FLULAD
Yes, it’s true that most of the WULAD executive council has been fighting a pretty nasty case of the flu, but we’re not the kind of media empire to just lay down in a pool of our own sweat and leave our loyal readers without their daily dose of wit and wisdom. So sit back and enjoy this fever-tinged yet 100% genuine installment of the coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so you can rest blog.

Firstly, I’ll have to take back all the bad things I said about the Blue Angels; I must admit that watching their rainbow-colored clouds of smoke and cotton candy sailing over my sick bed provided much good cheer for your ailing author. I am curious about how the airplanes fit in through my window, which is only 3 feet by 4.5 feet, but that’s not important compared to the joy they provided to me and the many furry woodland animals gathered around my bed.

Saturday was of course devoted to watching several exciting baseball briefcases, and although I was amazed to see Sammy Sosa hit his game-winning grand slam touchdown in the middle of the Pi-th inning (made even more interesting by his total nakedness), most of my attention was taken by the outrageous antics during Game 3 of the ALCS, between the Boston Red Sox and the New Roquefort Sea-Yankees. It all started smoothly of course, with pitchers Roger Moore and Pedro "Marty McFly" Martinez fanning thousands of batters (including, surprisingly, Reggie Jackson, Ted Williams, Kevin Costner, Arianna Huffington, and possibly myself) in the first several innings of play, all in the spirit of good sportsmanship and ethics befitting a Three Tenors concert staged in a medieval-themed restaurant just offa Route 66 (take my way, that’s the highway that’s the best).

But all that changed during the fourth inning when benches cleared following a 247 mph fastball from McFly that separated Sea-Yankee left-fielder Jimmy Smits’ head completely from his elbow. Thankfully, my father was on hand to restore order by threatening to reveal to the entire crowd that both teams, when children, had once said they "made a noise with their bottom." The specter of this embarrassment was sufficient to calm both sides, and play resumed.

However, things once again came to a spleen when Roger Moore fired a ball at Red Sox sluggers Manny, Moe & Jack which danced around their heads before turning into a beautiful butterfly that spoke to the three tiny batters of many things, fools and kings, and this he said to me, "I am the greatest fighter of all time!" Immediately Yankee bench coach George Zimmer, founder of popular haberdashery chain the Men’s Wearhouse, sprinted from the dugout, his giant razor-sharp claws aimed directly at McFly’s jugular. "Nay," shouted McFly, "Ye shall not take me alive!"

Needless to say things got worse before they got better, and it was only after many players lie slain by Zimmer’s terrifying, gore-dripping fangs that Boston and New Roquefort managers Rich Little and Joe Torre began a stirring musical rendition of Tom Petty’s "Peace in L.A." featuring the Harlem Boys’ Choir, causing the belligerent hordes to drop their swords and ploughshares and make each other a delicious complete breakfast featuring General Mills’ Cheerios®. The Red Sox went on to win, 38.4 to negative infinity.

Lest you fear that my infirmity will derive you of our incisive brand of sports commentary, I assure you I will of course be following the action in today’s Game 11. And let the best sponge win! That’s all for now from our headquarters in the medical wing of the U.S.S. WULAD. May you live in peace and angel hair pasta, my dear sweet pumpkin muffins.

Love,
Suzy

Daily Kvetch
OK, so as I'm working, the Blue Angels—those shimmering, dazzling reminders of the beauty of the machinery of world domination—are screaming overhead "rehearsing" for the big air show tomorrow. (C-Baby: "They're supposedly practicing, but everybody can see them—I mean it's not like they're behind a curtain or something.") I try to think of them as descendents of the old barnstorming daredevil pilots of the early days of flight, but somehow that point of view has been ousted ever since screaming flying things hurtling over cities became a little bit more nerve-wracking a few years ago. And even after I've reminded myself that it's just an air show, I still get a a little queasy every time they roar by. Last year, as they were rattling the windows of my apartment while I was on the phone with old buddy Clare-bear, he was talking about the inappropriateness of warplanes showing off their military might over civilian cities while essentially the same planes were busy raining down destruction over Afghanistan, etc. "But these are just showplanes," I said. "There're no bombs on them."

"Yeah," he replied, "That's what they want you to think."

More realistically, consider C-Baby's thought: "I just keep wondering how much this is costing me." Not more than the yearly salary of a few dozen teachers, probably.* (I know, this hardly sounds like the words of someone who went to Space Camp, but I guess I lost the air and space bug when I found out that astronauts have to do a lot of math.)

*According to the Navy's website above, the team uses approximately 3.1 million gallons of airplane fuel per year. I'm sure they get a good deal on it, though.

Wrapped Up Like A New-Age Day Spa
For your personal care, holistic health, and aromatherapy needs, the following assortment of extremely Non-Essential Oils is now available from WULAD Personal Care Products:

• Hand-pressed Organic Concrete Oil


• God Liver Oil


• Fractionated Oil of Hawaiian Pizza


• Nilla® Extract


• Partially Hydrogenated MexiMelt Oil


• Pastor Oil


• Oil Get You, My Pretty (Groaning Added)


• Essence of Wilford Brimley


• No-Blood-For Oil


• Oil of VH1’s Top 25 Make-Out Videos of the 90s, hosted by Soleil Moon Frye


• Valvoline MaxLife Higher-Mileage Engine Oil of Passionflower


• Hairy Palm Oil


• First Cold-Pressed Unfiltered Foot-Scab Oil


• Oil of Dow Jones Industrial Average


• Expeller-Pressed Organic Blogseed Oil

Supplies are limited, so order now! And with every purchase, you’ll also receive a FREE CD from the WULAD Environments Series, The Soothing Sounds of My Neighbors Getting It On. Don’t miss out on this holistic meltdown of an offer!

Friday FrightFest
He’s… comin’ right at us!

He’s… looking at me!

He’s… doing things!

He’s… doing other things!

Self-Serving yet Humble Note to Readers: If you've enjoyed this commercial-free episode of Wrapped Up Like a Douche™, please tell your friends! Link to WULAD from your Collectible Souvenir "Stars of Lawn Darts" Ice Cream Cups Clubs webring, or your Solo Projects of Former Members of Menudo message board! Don't keep the Pearl of the World Wide Web to yourself!

Dinette Vignettes, vol. mcvxi
Polk St. Station, last Saturday, 1 p.m. The burly waiter guy interrupts our conversation when someone mentions Tom Jones... "Tom Jones! I remember my mom bein' crazy about Tom Jones in the seventies. She used to wear those little tiny miniskirts with the panties that were the same color so she wouldn't get in trouble when she sat down! Eh? Know what I mean?" A few minutes later he intrerrupts the lesbian couple next to us: "Hey, you goin' to see Willie Nelson?"

WULAD Wreccomends...
Paul Fisher (of WWKAD? but currently serving as de facto chief of the Neal Pollack government-in-exile) has a suprisingly charitable yet inevitably and appropriately cutting review of aspiring dark lord and dulcet-toned demagogue Bill O'Reilly's recent appearance (and disappearance) on NPR's Fresh Air; I found the following comment particularly incisive: "It's almost hard for me to write about it because I hate Bill O'Reilly so much. And it has surprisingly little to do with his politics... but more to do with his complete disrespect for reasoned analysis or logic. Either that or his ass face."

And here's a nice photo of Condoleeza Rice pouting. And one of the Prez frowning like a Muppet.


One More Thing
Mimi Smartypants was recently saddened to discover that her favorite postmodern Joycean critique and breakfast cereal had been discontinued by the manufacturer. I was lucky enough to find one more box, though. Click the box to view.

This is Gonna Suck
Last night, while watching the Cubs and Marlins trying to rain on each others’ parades, I got a flustered message from one Shan-bear; she was talking about giving up, moving to Mexico, was completely incredulous that "we" have turned over control of our economy, educational system, law enforcement, and most other public institutions we hold dear to a man whose most memorable quality is the ability to appear as if he’s crushing things, kicking people in the groin, and delivering facile one-liners while other things are appearing to explode around him. She called me back a few minutes later. "Considah dat a divoahce," I answered.

She asked whether I’d be joining her in fleeing the country ("I just can’t accept that my governor is going to be Schwarzenegger and my president is Bush"), but I asked her who would stay and fight the good fight if we left. "How can people be so stupid?" was the gist of her point of view—I countered that I didn’t view this election as being so much about Ah-nold vs. Gray, but more Republican vs. Democrat, and that traditionally Republicans prefer their leaders to be charismatic figureheads (such as Reagan and our current Action Figure in chief) who surround themselves with knowledgeable advisors who the voters trust will agree with them—so this was no exception. And I didn’t believe that the Ah-nold camp was necessarily stupid, they just had a vastly different world-view than Shan-bear or I (believing that the Bible is true, that poor people are poor because they’re lazy, that immigrants are stealing our jobs, that taxes are evil, etc.). In fact, the people who organized the recall were obviously intelligent, resourceful, and much more organized than the Democrats’ feeble efforts at resistance. Not to mention that a "throw the bums out" mentality will almost always work when people are fearing for their jobs.

"So you’re gonna insist on being the voice of reason, is that it?" she asked. I told her I wasn’t happy about it, but I wasn’t at all surprised, either, and that I’d rather focus my attention on something where the outcome holds at least a little suspense, like the Cubs/Marlins game. "Well, call me if you think of something that’ll cheer me up," she sighed.

"You mean that doesn’t start with a 'Jack' and end with a 'Daniels'?" I asked.

Later, as I was watching a few of the man-on-the-street interviews at the polls, I almost called Shan-bear to correct myself—"Yeah, I voted for Arnold 'cause he’s really gonna shake things up," said one guy; "Our state’s a mess, and we need somebody to get in there and clean house," said another; and I remembered C-Baby telling me about the suburban mom in the Chronicle who wasn't worried about the groping charges because she thought Arnold was "pretty neat"—these people were stupid. I couldn’t believe I had wasted my breath defending them as concerned yet misguided everymen (and everywomen). They really were a bunch of freakin’ idiots. You win, Shan-bear; I’ll see you at the airport.

As a side note, I did think Arnold’s victory speech to his supporters was a little strange—I’ve included a transcript here so you can judge for yourselves:

Howdy, Strangers; this is Arnold. If things have gone wrong, I'm talking to myself—and you've got a wet towel wrapped around your head. Now whatever your name is, get ready for the big surprise—You're not you. You're me. All my life I worked for Mars Intelligence. I did Cohaagen's dirty work. Then a few weeks ago, I met somebody—a woman. And I learned a few things; like I've been playing for the wrong team. [Sighs.] All I can do now is try to make up for it.

[Taps on his forehead.] There's enough shit in here to fuck Cohaagen good. Unfortunately, if you're listening to this, that means he got to me first. And here comes the hard part, old buddy: now it's all up to you. Sorry to drag you into it, but you're the only one I can trust. First, let's get rid of that bug in your head. [Holds up plastic bag.] Take this thing out of the case and stick it up your nose. Don't worry; it's self guiding. Just shove real hard... When you hear the crunch, you're there. Just pull it out. And be careful. It's my head, too.

Now this is the plan. Get your ass to Mars. Then go the Hilton and flash the Brubaker I.D. at the desk. That's all there is to it. Just do what I tell you, and we can nail that sonovabitch who fucked you and me and millions of other poor bastards here on Mars… I mean California. I'm counting on you, buddy. Don't let me down. [Crowd erupts into thunderous applause.]

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Via Scrubbles, the glorious, mouth-watering mail-order junk of yesteryear. Required reading for anyone who ever fantasized about hand buzzers, Sea Monkeys, 1000 pc. soldier sets, etc.—as well as a sub-minimum-wage child-labor-for-crappy-prizes racket that would make Ayn Rand proud.

From Chocobaby: Because "it's better when it looks pretty," the perfect gift for the woman who has almost everything.

And lastly, because if I had started with baseball most of you would no longer be reading, King Kaufman of Salon dissects the most memorable play of the postseason so far: No-mah and Bill Mueller's ultra-smooth put-out at second after the relentlessly replayed skull-crunching collision of Johnny Damon and Damian Jackson. (Brief ad-watching necessary to read the article.) It was almost a little too smooth, if you know what I mean. (I got my eye on you, Nomar.) So the Sox head back east to face the Evil Empire, and the World Series of my dreams (no, not the version of the 2000 series where the Mets win)—the Curse Bowl, you could say—is just a combined eight wins away. (Best quote of the division series: "Well, Dontrelle [Willis]'s mom knows her son ate his Wheaties today, but the question is, did he eat enough?" Answer: maybe not, but Pudge Rodriguez apparently ate enough for both of them.)

Bonus: here's a nice photo of one of the charming young men rooting for the A's last night.

Don't Make Her Come Over There
Special message to Californians: You see this? If you don't vote today, this woman will come to your apartment and sing house remixes of all her hits until you realize what a lousy citizen you are, and would it kill you to put away that pile of socks? You did laundry like a week ago.

Wrapped Up Like An Endorsement
For those readers lucky enough to live in The Sunshine State, current headquarters of the WULAD media empire and home to millions of kvetching New Yorkers who nevertheless refuse to leave, we are happy to tell you exactly what to do as you stand scratching your head in the ballot box tomorrow morning. So get out your pencils and listen carefully to the issues presented to you—if you find you disagree with any of our vehement suggestions, WULAD assures you the problem is with you, not us.

Shall GRAY DAVIS be recalled (removed) from the office of Governor?
WULAD implores: NO.

Candidates to succeed GRAY DAVIS as Governor if he is recalled:
WULAD beseeches: Cruz Bustamante, D. (Incidentally, I was present during his controversial speech, and I'm pretty sure he actually said either "Niagara" or "noggin", or was asking for a refreshing Negra Modelo.)

Resist the temptation to vote for "fun" candidates like Lorraine (Abner Zurd) Fontanes, Trek Thunder Kelly, Michael Jackson (no relation), Dan Feinstein (no relation), Arnold Schwarzenegger (no relation), Kurt E. "Tachikaze" Rightmyer, Arnold "TouchiAze" Schwarzenegger, David Laughing Horse Robinson, or Arnold Grabbing Ass Schwarzenegger. Additionally, I urge you not to vote for anyone who appeared in a film grossing over $1 million this year. Or Schwarzenegger.

Propostition 54: Classification by race, ethnicity, color, or national origin. Initiative Constitutional Amendment.
WULAD entreats: NO.
All the talk about medical records is a smokescreen for the fact that this is an anti-affirmative action measure sponsored by our old buddy Ward "Colorblind Society" Connerly. WULAD thinks you should vote against it but respects your right to disagree, whereas if you vote for Arnold, WULAD will never speak to you again.

Remember, if you don't run for governor, don't complain!

WULAD vs. The Old People
For reasons I will never begin to fathom, the cosmos has recently chosen to throw in my general direction some of the Bay Area’s most ornery, belligerent senior citizens (and “citizen” is an extremely charitable designation). I present, for your incredulous perusal, three examples of these Silver Shriekers, in the hope that you might gain some appreciation of the creeping menace our Cherished Elders represent...

Route: 1 California, outbound
Time: Monday, 6:30 p.m.
The California bus during rush hour resembles a roller-coaster, except that riders are usually standing, tightly yet awkwardly packed, and not buckled in; therefore flying limbs, briefcases, or small children are not an uncommon sight. It climbs and descends some of San Fran’s steepest hills—somehow the intrepid MUNI drivers manage to slam on the brakes even while driving up them—so at any given moment a passenger may be thrown forward, backward, or sideways, often with extremely comedic results, except when they land on you. This particular day I’m standing, sardine-fashion, near the front of the bus, when a guy in his early 20s steps on the bus with a briefcase and a soda can. I hear a piercing voice coming from the seniors/disabled seats, in front of and below me.

Shrill Old Lady: Hey! You can’t have an open soda on the bus!

Soda Guy: It’s almost empty, don’t worry.

SOL: What?! You can’t have soda on the bus! Put it away! Put it away!
[SG shakes his head and turns to face away from SOL.]

SOL: This stupid guy won’t put his can away! You can’t have a soda on the bus! Hey, stupid! [At this point something in me clicks. I know it’s pointless and I’ll end up regretting it, but I take the plunge anyway.]

Me (softly but deliberately): Hey, chill out, lady, OK?
[I know, not a very characteristic thing for me to say, but I’m new to this “champion of the defenseless” gig.]

SOL: Excuse me?!

Me: Chill… Out. It’s not a big deal.

SOL: Not a big deal?! This jerk won’t put away his soda!

Me: He’s not a jerk, he’s just a guy with a soda!

SOL: He’s going to spill it on all of us!

Me: He just told you it’s almost empty! Why don’t you wait until after he spills it, and then you can yell at him.

SOL: After he spills it?! That’s too late! [To other riders:] After he spills it!

Me: Because he’s not going to spill it, is what I mean!

Guy Towards Back of Bus: It’s against the rules! Stop harassing the lady!

Me (getting increasingly freaked-out): Who’s harassing who?!

We pull up to my stop, and I realize soda guy has been off the bus for some time. As I step to the curb, I hear SOL screeching at Guy Towards the Back, “After he spills it! You shoulda knocked that guy’s block off!”

Route: 3 Sutter, outbound
Time: Wednesday, 5:35 p.m.
As I often find that even the relatively narrow profile I present when carrying my trumpet case on my back still manages to become a huge obstacle to certain high-maintenance bus-riders, I decide to duck into the exit stairwell at the middle of the bus and thus stay out of the aisle. While standing there (seemingly) unobtrusively and staring blankly out the window at the posh hotels, automotive repair shops, and back-alley massage parlors of Post Street (where I once overheard a hotel guest asking a concierge, “Yeah, but where do I find the whores?”) I start to feel pressure on my back; when it fails to abate after a few seconds, I turn around to see a wiry and frazzled-looking elderly guy pushing into my coat. I look questioningly into his fierce eyes.

Frazzled Elderly Guy: Are you getting off at the next stop?

Me: No.

FEG: Then why are you standing there?

Me: I’m trying to stay out of the aisle.

FEG: How’re people gonna get off? People have to get off, you know.

Me: I’ll let you by when you need to get off.

FEG: I’m getting off now!

Me (getting frazzled myself): You’re getting off while the bus is moving?

FEG (confusedly): Well, no…
[I see a seat and decide to give up the fight.]

FEG (to himself as he steps off the bus): Too many people on this bus...

Route: 27 Bryant, inbound
Time: Friday, 9:10 a.m.
I often nervously watch old people board the bus and slowly make their way to a seat, often still lowering themselves as the bus slams into gear and tears away from the curb, thanks to our expert drivers. On more than one occasion I’ve had to catch an unfortunate senior who loses his or her balance and starts careening down the aisle. This particular day a wizened woman in her who looked to be in her eighties decides to walk to the back exit from her seat at the front of the bus while the bus itself is making a speedy turn around a corner; all the passengers along her route hold their hands out as she passes, lurching back and forth with every step. As she tilts past, flailing for the occasional support bar, I say, “careful…”

“I’m too old,” she snaps, “is that what you’re saying? Too old to ride the bus, eh?!”

If I somehow live to my golden years, you better believe I’m going to milk the crotchety old guy thing and make the youngsters pay for all this abuse.

Nothing New Under the Douche
Matthew Tobey recently found that The Onion had, intentionally or no, stolen his idea for a story about Governator Arnold’s use of movie titles in campaign speeches; I’m now stealing that concept to point out that a recent McSweeney’s item on The Goonies has quite a few similarities to my Top Ten Problems with same, published earlier. I’m not alleging plagiarism, of course—The Goonies is, after all, a gloriously appropriate vehicle for satirical criticism—I believe that this is just a further example of the dictum that any idea you can think of has already been done, possibly by many, probably better, and the internet is a marvelous tool for demonstrating this. Therefore The Onion was only acknowledging the ultimate futility of developing new ideas by coming up with other people’s ideas retroactively. Further, I’ve stolen the previous “nothing new on the internet” concept from Defective Yeti, and this entire post has been lifted almost verbatim from a comment I left on Matthew Tobey’s aforementioned site. Anyway, it’s time to get back to work on my screenplay—it’s about a group of kids who find pirate booty.

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Or, Titillating Tidbits of Triumph, Tub-thumping and Troglodism at Game 1 of the American League Division Series, Oakland Coliseum.

[Note to non-baseball fans: Since this post contains humorous anecdotes and incisive observations about society not limited to the purview of Our National Game, it is suitable for general readers and is not to be skimmed over lightly like an air-dried pudding. Thank you.]

The WULAD News team was fortunate enough to send a delegation to the opener of the American League playoff series last night between the Oakland Athletics and the Boston Red Sox, consisting of myself (not having picked a favorite yet) and Belle (an old-school Boston girl). Here are some of the highlights—close your eyes, read them, and you can almost smell the peanuts. Or maybe read them and then close your eyes.

Pre-game. During the singing of our National Anthem by a trio of unfortunate a capella Air Force harmonizers, three crimson-bedecked Bostonians—two twins (as I told Belle, “They got the same strain of ugly”) and an alpha-male ringleader with ball cap jauntily askew—hold their Bud Lights high in the air as a kind of alcoholic’s salute to our cherished ideals of 40-foot flags, fireworks, and terrifyingly low-flying fighter jets. “America,” they seemed to be saying, “this Bud’s for you!”

Bottom 2nd inning. Due to Belle’s desire to experience the feeling of eating a hot dog without actually consuming der verboten schnitzel itself, she devises an ingenious plan to create a “Not Dog”, demonstrated below:


You’ll notice that this plan, while providing Belle with her condiment-laden dogless dog, leaves me to contend with a massive, double hot dog, the likes of which I will never see again. (And I must add that one “Coliseum Dog” alone is at least 1.5 times the size of Pac Bell Park’s corresponding “Giants Dog.”) In a tribute to the heroic efforts being put forth by the players below, I valiantly attack and defeat this Monster Dog, ignoring the pleas for temperance coming from my digestive system. If I don’t devour this hot dog, I think, the terrorists and other freedom-hating enemies of nitrite-infused forced meats have already won.

Mid 4th. In the men’s room, I see a man standing at a urinal watching a portable TV he is holding with his free hand. I vow never to pick up a TV I find on the sidewalk again.

7th Inning Stretch. After I sing the one-note-displaced version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” (“Take ME out to the ball-GAME, TAKE, Me out to the crowd BUY,” etc.) that my dad taught me (a version of which was later recorded by the Skeletons), the bouncy A’s girl next to me asks, “what song were you singing?” (Belle: “Any time you see a ponytail pulled through the back of a ball cap, it’s a bad sign.”)

Top 8th. We hear a kid in the row behind us tell his family he wants to start the wave; Belle tells him he should “go down there and do it!” “I’m too embarrassed,” says the kid. So Belle offers to embarrass herself with him, and down they go to the front row. After a few unsuccessful attempts to get anybody other than me and the kid’s parents out of their seats, one of the obnoxious Red Sox fans mentioned earlier starts flipping the bird to the two would-be wave-makers. “Hey,” shouts a voice from behind me, “that’s my kid you’re flipping off!” Belle yells to the flipper-offer, “I’m a Boston fan!”, not realizing until afterwards that this will not endear her to the rest of the crowd. So they resign themselves to the immobility of their audience and make their way back up the stairs. “Hey Boston-boy,” yells Belle when she gets back to her seat, “Why you flippin’ me off? I’m on your side, you idiot!”

Mid 9th. As the accumulated alcohol starts to stew in their systems, the tempers of the increasingly rowdy Bostonians start to rise. At one point we watch as Alpha-Sock, while arguing with one of his A’s fan-buddies, pours his Bud Light slowly and deliberately on A’s boy's head. “Please,” I think, “start fighting and get kicked out!” But, deferring to Alpha’s authority and fearful of the consequences of challenging clan leadership, the buddy merely turns away and changes his shirt and hat, sitting down to sulk and give his den-brothers the silent treatment.

Bottom 9th. Belle castigates me for failing to enthusiastically root for the Red Sox to win. I tell her I want more baseball, extra innings, etc. After the Boston bullpen gives up the tying run, I tell her, “Let them win it in the 11th.”

Bottom 10th. As the night deepens and the pitchers come and go and still the game endures, we feel our posteriors slowly turning to permafrost. Belle suddenly gets a craving: “Mmmmm… Coffee ice cream…” Belle’s cravings are a little weird.

Top 11th. The Red Sox fail to take the lead. “You said they’d win in the 11th!” barks Belle. “You promised!” (Most creative anti-Boston sign: a giant green placard reading “1918”—the last year the Red Sox won the World Series.)

Bottom 12th. Answering my increasingly non-silent prayer, a giant, formidably burly A’s fan and his significant other plant themselves directly behind our favorite group of rowdy Red Sox supporters, and suddenly their chest-beating dwindles to a low murmur. It could also be that, as Belle points out, “they stopped selling beer like two hours ago.” Minutes later, making his best effort to finish the game on the same calendar date it started, Ramon Hernandez lays down his perfect “walkoff bunt” to win the game for the A’s and a roar rises from the suddenly vindicated locals. Our bouncer-sized A’s fan laughs uproariously at our Beantown Buddies, and throws a crumpled napkin at Alpha-male, who makes his best “How scandalously uncouth of you, my good man; whatever were you thinking?” face and makes for the exit along with the Lee twins, “Ug” and “Home.” (Yes, old bad stolen joke.)

Post-game. Apparently the builders of the Coliseum never considered the idea of thousands of fans simultaneously leaving the stadium for the BART station, since the only route across the railroad tracks to the platform is a footbridge less than 20 feet wide with a chain-link roof and a razor-wire lined archway entrance which reminds Belle of Auschwitz. Naturally, we have another half-hour or so to stand around and listen to endless recaps from the trying-to-stay-happy-to-keep-from-screaming-in-cold-and-frustration fans. “Hey, that was a hell of a play in the fourth, eh?” … “Yeah, that was a good one.” … “And how about that one in the fifth?” … “Yeah…” As we finally step off the train back in San Fran, we pass a man wearing an A’s cap, a green shirt, yellow shorts and tights, and a long yellow cape with “A’s” on it. Somebody sees him and shouts, “Go A’s!” but he glances suspiciously out of the corner of his eye as if to say, “what are you talking about?” That's the spirit, slugger. For Belle and WULAD Sports, this is Yours Truly signing off from Oakland. Back to you in the studio, Kitty.

Wrapped Up Like A Guest Commentator
Today, WULAD proudly presents the following contribution, from your friendly neighborhood Obstreperous Coworker:

SF Gate: Truly Unbiased Voice of the People
Here's my impression of a (shortened) unbiased article from SF Gate on police brutality:

"Cops don't be treatin' black people fair," said one man while chugging a forty and scratching his balls with a 357 Magnum. He would only identify himself as Short Fatty. Another woman we spoke to as she bought cigarettes and vodka for her underage daughter snapped, "the cops deserved to be lynched, them racist bastards."

But other residents from a nearby neighborhood disagree. Todd Wilmore had the kindness and decency to speak to us on his way to seminary school. "The police do an excellent job of protecting citizens from all walks of life. I am honored to live in a city that has the privilege of employing a police department that exemplifies courage, honor, and impeccable judgement."

"And remember," Obstrep adds, "if you go to Oakland, don't miss the plastic seat on the fence; you might get a pole up your ass."

Axis & Allies & Fuzzy Q-tip Hats
This story (via C-baby) describes a Texas high school marching band director who was shocked, shocked that the audience at a football game could misconstrue his field show featuring a Nazi flag as anything other than the masterwork of historical drama it was. (Am I the only one who's surprised that, this being Texas, nobody saluted?)

I, for one, mourn the lost days of wholesome, family field shows such as the following:

In 1990, the [Stanford] band was briefly banned from the state of Oregon for hacking up a stuffed spotted owl during a half-time performance at the U. of O. In 1994, 21 bandmembers made national news for performing "She's Not There" on the steps of the L.A. County Courthouse during the O.J. Simpson trial. And last year the university was forced to apologize to Notre Dame for a half-time performance in which a member conducted the band with a crucifix while dressed in a nun's habit and recited a script that said Irish culture consists mostly of "fighting and starving."

Still WULAD After All These Years
Yes, yes. Long time no blog. I’m still working on Law & Order: Special Douche Unit Part III, which can be expected this week. But hopefully the glamorous new graphic above will dazzle and distract you enough that you’ll forgive the relative lack of new or interesting content. Today’s content will have at least one of those attributes, however.

Wrapped Up Like 162 Games
I feel I should conjure up some sort of post-mortem on the long, dark winter of a long, hot summer that the New York Mets inflicted on themselves and anyone unfortunate enough to consider themselves a fan this year—but I don’t feel like it. Instead, read this good Times piece on some of the historic match-ups that could be headed our way in the Centennial Fall Classic. Here are the battles I’m rooting for, in order of preference:

• Cubs/Red Sox: The “Impossible Dream” Series—with Red Sox in 7, extra innings, heart attacks from Logan to O’Hare.



• Giants/A’s: The “WULAD Most Likely to Get A Ticket” Series—Gotta say I’d pull for the Elephants in this one. Barry’s got lots of gas left in the tank anyway, so we might as well make him wait a few more years so as not to tempt him to retire early.



• Braves/A’s: The “God I Hate the Freaking Braves” Series—How about the near-canonized John Smoltz walking Miguel Tejada with the bases loaded to lose Game 7? Or, as a last resort,



• Giants/Yankees: The “Destroy All Monsters” Series—I never, ever, root for the Yankees, so Clare-bear & I could let bygones be bygones and support the Real Baseball League together in peace and harmony. (He’s still wrong about expanding the playoffs, though. You want more baseball? Extend the division series to 7 games. I shall say no more on this subject.)

Belle and I will be live and in person at Game 1 of the A’s/Red Sox division series Wednesday, so those few of you who give a rat’s ass can tune in Thursday for a full report on Pedro, Hudson, the excitement, the cockroaches, the whole Network Associates Coliseum playoff experience. Until then…

The Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital
I leave you with a letter I sent to Mimi Smartypants after reading the schedule for a James Joyce conference to which she linked:

Dear Madam:
I happened to notice that one of the lectures at the Joyce Conference is "The Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital" by Rhoda Zabargian. Rhoda Zabargian?! I was talking about the freaking Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital when Rhoda Zabargian was running around in her freaking kneepants wiping her nose and flunking kindergarten. I was giving lectures on the Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital in my freaking sleep when Rhoda Zabargian was boinking her professors to try and keep a 'C' average! I was wiping my ass with papers on the goddamn freaking Bildungsroman as Cultural freaking Capital when Rhoda "don't know much about the Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital" Zabargian was copying her thesis verbatim from Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital for Dummies, which incidentally I wrote!

That said, you may rest assured that in no way is my opinion of Rhoda Zabargian and her "knowledge" of the Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital affected by the fact that she left me at the altar and ran off to Burning Man with a pole-sitting Gypsy, but not before shouting loudly about some of my very private medical problems in front of the assembled guests, including several highly regarded Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital scholars; or that, ever since, I have abandoned my position as the Rhoda Zabargian Distinguished Chair of Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital Studies at Yale to devote as much time as possible to maintaining the magnificent gothic shrine to the memory of our lost love that I have painstakingly constructed out of 400+ lbs. of cured cold-cuts in my apartment. Rhoda, please come back! I didn't mean it. You're the genius of Bildungsroman as Cultural Capital—I'm just a worthless hack. I wouldn't know a Bildungsroman from a hole in the ground. Rhoda? Please, I'm sorry...

Set, Spike, Snivel
You know those little travel-agency pop-up ads that have little games on them, like hitting a baseball, or striking out a batter, or carrying luggage across the street, or the fat guy who jumps off a diving board? Well that goddamn volleyball one, man, I can’t hit that damn ball for the life of me. I have spent literally minutes trying to spike that freaking ball, and I come up with nothing. But you see, I’ve had a tough road with volleyball through the years, so this is no exception:

• When I was in 4th grade our gym class was playing volleyball, and although I’d managed to stay out of the way for most of the game (as part of my ongoing strategy to avoid scrutiny from the snarling, stuffed red jogging suit of a teacher and überjock kids), my peripheral vision suddenly detected a speeding white mass hurtling toward my head. I did what any red-blooded, 98-lb., last-to-be-picked nerd would have done, which was to shield my face with my hands while frantically ducking as the ball bounced off my head and out of play. I immediately heard a guttural explosion from the sidelines. “Carey!” shouted the jogging suit, “what the heck was that?! I want effort in my class, how are you going to grow up to be a man,” etc. “I’m sorry,” I whimpered, “but I tried.” (Well, tried to get out of the way, anyway.) This feeble attempt at self-defense brought on a torrent of invective the likes of which Thomas Jefferson Elementary had never seen, and may never see again. In some hallways of the school, on a quiet day, you can probably still hear his roar echoing faintly from the distant Reagan years.
  


• In the summer of ‘90, I went to a pool party with my second girlfriend, about whom the less said, the better. (She wasn’t a fundamentalist Christian, though, which put her way ahead of the first one.) Some guy she used to date was in the pool, playing water-volleyball… I got in and half-heartedly played a few minutes, but the smell of hot dogs on the grill far outweighed the stench of my miserable play, so I got out in search of forced meat on a bun, and to avoid further embarrassment. My girlfriend sulked for the rest of the party and her gabbing friend later told me she thought I’d acted “like a wimp.”
  


• Three years later, I once again found myself confronted with my old nemesis, this time on the glass-strewn blacktop of my final year of Phys Ed. One fine day I looked up to see the familiar sight of an off-white round missile flying at my head—I finally had the chance to right the wrongs of the past and start anew! With lightning quickness, I threw my hand up, and felt a shooting pain as the ball jammed the knuckle of my middle finger, then fell to the ground, its mission accomplished. As my finger started to swell, I saw my P.E. teammate, the giant, burly she-male star of the league champion Varsity volleyball squad, walking toward me with clenched fists and a curled upper lip. “Dumb… shit!” she growled, her rage barely contained within her thick, quaking frame. After a second of staring fiercely as I looked back in horror, she turned slowly and lumbered back to her position. (Later, in the non-combat atmosphere of Economics class, she said sheepishly, “Sorry I gave you a hard time in P.E. ... I get serious about volleyball.”

These are the kind of stories that make C-baby say, “your childhood makes me sad.”

You Can’t Steal Home Again
This post is sort of about baseball, but also about life, laundry and the pursuit of sappiness and all sorts of other pertinent stuff, so I suggest that those of you who usually skip the baseball-related items withhold your groans and eyeball-rolls until the end.

So last night I’m crumpled on my cat-battered chair, laundry finally done (after at least a week of being ill and improvising solutions to my lack of underwear—you don’t want to know), remote in hand, switching furiously between watching the Oakland Athletics scrappling with Rodriguez’s Rangers, and the Mariners fighting for their post-season lives with the Anaheim “Last Year is A Lifetime Away” Angels… both games are in the ninth, with Oakland able to clinch the division with a win and a Mariners loss, lots of drama and all that, and although I’m pulling for the A’s—not only because they’re the Bay Area equivalent of the Mets, having a more blue-collar (for millionaires, that is), younger and scrappier feel than the yuppified Giants juggernaut, but also because I want to see the Red Sox in the playoffs instead of their wild-card-rival Mariners, even if they’re likely to lose spectacularly—I really don’t want it to end.

The thing is, I already miss the baseball season. Well, those of you who are still reading are thinking, that doesn’t make any sense, since a) it’s not over yet, there’s still a week of regular season left, as well as the excitement of the playoffs, World Series®, etc.; and b) in another sense it was over long ago, as “my” team has been out of contention since June and is currently fielding a group of striking janitors in place of its professionals, all of whom are more urgently needed in the Dominican winter league training camps or at their jobs as jugglers and sketch-artists at Disneyworld. I admit those are valid points, but—I just like knowing that there are baseball games happening. I guess it’s some of that summer-worship I’ve had since grade school (excluding a seven-year respite during my stay in New York, when the summer months were so miserable and malodorous that I couldn’t wait for the snow to come), or maybe it’s the inevitable brightness that a game on TV brings into my apartment whether or not I’m actively paying attention to it. You could say that might not be a good sign for my life in general—that I’m relying on the flickering images of frolicking overpaid man-children to make my living space comfortable—but there it is. And I miss it when it’s gone.

Anyway, back in the real world of last night, the baseball gods honored my wish and sent both games to extra innings, and I was able to relish that bit of grassy eternity for a little while longer. That is, until the two heroes of the night—Adam Melhuse of the A’s and Tim Salmon of the Angels—won the games for their teams and left the A’s with the division title. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to enjoy the rest of the season, but I’m secretly pulling for every single game from now until Commisioner Bud hands the trophy to somebody (hopefully not wearing white and blue pinstripes) to go 10, 11, 16 innings, and put off as long as possible that long, dark wait for April.

Nuts 'n' Bolts note: You may have noticed that the WULAD faithful (that includes you) now have the ability to leave comments, praise, criticism, insults, write-ups, come-ons, put-downs, triple-dog dares, etc. beneath each post. I encourage you to do this early and often. However, the comments boxes/links/whatever have been disappearing occasionally due to server issues at the thingamajig provider, so if at first you don’t succeed…

Hail to the WULAD
President Bush was on TV last night being interviewed by my former lover and nude racquetball partner Brit Hume (of the relentlessly muckraking FoxNews), whose Fair and Balanced queries nevertheless made the Main Man revert to his “Are you going to make me pretend I give an armadillo’s caboose about what those unbelieving cityfolk have to say about my Divinely Inspired rule?” smirk, which shows less teeth than Cheney’s but has that downward-turned-corners-of-the-mouth thing that communicates his disdain pretty well. All in all, it seemed like a good interview, but I was kind of surprised by a few of his announcements:

• that he was un-retiring Gen. Wesley Clark and appointing him Chief Smiles Officer for the Army’s new door-to-door Baptist Erotica Book Club fundraiser in either Afghanistan or Iraqistan, he forgets which;



• that he was setting up a new high-security detention facility in Cuba specifically for librarians; and



• that he and Atty. General Ashcroft were working on a revised, “Opt-In” version of the constitution, although he assured the citizenry that the proper Applications for Civil Liberties (CL-40 if single, CL-40z if married, CL-X if gay and married, CL-Ø if Muslim, CL-$ if campaign donor, CL-69 if Bill Clinton) would be available at your local Wal-Mart on every third Wednesday in months not containing the letters A, E, I, O, or U (also Y if Homeland Defense Alert Level is “Yellow” or higher).

Also I found it strange that he inadvertently referred to Arnold Schwarzenegger as “Benevolent Feudal Lord of the Yee-haw Surfin' Cowboy Fiefdom of Californ-eye-ay,” and then corrected himself by calling Schwarzenegger “He Who Shall be Seated at the Right Hand of the Mighty Sovereign King. Begone!”

Brushes With Brushes With Greatness
Over the course of my many travels, journeys, wanderings, escapades, undertakings, voyages, exploits, sexploits, jaunts, treks, excursions, sexcursions, adventures, expeditions, sexpeditions, madcap romps, and the like, I have been fortunate to have many encounters with people who have had encounters with some of the shining stars of this world—the glitterati, if you like—and I would like to share some with you, the reader, in the hope that some of the magic that rubbed off on those that met these remarkable people, which in turn rubbed off on me in a slightly reduced amount, might somehow pass a small residual part of that vicariously vicarious sparkle to you and your workaday existence, or sexistence, as the case may be.

• My dad once went to a party that the late John Ritter was also attending.


• He also saw Roy Scheider at an airport, but didn't say anything to him because he (Scheider, not my dad) wasn't wearing a shirt.


• A friend of mine shared an orange with Allen Ginsberg.


• The same friend also watched The X-Files with former governor Edmund G. "Jerry" Brown.


• Another friend went to Jon Cryer's wedding.


• The same friend once rode in an elevator with Dabney Coleman.


• My sister met Magic Johnson at a party and said he was a jerk.


• Another friend flashed her boobs at Chris Isaak (I don't blame her—he's a handsome guy. Not that I'd have sex with him. Unless maybe there was a lot of money involved or if I thought it would advance my career. Forget I mentioned it.) (Chris—call me.)


• A woman I used to work with met Fidel Castro, or so she claimed. She may have been hallucinating.


• Another friend's mother is old friends with Orlando Cepeda. (This is technically a brush with a brush with a brush with greatness.)


• Timothy Busfield once cut my dad off on the freeway.


• At a party, S.F. mayor Willie Brown once said suggestively to a friend of mine, "Gimme some o' that sugar."


• While doing a headstand in yoga class, a friend fell over and landed on Willem Dafoe.


• A different friend witnessed a confrontation between the same Willem Dafoe and a juice-bar employee. (Celebrities!)


• I once got hit on by the daughter of a famous funk drummer from the 70s whose name I will withold for fear of legal action. (My mind is goin' through them changes, though.)


• A guy I used to work with played a voice on an answering machine in Sleepless in Seattle.


• Another friend saw the woman from Law & Order at The Vagina Monologues and said her head looks much bigger than on TV.

Now doesn't everybody feel just a little bit less insignificant? I thought so. Got further B.w.B.w.Gs? Send them in and I'll publish the best of them, and you, too, will be able to share some small part of that twice-reflected glory.

Why, Spock, Why?
This video (via Dave Barry) brings to mind an issue that my dad talks about a lot when discussing his collection of ugly (or otherwise remarkable) ties—that there is a four-part process that has to take place in order for something so outlandish to exist: first, someone must conceive the idea ("I've got a great idea for a ____!"); then someone must agree to sponsor it ("That is a great idea for a ____. Let's make it happen!"); somebody has to actually produce the thing ("Are you sure that's how you want it?"); and finally, a consumer must actually buy it (or for our purposes, watch it). In the case of this video, I find it truly staggering that this project made it from conception, through approval and production, and all the way to being shown on TV—yet there it is. Fascinating. And really, really bad.

Take My Freedom—Please!
Attorney General and Dark Lord John Ashcroft has been on a kind of a book tour lately, and by “book” I mean to say "horrifying Draconian evisceration of the cherished priciples of our free society." He's very disappointed with all of us and our failure to get on board the Civil-Liberty-Smashing Train that is the "USA Patriot Act," which was originally to be called the "Terrorism is Bad Act." He wants us all to stop worrying about little things like constitutional protections, the rule of law, and such, and focus on the big picture of the need for the government to be able to abuse the rights of its citizens unchecked in pursuit of dangerous terrorists such as telemarketers. The idea is for the public to put its faith not in mamby-pamby laws like the Bill of Rights or the equal protection guarantees of the Constitution, but in the good intentions of a benevolent protector government, which he assures us is really acting in the best interest of us all—and by "us all" I mean to say "the Republican Party and other non-troublemakers." I trust him, don’t you? He has such an honest face.

In Happier News
I don’t know about you, but I just love seeing the phrase “appreciation for a woman's round, tight butt” in a news story.

Take Me Out to the WULAD
The S.F. Giants clinched the National League West title last night, making them the first team in the majors to seal up their division. They have spent the entire season in first place, which has only happened nine times in baseball history, and have been at least 8½ games ahead of their closest competitor since July. How boring.

The Mets, meanwhile, are proving to be gracious losers, resisting the temptation to play “spoiler” by beating any playoff-contending teams. Apparently their historic sweep of the Braves last month was a kind of last hurrah before rolling over and inviting the rest of the National League to slap them around, ridicule them, sleep with their wives, call their children names, and dance on the grave of this pitiable season. But wait ‘til (the year after) next year!

New Bottle, Old Whine
In the continuing interest of reminding you how entertaining this website can be, I've been gradually moving most of my favorite posts from the old, inconvenient site to the archives of this one. If you just cannot live by the semi-daily bread I give you alone, feel free to browse the weekly digests under "Archives" at right. I'll be glad you did.

Neighborhood Spotlight
As a new feature, WULAD will be turning its attention to notable attractions in the area; our global readers can get a taste of San Fran without leaving the comfort of their dilapidated, tiny-Styrofoam-ball-oozing beanbag chair, while local readers can visit these Scintillating Spots themselves. Today’s column focuses on All-Stars Donuts—truly the crossroads of San Francisco. How can I begin to list its charms? As the ironically praise-laden Guardian cartoon hung non-ironically on the wall notes, they’ve got coffee, cops, speed freaks, and free parking. And at 5th and Harrison, it’s conveniently located only a block from the city Mental Health Services office! The folks I see there are mostly tired-looking middle-aged men eating omelets with blank stares, technology-industry hipsters picking up their coffee on the way to their pink slips, and construction workers buying a hundred bucks’ worth of crullers and Snapple—but then I’ve never been there at 3 a.m., when it must get really interesting. This morning a not-too-disheveled guy in a colorful scarf walked in while I was paying for my item superficially resembling a bagel, approached the counter, and said to all or none of us, with a fierce look in his eye, “Pure and simple... beauty,” followed by something unintelligible. Nobody paid any attention to him. “The words,” he continued as he walked back out the door, “the words. Words!” (This is right around the corner from where I passed a man one day shouting into a hedge, “God, I’m the devil! I’m the devil, God!”) But the staff is indefatigable and gets the job done in spite of it all, although once they gave my bagel to somebody else and I had to wait for them to make another one. Four stars!

In other news, occasionally lovable demagogue Michael Moore sums up a few of the arguments which could potentially influence those who still think Bush is a pretty O.K. guy. I don’t know anybody like that, but if any of you do, share this with them. I might add something about how no administration has ever had the power to hold American citizens indefinitely without charge or judicial review, until now. Just kidding! I’m sure they’d only use that power against somebody who deserved it.

Coming soon—the thrilling conclusion to my tale of Law & Order & Public Urination.

Skeletons in the Closet
Gubernatorial hopeful Ah-nold told Oprah yesterday that an interview from the 70s in which he described drug use and group sex was part of an attempt to promote interest in weightlifting by telling outrageous stories that glamorized the sport. WULAD’s crack research team has discovered that this was in fact an ongoing strategy for Schwarzenegger, and presents the following interview excerpts as examples...

Playboy Magazine, 6/24/84, promoting The Terminator: “Well, you know James Cameron and I spent a lot of time driving around L.A. on a motorcycle killing police, you know, to try to get used to the role… also we jumped on Linda Hamilton, but you know, Cameron can’t do it in front of other guys.”

Variety, 5/15/88, promoting Twins: “Well, I spent a lot of time having sex with twins to prepare for the role, and one time me and the twins jumped on Danny DeVito and took him upstairs, but he was still mad about what Judd Hirsch did to him on the set of Taxi.”

Ladies' Home Journal, 7/18/90, promoting Kindergarten Cop: “Well, you know I spent a lot of time asking people 'who is your daddy, and what does he do?', to get used to the role... also I took a bunch of kids and threw them in jail and interrogated them for hours without food and water, but this was before I really knew much about the script other than the title. And I’ll tell you a secret—this is not a tumor, either.” [pointing and winking.]

Sacramento Bee, 8/24/03, campaigning for Governor: “Well, in the old days I spent a lot of time at hash parties, and one time me and Danny DeVito jumped on Arianna Huffington, but you know Cruz Bustamante can’t do it in front of other guys. Also I have hired a hit man to kill Gray Davis, who I could crush like a twig between my rippling thighs, but I am too busy with the group sex, you know. Join Arnold!”

Captain Marble
He's... looking... at me!

Raising the Clark Bar
Sources say that Wesley Clark has decided to throw his hat into the presidential ring. The great thing is that the Republicans will still try to find a way to paint him as weak on defense (even though he was a decorated general), Ann Coulter will still call him a traitor, it’ll be fun. In case you missed it the first time, here’s my list of potential campaign slogans for my new favorite army guy:

• "I took it to Slobodan Milosevic—Now I'm going to take it to the economy!"
• "If I can command a bunch of Bulgarian fighter pilots, just think what I can do with Congress!"
• "Let's pretend the Kosovo Muslims are the Democrats, and the Yugoslav army is the Republicans, and the Croats are the swing voters, and the Montenegro militia is, um..."
• "The Serbs don't hate me for nothin'!"
• "Blowing shit up for America since 1966!"

The Harsh Face of Potty
Via C-Baby, this is the most gritty, noir-esque paragraph ever found in a Yahoo! news item...

His head is shaved. His red-and-yellow T-shirt proclaims "Cute Girl!" His loose, white-cotton shorts are grimy with dirt. Suddenly, he stops in mid-stride and squats, the seam of his pants parting smoothly to allow a stream of urine to pool onto the concrete.

James Ellroy, look out.

Loosely Organized Blatherings (LOB), vol. xcvii
News flash: Howard Dean is 5'8". I don't know about you, but I doubt the short-man-thing helps with a guy who is going to be painted by his opponents as a soft-on-defense Volvo-driving liberal. If you're thinking that I have lost all idealism and become a pragmatically-minded cynic, you're absolutely correct. In this climate, it's all about electability, and to be honest I'd vote for this guy if he was willing to call himself a Democrat and I thought he could beat President Action Figure. So for the time being I am officially all about Wesley Clark. As I was telling my obstreperous co-worker, I don't know where he stands on the issues and I don't really care. He can win, so get on board and we'll sort out the details once Mr. Giving-Grant-a-Run-for-His-Money-as-Worst-President-Ever is back to Texas and what he does best: running companies into the ground while using taxpayer funds to get rich. On to other business.

I know Clare-Bear hates Lance Armstrong, but I happened to see him yesterday, speeding up the steep grade of Taylor Street with 50 or so of his closest friends. I later learned that he started the race with a fever of 102°, and decided to drop out after a measly 50 miles of steep climbs and hairpin turns. What a wuss.

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Me: Does this outfit make me look like a dork?
Her: You mean more than usual?

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Rob Neyer tackles the anti-Met propaganda myth that Robbie Alomar has turned his season around since being traded and is a big reason the White Sox are contending. Let's face it, kids—he was mediocre at best in New York, and he's proving to be nothing if not consistent in Chi-town (.262 avg., .336 slugging, .357 on-base percentage with Mets; .256, .336, .350 with ChiSox). Maybe a little spitting would help motivate him.

Interesting piece in today's N.J. Star-Ledger regarding former Met (and Cardinal, Cub, Oriole, Dodger, Ranger, Yankee, etc.) Todd Zeile's new gig as unofficial player advocate for the movable feast that is the Montreal Expos. Selig and the owners are so obviously not motivated by anything resembling the interests of the team (the article details several of MLB's broken promises so far), and Zeile, who has been with the team for less time than it takes to fry up a plate of Canadian bacon, has taken up the banner in a big way. (Interesting side note: Zeile is also the most furiously blinking man ever to step into a batter's box.) The League's half-ass plans to continue to use the team as a traveling-sideshow until they can find an appropriate eccentric millionaire and/or gullible municipality with tax money to burn to take over the franchise are an insult to the team's players, alumni, and remaining fans. Not to mention Youppi, apparently fighting for the rights of gay mascots everywhere.