Thinking of Getting the Band back Together

I haven't had an opportunity to vent my spleen for a while, but am thinking over the end of the year, I may start up again spewing the type of loveable vitriol

readers of the SBL#178 have come to expect, though they have probably forgotten. Actually I could probably repost old stuff and you all would never know. But, anyway. you've been warned America.

Celebrity Haiku Volume #58, "Can I get a Mulligan"?

Mega golf-star and close personal friend, Tiger Woods, has been spending lot of time spinning and blogging of late. He submitted this Celebrity Haiku, reflecting on recent events.

Wow, a hole in one!

Damn it all, caller I.D.

What cocktail waitress?

The Yankess Still Suck

"How much d'jya spend for the tickets Trump"?

"Bill, if ya' gotta ask, ya' can't afford 'em"

I know I should be a good sport about this World Series thing. I know, as a long time BoSox fan, how frustrating it can be to loyally follow your home team, stay with them through thick and thin, and patiently wait for your year to come. The Bronx Boners have been long suffering, since way back in 2000, waiting pateintly for their beloved Wankees to bring home the banner. Through good times and bad, they stuck with their stars. Well, except A Rod, that is. Their long wait has ended. The Spanks are the champs. I should be decent about it. I should extend a hand of congratulations and of friendship toward the Crankies and their legion. I should but I won't. I don't care how much of a bitter Boston homer I sound like. To me the Yankees will always Suck. It doesn't matter if they win 47 championships. They will still suck. It is the way of things. It is the order of the universe.

Firstly, Yes I am going to play the payroll card. I know, I know, you say, "but what about the Red Sox payroll, Bigfoot". Nyah, nyah, yes I am quite aware that the Red Sox have a prodigious payroll. Over $122 million, actually. They have the fourth highest payroll in the majors. Obscene, yes. Odoius, yes. But the Yankees, last time I checked, spent almost $210 million. This is an inexcusably high amount. The Yankees drive the bus when it comes to the payroll wars. The Flanks inexhaustable ability to spend cash on marque players like A-Tool push all others in the league to do the same. Not only do the Yankees spend the most, but they also own a good number of the highest of the highly paid players. Rodriguez himself makes more dough per year than all the poor bastards who play for Pittsburg. Plus those slobs have to live in Pittsburg. Actually, at almost $27 million, the Yanks actually pay more in Luxury tax each year than the Pirates pay in salary. The way baseball works, if the Boston Red Sox want to keep up with the likes of the Bronx Bummers, they have to try to keep up by securing overpaid stars, just like the Yanks. Evil yes I know. But MLB doesn't seem to want to share their revenue or cap their salaries like other sports. In 1998, it wasn't the Yankies that led in payroll. It was the Baltimore Orioles. The lowly Orioles. In that year, the O's paid Robbie Alomar, Cal Ripken and their pals a paultry $74 million total. The Yaks were a distant 2nd at $73 million plus. In the short time since then, the Yankees have tripled their payroll. With exponential spending like that, it is a major gaff that they do not win every year.

The worst thing about getting in a baseball discussion with Yankee fans, is when they invoke "27". Yes, yes, we are all quite aware that the Yankees now have 27 championships. It is the one thing a Red Sox fan cannot answer to. It is inarguable. It is an immutable truth. They have won a considerable number of championships. But think about the pictures of all those Yankee World Series celebrations. How many of those photos are in black and white, not color. To a large degree, the Yankees illustrious history is just that. History. Okay, well this year's banner aside. Besides that, they still suck! Just because evil enjoys success, it is no less evil. Witness Duran Duran. Witness Simon Cowell and the Spice Girls. Evil exists, my friend. Take a look in the stands at Yankee Stadium the other night. Regis Philbim, Donald Trump, Kate Hudson, JayZee, Mary J. Blige. JayZee, for Christ's sake!!! No wonder evryone hates the Yankees. Oh yes, Yankee fans, we all hate your team. Except for however many million there are of you in "Yankee Nation", the rest of us hate your team. I know that doesn't sound very sportsman like of me, but alas, I cannot lie. I would be betraying my upbringing, my history and myself. I would be betraying Sully from Southie and Fitzie from Quincy. I would be betraying Nick from the North End. I would be betraying my ol' Paba, in who's garage I used to spend countless hours listenning to Ned Martin and Ken Coleman call the play by play, while he tinkered on a car. To congratulate the Yankees would be to betray my Biology teacher, Mr.Lane, who dragged a TV into his class one fateful fall day in 1978, to let us watch the one game playoff, when Bucky Fuckin' Dent hit a wall ball homer off Mike Fuckin' Torrez, and ended another bitter year for the Olde Town Team. To concede to the Yankees would be to turn my back on Ken 'the Hawk' Harrelson, 'Boomer' Sott, 'Teddy Ballgame', or 'Captain Carl'. "Not agonna doit' as old George Bush used to say.

So sip your champagne Yankee boys. Sit in your chair on the Letterman show. Enjoy your little Duck Boat parade. Enjoy your visit with the President. I'm not gonna cheer for you. We'll be here next year. I'll be here. Sully from Southie and Fitzie from Quincy will be here. Theo Epstein will be here too, and he'll be ready with his wallet. You'll spend. We'll spend. A lot! Of course Pittburg and Kansas City are already mathematically eliminated, but who the hell cares.

Victory is yours. Now let us not speak of it again. To paraphrase WCBS radio play by play host, John Sterling, "Theeeeee Yakees suck...theeeeeeee Yankees Suck!"

This is going to be a long year.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em Maine....

I can feel my Glaucoma getting better already, yo....

Thanks Question 5!!

Joke of the Week, Volume #34

There was this guy, we'll call him Gordy, who was in the mood to go ice fishing one fine day. He gets himself his fishing traps, buys himself some bait and gets out the old ice auger. He gets his'self to his favorite bit of ice and sets up his gear. He starts cutting a hole in the ice, but suddenly hears a booming voice that says, "THERE ARE NO FISH HERE". Non-plussed, Gordy picks up his gear and moves down ice to pick another likely spot. He gets the auger going and the same impressive voice says, ''THERE ARE NO FISH HERE''! This happens a couple of more times: Gordy gets his ice hole started and the booming voice tells him there are no fish there. Finall, he looks up to the Heaven and exclaims, "Is that you God"?!

There is a moment of silence and then the voice sighs and says,......

(wait for it....)

"No, this is the Rink Manager Gordy, THERE ARE NO FISH HERE"!

Celebrity Haiku Vol,#86: " Hikin', my EYE"!

South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford reflects on his recent misadventers with this introspective Haiku. Haiku ripped from the headlines!

I was on a hike!

CRY for me Argentina

Well, KIND of a Hike...

Gov. Mark Sanford

Celebrity Haiku Vol#34:"It ain't over 'til Big Papi swings'' Edition

With this month's rendition of the ancient Japanese verse is Slumping sluggers David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez, a la Thelma and Louise...

"The cream or the clear"?

No way man, seventy games...

Hey Papi, I tell you what...

-Papi

Celebrity Haiku Volume # 89: Teddy Ballgame Edition

As the distinguished Senator from Massachusetts prepares to throw out the first pitch at Fenway Park last week, he ponders his long, illustrious career and coins the latest of our celebrity haiku. He is spartan in his implementation of the ancient Japanes verse and us Mass-holes love him for it.

Where the Hell am I

Who the Hell is the Black guy?

Mary Jo Ka-who?!

-Senator Edward Kennedy

Poem of the Week, Vol.#46

(An old Chestnut. Reminds me of the time I spent in New Orleans)

The Irish Pig

'Twas an evening in November,

As I very well remember,

I was strolling down the street in drunken pride,

But my knees were all aflutter,

So I landed in the gutter,

And a pig came up and lay down by my side.

Yes I lay there in the gutter

Thinking thoughts I could not utter,

When a colleen passing by did softly say,

"Ye can tell a man that boozes

By the company he chooses"

-At that the pig got up and walked away.

-Anonymous (a famous Irish author)

Salad Days, Volume 56:"Exile on Chamberlain St."

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The year was 1981, and me in my natuaral prime, had just left my parent's nest. I had established myself and my college career in the swanky, cosmopolitan capital of Maine, and was plying my academic acumen at the University of Maine in Augusta. When I say academics, I don't mean to lead the reader astray and imply I was actually going to classes. Nay, it happened to be more the case that I was actually skipping most of my classes. They were Art classes anyway, and, since Art is impermanent and all, I figured what's the big deal about actually studying. I had, though, met up with a couple of swanky babes at the campus, one Korean girl and one hippy-chick from Vinyl Haven, and we hit it off right away. We used to hang out and smoke Ginch, paint our paintings, draw our Charcoal sketches and ride around town on our bikes, wearing Berets and looking very Bohemian. I lived in a very old, 3 story appartment house on Chamberlain St. and was the only tenant. I had the big old house to myself. Unfortunately, the joint was very haunted by an old lady who apparently died in her sleep there years earlier. This according to the Granola girlfriend of my landlord. Anyhow, aside from that, and a Friday 8am Art History class, life was pretty good. I missed my old Homies in Newport, but if I skipped my Friday class, I could be drinking and jamming by supper time each Friday. The old lady ghost didn't make too much noise, excepting the occasional bump and squeak and I generally had the run of the place, blasting my tunes and mastering my domain.

One paritcular Thursday afternoon, I had just returned from class, and was listenning to the radio. I was enjoying a nutritious supper of Kool Whip and Peanut Butter, right out of the bowl when WBLM announced that the Rolling Stones had announced an extra date for Hartford Connecticutt on their current tour. I knew the Stones were touring, but all the dates in the area were sold out. I had never, at that point, seen the Stones. They were the Holy Grail for an 18 year old Rocker. I had seen about every concert that had come to the area, but Mick and Keith had somehow eluded me. An extra date on the tour might just be my in. Now keep in mind this was 1981. There was no Stub Hub and no Internet. The only way a lone poor boy like me could get such Tix was through the local Ticketron, which was located across town. That would have been fine, except that 1981 was also before the time when I had Credit Cards or ATM cards. I had about $8.67 on me and my bank was back in the Hub, 60 miles away. The tickets were selling faster than shit through a tin horn and I needed to take immediate action. I called my most esteemed crony and band mate, Spot, and told him to saddle up, I'd be in Newport in a half hour. I stoked up the Death Mobile and off I went. I needed to get to my bank before it closed, and get to the Sears in Augusta before the mighty Stones sold out. How I was going to get me and ol' SPot to Connecticutt with my car and no funds I would figure out later.

I put the D.B.'s 400 cubic inch engine to the test and soon was in Newport picking up Hughie and my cash. We skeedaddle back immediately to Augusta, blasting Exile on Main Street as loud as my 8-Track would blast...."Yeah, hear the women sighin', all down the line"...It was destiny. We would be seeing the Stones, the greatest show on Earth,the Glimmer Twins, Keef Riffhard, my musical hero. Nothing could stop us. Nothing, that is, except a State Trooper. A Sate Trooper, who coincdentally was my parent's next door neighbor, Duane. He unsentimenatally and uncerimoniously wrote me a big ol' ticket for speeding, 88 in a 65, I think. Worse than that though, he cost us precious time. Tickets were selling out rapidly as we waited there on the side of the highway. By the time we got to the Sears, the line was a big stinky phalanx of stoners winding all the way into the automotive section. The ticket office window was so far away, I could barely see it. Spot and I chewed our nails and waited with baited breath, hoping there would be two with our name on them. Alas, as you may guess, as we approached the window, verily the next hopeful customers in line, it slammed closed. The Stones were sold out. My disappointment was bitter.

I learned a few valuable lessons that day. First, I hate cops, especially officer Duane, the un-neighborly bastard. Second, I needed a credit card. Third, I was wasting my fucking time in Art School. If I hadn't been at University dicking around, I would have been better prepared for the elementally important things in life, namely, like rabbing my bud' Spot and snatching up those fucking Stones tickets. My time would be far better served, it seemed, back in the hub, where my old band mates were handy, in case the urge to jam struck. Lesson four, I should never mix Kool Whip with peanut butter; I had a wicked stomach ache. So, withtin a very short time, I quit the college life and soon was plying my musical acumen with my old buddies..."too cool for school, too stupid for the real world...hey, I know, I'll start a band...

Anyhow, to think I could have been working.

"...you got to scrape the shit right off your shoes..."