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Monthly Archives: July 2008

I am not one to mark my “maturity” in obvious ways. I hate, hate, hate when people base their idea of mature behavior on hitting arbitrary markers of consumption and success or are looking down on things they once used to love because they are bored of them. I’m not a fan of pretending that you’re a better person because you drink better beer than you used to, because you eat in fancier restaurants, or because you play squash instead of handball.

Not that I’m a proponent of “keeping it real” or anything. People do change, and those who do not get swept away or left behind or eventually pay for it. But there’s change for the appearance of change and genuine change. As long as changes in your life represent something genuine within you, and some ideal you think will impress better friends/your parents/your employers, there’s surely nothing wrong with that.

So it’s with much trepidation that I wrote this.

I think it’s time for me to give up…fantasy baseball.

There’s still time in my life for fantasy football, gambling, drinking, porn, sports, and clowning fools. But there’s just no time for fantasy baseball. In other words, this is not borne of an attempt to focus on getting into a relationship, or to devote more time to novel-writing. I just cannot put in the time to compete at fantasy baseball on a satisfying level.

I am careening at or near the bottom in both leagues I participated in this year. Unfortunately, with my boss less than understanding of using work hours to compare the WHIPS of no. 2 starters, there’s no way I can keep up with the guys at my office who work about one hour day and make moronic trade offers for Lance Berkman and Hanley Ramirez the other seven. And the other league I play in with my old buddies from Queens lost my active participation when Chien Ming-Wang decided to break his foot running the bases. The real key to fantasy baseball is not who you have at the top of your roster, but the bottom. In football, your stars can carry you even if you accidentally play an injured tight end. Not so in baseball, where hovering over the waiver wire like an online predator is a requirement if you want to dominate your league.

Shortcuts don’t work. I enjoy the audio mess that my be’s Fantasy Focus Baseball podcasts, but I have to put the time in to actually put the debate over who’s better, Dave Bush or Barry Zito, to use. (Okay, maybe not that debate.)

I don’t mean to clown those who devote the necessary time and research to building winning fantasy baseball teams. Their life has different priorities, and they have time for different things, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. They can make fun of me for staying out too late on weeknights getting lit up  instead of looking out for the hot minor-league prospect who just got called up if they want. It’s just different priorities. I only have so may hours in my day, and they seem to be devoted to work, the gym, writing, and drinking. I’m trying to at least add back in music and moviegoing, but I am not quite there yet. Looking for the next Evan Longoria just isn’t that big a priority.

So I will go back, I think to enjoying the baseball the way I used to: as a general fan of the sport, its traditions, its pennant races, and yes mathletes, it’s statistics. Sure, I might join a $25 league for kicks, but I’ll pretty much know that I’ll be dead money as long as I insist on being single and drinking a lot.

Fantasy baseball could see this coming; I just made this official. Still, I have try and finish out this season because it’s the right thing to do. It’s the competitive thing to do. It’s the fair and gentlemanly thing to do. So, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to finally take David Ortiz and Rich Harden off the DL.

It’s been a while, but I haven’t forgotten you, my readers. I am carelessly neglecting you, as I’ve said before. I used a vacation day to create a three day weekend for myself, so I thought I would get you guys caught up:

  • Here’s how it works, people. You go up to the counter. You order the tacos. They call your name. You pick up the tacos, and then you eat the tacos. Simple enough, no? You’d be surprised at what shots of Jagermeister can do to make that process not go smoothly.
  • Went to PS 1 this weekend, and some guy’s idea of art was to show video some fat dude boxing with a topless woman. I guess I should be happy the fat guy wasn’t topless, but, really. Because you open said video installation with some observation about how it could be about your father but it’s really about your mother, it’s art? As opposed to, say a “documentary” called “Big Titty Fight Club?”
  • At this point, if you give out huge-ass, two-foot long straws with your drink, (I forget what Rusty Knot officially called it, but it was essentially a soup tureen full of of ‘zombies’), then you can’t complain about the fifteen minutes of “I drink your milkshake!” jokes that will inevitably follow.
  • You know, the party doesn’t officially start till the sloppy drunk blond albino girl falls all over your friend, who is scared half to death. Then she hits on him, and the fun really begins.
  • Ardbeg Scotch: If you like your scotch to taste like old cigars strained through through sweat socks, this is your drink. They were giving it away and the bartender was stunned when I asked for another. Not for the faint of heart.
  • A solemn but hopeful goodbye to Mickie, my favorite late-night bartender at San Loco. You’ll be missed, and good luck in Austin!
  • The number of black people we counted at the Sunday night Bruce Springsteen concert I attended at Giants Stadium other than myself and Clarence Clemons (not including concessions, security, ushers, and parking): 4
  • The essential dilemma of the middle-aged rock concert with middle-aged patrons: Sit, or stand? A fight nearly broke out in front of us. Luckily, it happened during “Tunnel of Love”, not necessarily a crowd favorite.
  • For a nearly 60-year old dude, he puts on a top quality, fun, energetic show, especially for his Jersey people. I don’t think I’m saying anything new by saying if you ever have a chance to see him live, do it. But I said it anyway.
  • Props to Max Weinberg, who we swore was gonna have a stroke, he was working so hard.
  • What do you get when you go to White Castle at 1 a.m. on a Sunday? Well, aside from indigestion, the line of the night from a very, uh, let’s say flamboyant gay man to someone who was harassing him and his tranny pal outside: “Oh no! You don’t mess with me! I might walk like Tina, but I fight like Ike!” He later bragged about his boxing trophies. Good times.
  • Cost of seats at Bruce Springsteen concert: $68. Having your white friends from Indiana clown you for engaging in what might possibly be the whitest activity alive, apparently: priceless.
  • “Step Brothers”: If you liked “Anchorman” and “Talledega Nights”, you’ll like this one. It might be the funniest of the three, I laughed pretty consistently, I have to say. And I went in quite worried, to be honest.
  • After the gym and some dinner, I decided to take the one of the movie tickets I gave blood for and see another one rather than sit around the house. After finding out that “Indiana Jones” is indeed long gone from the theaters, I decided to see “Hancock”. Review: I liked the beginning. I liked the ending. But they seemed to belong to two completely different movies. It wasn’t bad, but I think if they had stayed on a more comedic path, they would have had a better chance a  more consistent, classic comedy. In the end, it just ends up being okay. If you want to check out my spoiler-filled musings on the twist and ending it’s on my tumblr.
  • Also on my tumblr, I detail some really bad news about my living situation. And by bad, I mean a comedy filled train wreck that may leave extra cash in my pocket.

So, what’s the overall point of this weekend: 1. I need to take more days off, 2. I’m not going to apologize for liking Bruce Spingsteen, 3. sometimes it takes an albino damsel in distress to divine the line between good and evil, and 4. there’s still time for me to write the truly Great American Alcoholic Superhero Movie.

I just wanted to say to all those Brett Favre supporters in the media who think Aaron Rodgers should just sit there and suck it because Brett Favre wants to return and that’s that, I hope that someday, someone decides to take away your column and yor paper/tv station demotes you to covering high school lacrosse to make way for some hotshot becuse well, he’s a legendary sportswriter who wants your job and then you can suck it becuse life’s unfair.

Let the Packers trade Favre to another team and let’s just get on with our lives, please. Brett Favre in a Ravens uniform will not mean the end of the world and the tarnishing of the franchise. There was a Green Bay Packers before Brett Favre. I know we now all think they’re some no-name expansion franchise that started in 1993, but there was this guy named Vince Lombardi who won a bunch of titles in the 1960’s. I wonder what he wold think of this. I wonder how he would deal with a selfish quarterback drunk on his adulation from the media big-timing a guy who worked hard in the offseason to prepare for his chance.

You think Vince Lombardi would put up with this nonsense? Well, maybe you people should remember who he was first.

I was reading this New Republic piece about the disparity in male to female ratio in modern-day China, an unintended consequence of the the one-child-per-family law, where, unfortunately families, desirous of males, who can carry on the family name, often aborted or, outright killed female babies.

That of course, is very sad, callous, and speaks ill of humanity on a major level. But, I know what you’re wondering: How did this article affect Well Whiskey Friday?

Nice segue, right?

There was one line in the piece, written by Mara Hvistendahl, that said, “Eternally single men, by extension, maintain high levels of testosterone–a recipe for violent civil unrest.” This quote followed cited a study that men’s testostrone levels drop once they become married.

The article goes on to try and describe the possible social implications of having a society with a disproportionate number of men who will not find wives. (Hey ladies, you want a guy who’ll be grateful to have you and treat you like the precious diamond that you are: Get a guy from China!) But, being (somewhat) slightly self-involved, I couldn’t help but think: “So, if I don’t get married soon, I’ll just stay like this? Have I waited too long?”

While I maintain that I’m pretty sure I’ve never met the right woman, I’ve never really, overly desired to get married. I just think I lack that certain overarching need for constant companionship in general that extends to having a wife, and possibly kids. I don’t think it’s anything against having a wife, as much as I just need my space pretty often. Heck, I’m writing this at a remote location just to avoid my roommates.

But, I thought that, at some point, the testosterone would kind of wear down as I got older, and domestic life would sort of appeal to me. Recent events seem to be pointing to otherwise, as I make indefensible romantic decisions and cause massive trouble for myself.  So, is there a point of no return?

On the other hand, the idea that you lose testosterone as soon as you get married the way a car loses resale value as soon as you drive it off the lot isn’t going to entice a lot of bachelors to go get married. It’s one thing to say that marriage softens and civilizes a man. It’s another thing to say that you physically lose testosterone by getting married. That is just no good. I’m sure some right-wing family group that isn’t giving money to John McCain can donate some of that scratch to disprove it.

A while ago, I wrote on my old blog about “the old bachelor” problem for older single people, who , set in their ways, become even more picky about finding a mate, compounding their less-likely-to-settle-down status. But that was about just being used to living your life a certain way. I never said anything about staying in a constant state of high testosterone. If the human body is going to add that to the equation, there may be no hope out there.