose, son of a bitch.
Imus got fired. And good. I'm sorry, I have no sympathy for him.
What is it? Apologies for the paraphrasing, but I'll fight to the death your right to say what you will...but if my daughter was one of the Rutgers wbb players, I reckon I'd fight you to death.
The girls are in with the I-Man, his wife Dierdre and (former) producer Bernard McGuirk as I type (at quarter to 10 p.m., ET, at Gov. Corzine's mansion in New Jersey). I think it goes without saying, emotions are running high.
That being said, it's time to let it go away. I said it to a person close to the situation the other day: the team and everyone associated with them have handled themselves with the utmost class, dignity, and have represented themselves, their program, coaches, family, etc. with the highest level of humanity.
Let's all move on.
One of the players mentioned how she's "scarred for life."
Far be it for TLBR to pooh-pooh the walk in someone else's moccasins...Someone whose moccasins are not even conceivable to me...
Colin Finnerty, Dave Evans, and Reide Seigelmann. Those boys are scarred for life. Not called a vile name but some wrinkled up, old douchebag.
They're done. Cooked. For bigger words, false accusations and representations, and more grave allusions than a mean-spirited, ugly insult.
But I digress.
Philadelphia International Airport.
It rained today. I mean. To paraphrase a former Philadelphia great...we're talking about rain. Rain. Rain, man. Not a monsoon. Not a monsoon. We're talking about rain. We're talking about, rain, man. We're talking about rain.
No need to jam up ALL the shampooing flights all shampooing day for this shite.
That being said, thank God for Yuengling. $5 Yuengling, at that.
I was with a friend in the biz in the PHL this afternoon...and this evening...and into the night... And we discussed a theory of mine: why don't more people hook up in the airport?
I could get into the whole thing - nothing first-hand, unfortunately, but still... I got brains, I got crazy, and I got theories.
So, upon walking into the airport pub, there was a couple in the corner. And they were going at it like the two of them were going to the chair.
I mean, junior prom/first-grab-of-boob style making out. I mean, respect to the fella who has a filly who wants to have bar makeout sessions and all, but... C'MON.
Homeboy was in his 30's. Homegirl was too. They were bordering on making a scene.
Then they got up, walked to the entry/exit of the airport lounge. And it became an even more awkward scene.
Homeboy was (seemingly, but really) asking for homegirl's number. It was a Blackberry, so perhaps it was a swap of email after the swap of spit, but who can really tell...right?
So that awkward exchange of "I'll never call you, but give it anyways" yielded an even more awkward result. And then the pinnacle of awkwardness: the goodbye kiss.
Homeboy thought it was a departing tonsil hockey session. Homegirl had a flight to catch; as opposed to a case of mouth herpes.
It was a clean and clear shot. Point blank. Dead red. No survivors. Homeboy got the "ok, I'm done, so I'm gonna push you away with the butt of my hand on your ribs and if you don't shampooing stop, I'm going for the nuts..." move.
(you know that move... don't lie. I know that move...and trust me, you better move, or else...Chopper...sic balls...)
But regardless, it sort of confirmed the theory I've had for quite some time (again, strictly theory - zero action - welcome to my life.)
Airports are giant pick-up ports. Too many professional and attractive women. Too many professional and pretty boys. Too many folks with too much time on their hands and too little risk. Married men and women, miserable due to the litany of layovers or the tediousness of travel, might be willing - out of the mires of depression - to take risks. And, in their minds perhaps, the risk of meeting a stranger and carrying out some filthy fantasy as she departs for gate D-5 to Pittsburgh and you connect on your trip to Seattle...
Hey, I'm just saying...TLBR is with TC: on the side of truth.
Going to Fenway tomorrow. Tonight was a rain out. So you know what that means (on both accounts): Tim Wakefield is pitching.
Not that I (author's note: we're taking off now, hurdling down the runway at 200 mph...and I'm using my approved portable electronic device during a particularly unapproved time period...that's what you C-words get for making me shampooing wait for 2.5 hours on the way in and 2.5 hours on the way out...that's serious blogging time, you C-words...if this blog didn't have decency standards, candor and decorum, I'd have just come out and called you Ann Coulter.)
So yeah. Wakefield is on the hill. But it's not so much him as it is his piece of shit batterymate.
I mean, crap. And Wily Mo Pena is supposed to start in right field. So chalk up 6-7-8-9 for K's on the regular.
Craptastic. But it's Fenway. And goats could be doing it in between second and third, and I'd probably still go. Because, you know, it's Fenway.
Southwest is a great airline when there are 40 people on the flight. And when it's on shampooing time.
Otherwise, I'm good with it. I'd even go US Airways over this POS airline.
It's steerage. All they need is friggin' chickens hopping and flying and laying eggs and shit in the exit row. It's a giant Pakistan van.
Whatever. I'm just bitter.
I AM on the side of truth. (BALLIN'!)
Journey. Tough band to karaoke.
Blur. Obscure band to karaoke.
Travis. Band you karaoke to when particularly drunk.
Bob Dylan. Ditto.
And those are the last four performers on the trusty iPod sidekick.
And while we're on the topic of songs and second-hand performances...several of the loyal, royal readers will understand the next gripe: U2's "One."
This is the song pumping through the noise-cancelling Bose headphones at the mo.
And not the Achtung Baby version - the Mary J. Blige version. First off, I think it goes without saying: my girl Mary has pipes.
And she kicks it into HIGH GEAR on the collaboration with the best stinkin' Irish band in history. (speaking of stinkin', I just had a bit of a bit-too-loud flatulence...stupid leather seats...thankfully, we've begun our descent...because it stinks...wow, TMI, glad I shared that one...)
"One" is arguably, the most poetic and beautiful song by the Dublin boys since the Joshua Tree album.
(Ok, I'll fight with you about "Stay" and to this day, close to six years after the fateful day, I still can't stay dry-eyed through "Walk On" but god damn, the MJB version of One should make your soul jump through your navel and dance joyfully and passionately on your stomach.)
Man, not only is my iPod telekinetic, Buddhist, and shiny, it can also string together songs and stick with a trend when I'm in such a mood.
Tom Crean's favorite song on now: "Where the Streets Have No Name." I'm almost back at the Bradley Center now. Which gets me thinking...and when I think, I also try to get a wee bit inspired...but it's time to flip the script on the new employer's home court.
It's time to make that a legit Division I home court advantage. Sure, that other Division I program up the road is borrowing our arena while theirs is being rid of the general smell of cat piss, but it's time to dig the dividing line and get things moving.
Consider that my mission over the next few.
Well, at least, my work mission. I have a few off-the-court issues I need to set aside before I can really get rolling. But you all knew that.
And on that note, I end this missive.
Hope you all enjoy your weekends - whatever you're doing and whereever you're doing it.
yh&os, I remain...