Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Wanted: One Kick-Ass Apartment

I'm apartment hunting right now. Looking for that sweet 1 Bedroom in the West Village or, if not, maybe in lower Chelsea. I'm not interested in anything above, say, 18th Street. I need access to the A,C,E or 1,9 or B,D or the Southbound Gowanus. I don't want a studio. I'd prefer a doorman so that my beloved will be safe...preferably a doorman with a blackbelt in something other than the incredibly lame Brazilian martial arts dance Capoehra. I really don't want a 5th Floor walk-up...I prefer something with a pulley. I don't want to pay a broker's fee. I'm going to cap this out at $2000 a month, a sum that in the real world would buy me at least a suburban-style colonial with an in ground pool in places like Waukegen or Zanesville or Topeka, places where my daughters would wear ribbons in their hair to the Friday night homecoming bonfire while I sat home watching Hannity & Colmes on FoxNews...and rooted for Hannity. And I want to start living there August 1, 2004.

So come find me, Mr. Apartment. I'm waiting to live in your sweet, sweet innards. Just make me an offer.

I hate apartment hunting. I hate smarmy brokers that use words like "sweet" to describe a closet. I hate misleading posts on Craigslist. I hate having to use the word "Craigslist". So please, come find me.

P.S.--When you clue me in on a great, no-hassle apartment, could you also throw in a password to get me back onto Insider. I gotta get my Crasnick/Neyer/Dork Ford fix. (Why can't just sell more ad-space and leave Insider free? Damn you ESPN. Damn you and your sportsopoly!)

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Red Sox Weren't the Only Dicks at Yankee Stadium Tonight

I've had limited opportunity of late to charm the pants of some of you fuckers, as work has just been craisins. There have been times over the past five or so workdays where I've felt like doing the Jesse Spano "There's never any time/I'm so excited" Caffeine pills self-control in that regard has been impeccable. But now that my home computer has risen from the ashes and I can post from home again, daddy's here with a little hot soup for ya. I don't even know what that means.

I spent my evening watching the Yank'ums jump all over the Red Sawx, capitalizing often on poor Boston defense to notch an 11-3 victory. Big win. But the real story of this game was the attendance of Vice President Dick Cheney. The VP sat smugly between Rudy "I Can Stab a Pregnant Woman in the Stomach With a Rusty Shiv and You'd All Still Love Me" Giuliani and Gov. George "I Was That Guy to the Left of Rudy at Those Press Conferences, No, To the Left, They Fuckin' Cropped Me Out of All the Pictures and I Get Nuthin" Pataki. Giuliani, who on Sunday night declared to an ESPN audience that he never leaves a game before the last out is recorded, promptly left when the VP took off in the 7th inning. Understandable I guess, but still, someone's gotta be the watchdog for the these things.

During the game, CBS repeatedly referred to and showed highlights of Cheney visiting the Yanks' pre-game lockerroom, where the vice president had this exchange with the team's new third baseman...

Cheney: You play well.
A-Rod: Thanks, Dick.
Cheney: Please, call me Chen-Daddy. I especially like your contract negotiation skills, Alex.
A-Rod: Yeah, we did a great job getting all that money.
Cheney: You did okay, coulda been better. I mean, you did a great job of over-charging some desperate schlub for your services, and I liked how you circumvented certain traditional bidding procedures. But where are the kickbacks? And why publicize the entire amount of the deal when you can keep certain clauses secret? You're gonna have to work on that if you ever want to make it in the private sector.

Then Willie Randolph gave Cheney an old school baseball "hotfoot" while Donnie Baseball rat-tailed his plump ass. Joe Torre then picked his nose repeatedly before sitting down with no expression on his face. Gotta love lockerroom hijinx...

And It's About to Set Sail...WOOOO!

Today is definately one of those days when I just have nothing to talk about. Nothing. Shit, I ate Subway and watched the final installment of my 7-piece Ken Burns New York documentary last night. In Hoboken. Alone. Not even any porn.

Yet I keep thinking of the people at Ace's birthday who said, "Hey, I read your blog." Don't I have some obligation to these obviously intoxicated fuckers to, as my new friends P. Diddy and Jay-Z and Stu Scott say, "Keep it re-al"? I know I wait for Muldoon everyday and when that post comes up at around 1, I'm happy cause I know I'm about to waste 1 or 2 minutes. That's huge!

But it's gonna be hard today, especially considering that the only thing in my head is:

"Sign says, stay away fools...cause love rules at the love shack"

So maybe it's not such a bad day after all. And actually, there are some other thoughts I've had lately.

Don's Thoughts:

1. How much does it suck when a wheelchair person gets on the bus? Is there any way to voice your obvious displeasure when the bus farts and begins to tip over to one side and the big gimp platform probes out without coming off like a prick? I mean, everyone's gotta be thinking it. And then here comes Rollerboy all smug. Hey buddy. You got wheels. Use'em. That's why they slope the curbs at corners. Hoof it. Er...whatever.

2. Notice how the US ran the Dan Marino vs. the Jets Fake Spike play vs. the Iraqi insurgents? Seems like we were content to let the clock wind down and hand over power on the 30th. But, oh no! We found Prime Minister Iyad Allawi in the back of the end zone! Where were you on that one James al-Hasty? Allegedly, this foiled the insurgents' scheme to blow shit up and cut off heads to disrupt the handover. Good idea. The insurgents' showed their frustration by blowing shit up and cutting off heads but without any real agenda.

3. Days of work left: 3.5

OK, so I had two real thoughts and a stat. Maybe a Fahrenheit 911 post later? A debate? Maybe if Ace would see the shit, we could really hash this out. But no.

The Schadenfreude Files

This nice young lady wanted to look like Beyonce...instead it's her face that looks like a big ol' booty.

Did you know that Australia has its own The Price is Right? Well, now you do, and now you can laugh at this poor man who took a shot in the face while spinning the wheel.

Oh wait, this guy died, probably shouldn't laugh at him. Ah screw it, falling boulders are as hilarious as it gets. Well, if that brought you down, here's one that will certainly cheer you up...

I have nothing funny or interesting to add right now...just wanted to put something up, as I fear a busy day lies ahead.

Monday, June 28, 2004


Yesterday, I nearly completed a rare double:

1. Play frisbee with P. Diddy;


2. Trample P. Diddy's miniature dog while playing frisbee.

We were in Central Park tossing a disc yesterday when Samson uncorked a wild one, soaring over my head into the bright summer sky. And it landed at the feet of one Sean Combs, star of stage and screen, rapper, producer, fashionista, bidnissman and, apparently, loving dad, who was tossing a football with P. Mini. Well, sure enough, P. Diddy picked up the frisbee and tossed it back to me...and I caught it! He had decent form too. I said, "Thanks, man" and flinged the bee back out to Samson, a strange, never-before-experienced celebrity-frisbee boner rising in my shorts.

No more than 2 minutes later, streaking like white lightening to catch a throw, I felt a strange cotton sensation at my feet. Yup, it was P. Diddy's dog, Sophie, galavanting. I was mere inches from trampling this puffy, white "dog". Luckily, I swerved and Mr. Combs' personal assistant with dreadlocks came to scoop her up. I'm glad I didn't kill her cause P. Diddy had two HUGE bodyguards there in the park with him and probably several ninjas in the nearby trees and Mrs. Huxtable, who is in his Broadway production of Raisin in the Sun. And it was too nice a day to get a wagging finger and a "Let the Record Show!"

But the record can show this: After 25 years of not caring much at all for rap music, I've now seen Jay-Z and P. Diddy live and in person in successive weekends. I can only assume that I'll see L.L. or Candyman or the guys from Onyx next weekend on LBI. So...ummm...Holla at yo' boy! Or something.

Quick, Take This Country

So the good ol' United States actually handed over sovereignty to an interim Iraqi government today, a full two days ahead of schedule. Finally, our administration told the truth about something! Don't you sometimes get the feeling that Bush is trying to pull off that "my fingers were crossed, my fingers were crossed" routine way too much? Well, this time, it worked out. Even Bremer made it home alive, which is something I never would have predicted -- almost bet on that one in Vegas.

I was hoping for something a bit more exciting, like the breakup of The Rockers, but I guess this works too. I was hoping that we would pull a Shawn Michaels to Iraq's Marty Jannetty -- just when you thought we were going to ride off into the sunset, Bremer delivers some sweet Chin Music to Pachachi's face, then pick hims up and throws him through a plate glass window, Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake looking around in shock, not knowing what to do. Heck, I'd even have taken a little Mega Powers explode action, our Hogan versus Iraq's Macho Man, with the winner getting all the oil and, of course, the awesome title belt...

But no, no fireworks at all. Just a low-key ceremony resembling an Alan Greenspan Senate testimony. I guess all we have now is a freer, albeit unstable, Iraq and nonstop coverage of Anderson Cooper in Baghdad. It's good Cooper is over there -- I say too little, too late, though, we already found out that Ahmad Chalabi is The Mole.

Friday, June 25, 2004

How'd This Kid Get This Job?

So my old partner-in-Web-crime from college now writes and designs pages for (is that even what you do, Lukas, I really have no idea?). It's cool, although on occasion it inspires fits of complete jealousy. Nah, he's a talented guy, only the best, blah blah blah.

Anyway,'s Luke Winn spent last night covering the most boring draft in NBA history, and he even lived to tell about it. I know he'd rather have been in Deer Creek last night, but walking past Manute Bol and Shawn Bradley in succession can't be all bad. Check out his article, it's a fun and informative read.

*Yes, I realize that this post is like a fictitious episode of SNL's "Plug Away" with Harvey Firestein, but I don't care what you assholes think.

When's the Annual Moustache Parade?

Hey everybody! What's goin on this weekend? Why don't you all join me this Saturday for the:


Manhattan 4:00pm to 8:00pm

Formation & Start: West Side of 5th Ave. from 40th St. to 42nd St.

Route: South on the West Side of 5th Ave. utilizing the parking lane of 5th Ave. from 40th St. to 23rd St.. South of 23rd St. Mercilessly Butch Marchers will utilize the entire roadway of 5th Ave. to Washington Square Park. Once in Washington Square, the Dyke Marchers will be joined by the New York Chapter of the League of Masturbating 13-Year Old Boys for a "mixer".

**Note: This email, with only minor modifications by Fiedler at the end, was sent to my company's email administrator by the NYC Police Dept. They are on the scene!

Wipe This, Scott

Here's something that doesn't make a whole lotta sense...This article kind of bothers me:

It looks like common sense isn't as common as you might think.

Here's the proof: Although 43 percent of Americans who answered a recent poll say they have common sense, only seven percent of them actually proved they have it when given a quiz which measures common sense perception.

That's not the problem that bothers me. I already know that most Americans are dumber than a box of hammers. This is the problem:

The survey by Scott Tissue and Towels also shows...

Wait, what? Why the fuck is the Scott Tissue and Towels company administering a test about common sense? Do you need common sense to wipe your ass or blow your nose properly, or are they finding that most people are wiping and then blowing with the same piece? And how can you trust the results and findings of this survey -- this company deals exclusively with snot and shit, or as inter-office memos call it, snit. Who conducted this poll on behalf of Scott, this Gay Billy Dee Williams character they've got on the website? Something's just not sitting right with me about this one...and great, due to some psychosomatic fears, now my ass itches.

Mo & Enrique

Here's a great sequence from my favorite Yankees blog, Bronx Banter. An excerpt from a new book on the Torre Yankees Dynasty is posted that deals with Mariano Rivera's demeanor and how it's helped him be...well...awesome. Then it talks about how he blew Game 7 in 2001 and the aftermath was:

The Yankees’ victory parade in the city was canceled, and Enrique Wilson, the Yankees’ utility infielder, changed his flight back to the Dominican Republic. The plane Wilson was initially scheduled for—American Airlines Flight 587—crashed in Queens, killing all 260 passengers.

Wilson saw Rivera the next spring, and they talked about the twist of fate. If Rivera had closed out the Diamondbacks in the bottom of the ninth of Game 7, Wilson would have, in all likelihood, been on the plane that went down. For Rivera, this was further confirmation that he and his teammates were all subject to God’s will. “I’m glad we lost the World Series,” Rivera said, “because it means that I still have a friend.”

Then, in the comments section, some guy named Murray writes:

I don't know about anybody else here, but I would gladly have sacrificed Enrique Wilson for a World Championship in 2001.

Now, that is passion. I must say I had a similar philosophy last year: I would personally have killed left-hander Felix Heredia to win the World Series. I just found it funny this morning, back at work, rotting in my chair, like the Nazi at the end of Last Crusade who chose poorly.

Some Quick Hitters

Great new band name from my man C-Dub: IntraVenus Williams.

So we still have no place to go for my birthday tomorrow night...we don't call this blog Slack LaLane for nothing. Actually, we do call this blog Slack LaLane for nothing. But stay tuned, the Committee will have an answer by the end of the day. It's a good committee. "Are there any Asiiians on the Committee? No Asiiiians." (Jeff Johnson, 1992)

VP Cheney is in some hot water for dropping an F-Bomb on the Senate Floor, apparently telling Democratic Senator Patrick Leahy to "fuck off," or "go fuck yourself." I, for one, couldn't care less about what the fuck Cheney said...I'd much rather this lickbag drop a million F-Bombs in lieu of the real ones. And besides, this ain't shit compared to the 1856 caning of Sen. Charles Sumner. See, history is just as cool as that new Seagal movie, or whatever the devil it is you kids watch.

Is there anything worse than mismanaging your raisins in a bowl of Raisin Bran? Seriously, I guess I ate too many raisins with each spoonful of bran, and now I'm left with this vomitous-looking pile of soggy bran, sans raisins. Awful feeling, just awful. Maybe that's another band name: Raisinless Bran.

And for all you people who are wondering what to get a loved one for their birthday, here's my suggestion: "You Got Served: Take it to the Streets."

Thursday, June 24, 2004


Bailed on work today to watch England vs. Portugal in the Euro 2004 quarterfinals with Mr. Stickles in from San Fran at One and One (at the nexus, 1st and 1st). It went to kicks in the end and, surely, Portugal won when Sexman Beckham shanked his first penalty and some other dude had his kick saved. Thrilling times had by all, except for the 100+ Brits in the bar. They just gave away the Sudetenland. So now my 1/4 Portuguese heritage trumps my 1/4 English heritage. Bring on the sardines and bacalhao. Obrigado.

Off to dinner with the parents. The Fiedlers turn 51 today. That's right. Same birthday...different religions. What are the odds? Have a fantastic, pee-free-bathroom-floor kind of weekend.

Under the Bench, Under the Robe

Here's a great little article that my boy QLRM sent hither...Apparently this judge misinterpreted the bailiff's call of "All rise" (Judge Thompson can also be seen here, as the Smoking Gun is, once again, really on top of their shit). Assistant District Attorney Dan Fielding could not be reached for comment.

On a "had to be there" note: Today I witnessed a little, old Asian woman wearing a visor so big, it looked like she had just been welding for a while. Can you picture that shiite? Picture this woman wearing this "visor".

Fired Boss Returns

In a post from earlier this week I mentioned my cool-as-shit boss was fired. Well, she's back with a few things to say...some of them a little too dirty for a former subordinate to be reading. But sometimes, you just gotta say, "What the fuck?"

Good luck to Gypsy Rose and her brand now blog: Stepford Wife on Acid. Bring truth and light to the far reaches of the globe. Or Jersey. Wherever.

Handle Your Hose Properly, Please


To: Other men in my office
From: The Ace Cowboy
Re: Floor Urine

Folks on the 5th floor of my office, can we please stop urinating all over the bathroom floor by the urinal? I mean, you're working for one of the bigger media companies in the world, in one of the most expensive, brand-new buildings in the country. Don't ya think it's time to stop pissing willy nilly all over the floor? You know, to add a little class and civility to the office? No?

I honestly do not remember a day since we moved up here when the floor wasn't just covered in urine. Fuckin' Ted Kennedy can drive some chick into our bathroom and she'd drown in all this urine, that's how bad it is. Is it really that difficult to control, guys? In the two months we've been here, I think I've pissed on the floor only about, like, six or eight times. Nahhh, that's just a yoke, it's only like two, or five.

So to sum up, this brand-new bathroom smells like piss at all times, and sometimes I don't care much for standing in some dude's yellow puddles. Sometimes I do, but I willingly pay extra for a treat like that. Listen, golden showers are a necessary part of life, but golden floors in your office bathroom, not so much. Let's work on this together, I know we can do it. Handle the hose, fellers, handle the hose.

Urine Police, Out from Alcatraz.

Crunch Time

We're now two days away from my glorious birthday celebration, and we still have no place to convene. What's a birthday boy to do?

Please, suggestions at this point are all too welcome...Comment away.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004


What is this crap? Who is sitting in ESPN headquarters and thinking, "Gee, let's put some more crap up on our website. There's not enough as it is. Sure, we could provide up-to-the-minute sports updates and some pretty good analysis from top experts. But why not throw away some webspace with some of this non-entertaining drivel? And, to boot, we'll end the story with the words 'sheep testicles'. Really, who's not doing anything and could write this dumb story? Rovell? OK, get him in here. And while you're at it, have John Kruk write a fluff piece about snowflakes and a sport he has no business commenting on."

Could Page 2 go away once and for all? Please?

Movie Songs and Dorky Look-Alikes

Three glaring omissions from AFI's top 100 songs in U.S. cinema:

1. "Ghostbusters" from Ghostbusters

2. The song from Revenge of the Nerds - "Clap your hands everybody, and everybody clap your hands" - sung by limpwristed Lamar

3. "Lonnie can you make your quail tonight" from Flirting with Disaster - sung by Mel's brother Lonnie

The Ghostbusters thing made me think of Rick Moranis. If you were going to cast a dork in a movie, wouldn't you have to go with Moranis? But let's say you didn't have big money. Would, say, Charles Martin Smith, be a more affordable option? Sure. But let's say you've got nothing. Barebones production costs are what you're shooting for. How bout...Inconceivable guy? Wallace Shawn!

So that means, Wallace Shawn is the poor man's Charles Martin Smith is the poor man's Rick Moranis.

Just like, Kadeem Hardison is the poor man's Arsenio Hall.


So I was riding the L-train this morning. In the mornings, this thing is like the MTA's subterranean gangbang, all contorted body parts fighting to get into the car. It's kind of like one of those old timey saloons where someone gets punched, flies out into the street, dusts himself off, mutters something about varmints, launches back into the saloon, and then gets thrown back out on the street again. It's like trying to jump through your mattress sometimes.

Anyway, this morning was particularly clutchy. Irene and I had traveled only one stop, to the little used, "why the hell does it stop there" 3rd Avenue stop. Almost no one gets on or off here, seeing how its roughly ten feet from both Union Square and 1st Avenue. But the staid old station was the scene of some fantastic fireworks.

Just as the doors are about to close, we hear screaming a few cars back. I poked my head out and saw this mid-20s, bespectacled girl barking at the conductor, "Call the fucking police!!! He grabbed my ass and pushed me out of the train." Oooo, it's on now! Cursing and calling for this guy's head. Nevermind the fact that I must have groped at least 15 men and women trying to get on the train. So the overreaction factor on the part of this girl was quite high. Unfortunately, the conductor bought this neo-fem bullshit and gives the dreaded police investigation announcement. Basically, this train ain't movin.

As news of this filters through the car, everyone starts grumbling together, strangers bitching and moaning about this girl. And this is why the subway should be used to alleviate racial tensions in this country. Everyone gets along in the subway, mostly cause everyone hates the subway more than they hate each other. Anyway, here's what I heard:

Williamsburg hipster girl: "Dude, what's her problem? People grab my ass on this thing all the time."
Middle aged black woman: "{gutteral click} This is some fuckin' BULLshit." (the "bull" in bullshit was dragged out for maximum effect)
Latino man: "Everyone gon' be late cause dees bitch!"
Polish guy: "TO BYL NAPRAWDE FASCYNUJACY WIECZOR, FUCKA'SHIT" (This was accompanied by his pantomime version of grabbing a girl's ass followed by a wave of the hand to indicate "get outta here")
Old black man who looked like John Lee Hooker: (Just shaking his head back and forth and clicking)

So just about everyone cursed this girl out, got off the train, and walked the 10 feet to Union Square. This broad cost me another $2 to get on the subway a block away...and she wasn't even hot. But all in all, to see New Yorkers doing together what they do best, bitching about someone who has cost them time and money, was well worth the 2 bucks. That and seeing the perp get shocked with 10,000 volts by the transit cops. Fuckin' yeah!

Good for Beisbol?

In the spirit of Jack Buck's post-9/11 baseball address, here's my question and immediate answer: Are the Yankees good for baseball? Yeeessss.

There are many reasons why, but let me Henley it down to the heart of the matter. Last night's game in Camden Yards between the Yanks and O's featured the largest paying crowd in the 12-year history of the park. Nearly 50,000 fans showed up on a random TUESDAY night to either cheer or jeer the Yank'ums.

This weekend, when the Yanks traveled out west for an interleaguer with the Dodgers, more than 165,000 fans turned the gates at Dodger Stadium over the weekend -- the largest three-game series in team history. Team history, think about that, the Dodgers have been around for a loooong time.

So not only do the Yankees have the highest home attendance by more than 6,000 fans at each game, but they have the highest ROAD attendance as well, BY 13,000 OVER THE NEXT HIGHEST TEAM. In fact, the Yanks' road attendance is higher than any other team in the league's home attendance, except of course, the Yankees themselves.

There you have it...are the Yankees good for baseball? That's a resounding "Yes" from ol' Ace Cowboy. Because you know as well as I do, to the owners, baseball is all about the numbers of fans who sit their fat asses in the uncomfortable seats...and the Yankees draw on the road better than every single team does in their own park. God, I love those fuckers.

Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Some Gifts for Me

So my cool-as-shit boss, or now my cool-as-shit ex-boss (that's a whole other story that you'll eventually read on her soon-to-debut blog I'm sure), bought me some great gifts for the big two-five. One of which is the Miles Davis/Gil Evans Complete Columbia Studio Recordings box set. Simply put in the style of Richie Valens, this gift is the bees knees, a real gas, kitten. I cannot wait to get home and throw this puppy in the fire. Actually, now that I re-read that sentence, I'm kind of in the mood to throw a real puppy into a real fire. But that'll have to wait until after I listen to those discs. But then, then it's curtains for some poor puppy.

The other gift was President Clinton's new autobiography, My Life. It's officially 957 pages, including the much-needed epilogue. How does one even go about writing a book that long, especially one that's non-fiction? Does that not seem self-indulgent to anyone else? Couldn't he have cut to the chase a little faster? Am I supposed to read the whole thing, or can I skip around using the index? And what's the deal with Big Gulps? I mean, can anyone possibly drink this much Mountain Dew?

While I'm sure it's an inspirational story and all, a po' boy from Arkansas working his way up to prominence, I'm more sure that people are buying this book for other reasons. If I were Willie Jeff's ghost writer, this is the exact book you'd have in stores:

"This Jew girl came in the other day, and she volunteered to tongue-massage Little Slick Willie. I gave her my patented thumbs up into my Clinton face, encored with a drop trou, and the next thing we knew, that blue dress was ruined -- Goddamn, I've still never met a Jew that swallows. Then that fat bitch Tripp messed shit up for us, so that skinny bitch Hilary got super-pissed and made me tell Chelsea. But when I looked her in the eyes I nearly vomited from the sight of her. Finally, Ken Starr and I wrestled naked Greco-Roman style in a tub of chocolate pudding, and then that putz got elected President. Epilogue: I'm rich, beeyotch."

Less than half a page, and I'm sure it tells the exact same story most people are buying the book to read. Well, except for the part about Ken Starr...maybe it was tapioca.

Gracias, Mis Amigos

To Donnie F, Charlie U, Personal Heckler, and everyone else who wished me a happy birthday on this blog, and also via this newfangled electronic mail system: Much appeciated, very much so.

I am touched by your outpouring of good wishes and hope that you all will come out with me on Saturday night to celebrate. Just don't buy me drinks, I'm a fuckin' lightweight. Bat Mitzvah girls have drank me under the table before. Wait, scratch that, I've never been under the table with any Bat Mitzvah girls. Well, except for that one, and she looked at least fifteen.

Only thing is...Where the hell do we go? I need a cool (read: CHILL) bar to set up shop in, a place that ain't too fancy, a place where people can walk in with raggedy ass jeans and sandals if they so choose. Since it's a Saturday in the City, and people go out of town, there could be as few as seven and as many as, say, 30 folks in attendance.

Suggestions? Sound off in the comments section below. And please, real suggestions only. I'm all about humor, folks, but let's take this time to be Yahoo Serious.

Happy Birthday Ace

Twenty-five years ago today, the world got a bit more Jewish, as Ace Cowboy, spurs and all, came jangling out into the world. That's right, Ace turns 25 today and I hope you'll all join me in wishing our favorite cowboy a very happy birthday.

How big a day was June 22, 1979? Big enough that Ace's birth on Long Island created huge backups on the L.I.E. Sure, the papers and the liberal media blamed a gas shortage but people were actually getting out of their cars for a look at the gleaming bright light mysteriously emanating from Jericho.

How big a day was June 22, 1979? Well, let's just say big enough that the State of Alaska Epidemiology Department issued the now-classic Bulletin No. 12, "Lederle Tine for Tuberculosis Screening." Coughing and comsumption are down 25% in Alaska since 6/22/79. Hot Stuff, huh Ace?

How big a day was June 22, 1979? So big that heavyweight chamption and all-around buffoon, Larry Holmes, KO'd some punching bag named Mike Weaver to retain his title. No confirmation to the rumor that Ace's dad skipped the birth to attend the fight.

Alright, let's be honest. Not much happened that day. But at least I have someone to write with. Happy Birthday Ace!

Monday, June 21, 2004

Standing on Sullivan's Shoulders

So this should be my last post about Phish, I promise (until August, that is, and then that's really it). I can feel most of you rolling your eyes...and shame on you for judging me. Geeks unite.

Many days after work I'll come home and throw on a Phish disc or tape, listen to a few songs until the television treats me to a nice sporting event or primetime show. Sounds like I'm really cool, I know. But tonight featured one of the more surreal experiences I've ever taken part of: The popular rock band Phish stood atop the Ed Sullivan Theater marquee and rocked Manhattan for a solid half hour.

A crowd of 500 -- 1,000? 1,500? 2,000? who really knows -- packed Broadway between 53rd and 54th Streets to see the Boys record a song for David Letterman's show...and what a treat it turned out to be. They played Scents and Subtle Sounds twice, but then they started gettin' into the mix...they then played short yet crisp, clean versions of five favorites, an awesome little set for however many lucky fans were lucky enough to attend. Years from now 10,000 people will say they were there.

They hurried through 2001, then Trey hit the first chord of Wilson. The entire crowd chanted "Wilson," and no joke, it echoed all the way down Broadway. All the fuckin' way down Fuckin' Broadway, and that could really not have been cooler. Not a chance. Then the quickest Wilson ever went into Chalk Dust Torture, a Letterman favorite. And just when you thought they'd walk off the stage, the band cranks into Tweezer, followed awesomely by Tweezer Reprise. Coolest half hour I've spent in Manhattan in years. I know, sad, but again, awesome, and of course, suck it.

Anyway, here are the photos...I'm sure some even cooler ones will surface, but for now, this will do. Enjoy.

(And thanks to Adam Foley for the embedded photo...)

J-Lo: Affleck Can Poker No More

In what can only be described as strange, Ben Affleck has won the California State Poker Championship. I thought the whole thing was a joke, but apparently it's not. Affleck beat out world-class Jew Stan Goldstein, and then yelled, "What are you lookin' at, you freshman fuck?" at bystander Mitch Kramer.

The article actually says: "The affable actor/writer/producer/ director then put a big hit on Pacheco when his J-J held up against A-K. He led again with about 325k, then won the next pot and had close to 400k."

Wait, what? This guy's title in the article is "affable actor/writer/ producer/director?" C'mon, let's get real, shouldn't it be more like "giant toolbag/loser Sawx fan/no-talent ass clown"? I know we can all agree on that.

So after losing J-Lo, who also sucks big floppy donkey dick, Affleck's life ambition is to have a really good hand. Makes sense to me...Now go buy some strippers and alcohol, you cool guy, you.

Lower Those Highbrows

As I was reading my last post, I realized that it could be construed as somewhat highbrow. While I was a European history major, I don't want to alienate our vast reading audience. After all, the French Revolution isn't your typical mid-twenties conversation starter. To rectify this ultra-elitist opining, I offer the following:

Milk, Milk,
'Round the corner,
Chocolate's made.

Osama bin Robespierre

Another hostage was beheaded this past weekend in the Middle East. It begs the question: Why the fuck can't we do a better job over there? I mean, we have billions and billions of dollars from our national defense budget earmarked for some pretty serious R&D. We've got some of the brightest technical minds in our country working on ways to ensure our safety and to conduct wars. We've got hi-tech gadgets that can shoot bullets around corners. We've got body gear disguised as a Jersey-Shore-style Hugo Boss t-shirt. We've got planes that land like helicopters and helicopters that use their propellers to dig under the ground and plant poison rose bulbs. It's amazing. We can kill the enemy in a zillion different ways.

Yet, we are losing this whole thing to people who are fond of a blunt, medieval technique: the beheading. You know who else liked beheading people? The frenzied French of La Revolution. I'm talking Reign of Terror, La Marseillaise. The guillotine was the instrument of death du rigeur, silencing the gout-ridden, money-saddled upper-strata of the French population one head at a time. So if the Directory were to be magically transported two hundred years forward, to 2004, would the French revolutionaries succeed in taking down an American war machine that relies on 21st century killing techniques? You have to figure they'd have a great shot. We can't seem to fight off a small band of terrorists armed with sporks and safety scissors from 3rd grade art class. How could the U.S. measure up against the well-oiled guillotinists? Lock up your Haliburton truckers and your radio technicians cause heads are gonna be a'rollin tonight!

So I want to see this: Bush vs. Robespierre, Cheney vs. Danton, Powell vs. Napoleon, Condi Rice vs. Whichever Black Republican Woman sold her soul to be in the French Revolutionary ruling strata, Republican vs. Jacobin, Rent vs. Les Mis. Who comes out on top? With their headchopping hijinks in full effect, I say the Frenchies have found one war that even they can't lose.

Note: Sorry for the extreme lack of posts from ol'Don over here. Things got pretty hectic at work over the last week or so. The shit/fan combination was in full effect. Poop is everywhere. But, I'm back. Say hello if you have the chance.

Big Phishin' Up in NYC

A weekend of Phish, the Open and good ol' Dad in the books...Three straight days of Phish were aptly followed by a long day of reclining with the family on the couch, watching Lefty miss the comeback putt you just knew he'd miss. Heartbreaking to say the least, but golf ain't what I'm peddling today...

With Leg One of the popular rock band Phish's farewell tour now in the books, Donnie and Ace are just three shows away from waving goodbye forever. For me, only the Camden show and the Coventry festival remain, and then this band is Keyser Soze. Luckily though, I've managed to take in seven of the last nine shows the band has played, shows that sent me to Miami and Vegas and Brooklyn and Saratoga Springs. So at least I've got my fill, and I've certainly been fulfilled. But I'm not looking forward to that last goodbye in August -- it's like waving goodbye to your folks on Visiting Day at camp; only you never return home after the summer, and your parents even don't care (only your Uncle Cactus cares).

Two of the three shows this past weekend were great, though there were some minor flubs for good measure (see: Harry Hood). And Saturday in Saratoga was pretty good, but there were some major flubs in that one (see: NICU). Trey, aka Dorky Chuck Norris, has officially become the Allen Iverson of Jambands -- the man refuses to practice, he mistakenly shows up thinking his stuff is gonna rock the house each and every night and send the fans home happy. Well, Saturday in Saratoga was one of those Iversonian 22-points-on-6-for-26-shooting performances. They were good, but everyone in the place had to know they could and should play better. I don't know how many times they can play "Heroin Jam" in one night (for non-Phish fans, that's not a song or a jam, that's just when it looks like Trey is on so much heroin that he plays these ambient nothingness chords while the band waits for him to get his shit together).

Phish did play better in Coney Island...I wrote a recap of the first night already (see below), and the second show was fantastic as well. Some people complained of a lackluster end to the second set, but I was pretty impressed with the two-night stand. In a completely random twist of fate, Brooklyn's own retired-yet-unretired rapper Jay-Z came out to play with Phish as the back-up band. Jay-Z sang his relatively new tune 99 Problems (But a Bitch Ain't One) and his uber-mainstream hit Big Pimpin'. The crowd loved it, and even though I'm not the biggest fan of hip hop, it certainly did the trick for me. I even called my roommate, a big Jay-Z fan (of course, he's a white kid from the LI suburbs), who thought it was hysterical. To be honest, I'd never heard that 99 Problems song, but most of the crowd around me did. And for many in the crowd, the song could go "I got 99 Problems but soap, a job, a bank account and this sweet, sweet acid ain't one." I've now been lucky(?) enough to see Phish play with Kid Rock and Jay-Z -- what are the freakin' chances of that happening? Seriously. It's like going to a Knicks game and seeing Mark Messier knock down a huge three in the third quarter.

But a great three days of Phish, it was...I met up with some old friends, made some new ones, conversed with some heads, randomly bumped into a dude I huffed a bunch of nitrous balloons with in Miami on New Year's, ran into a rainstorm, got caught in traffic, ate some phatty veggie burritos, passed over Nathan's, stole a cookie from a rest stop outside Albany, stepped on some toes, got my toes stepped on, passed some know, typical Phish shows. But above all else, I saw a great band play some kickass tunes for the second to last time. Rock and fuckin' roll, folks, rock and fuckin' roll.

Friday, June 18, 2004

Doctor Warned Me I Might Catch a Death

The popular rock band Phish invaded Keyspan Park in Coney Island last night, bringing with it some good tunes and India's latest monsoon season. Good times. What a great show, one of the better post-hiatus shows I've seen. But by the end of the night, my clothes were wetter than El Duque's while rafting over here. Needless to say, I'm about as sick as sick gets, and still I'm toiling away at work. What the F am I doin' here?

In the first show of their farewell tour, the Phish from Vermont came out a-rockin'. Trey either hit up Supercuts earlier in the day, or he had Stevie Wonder go to town on his head with a blowtorch and a pair of pliers. Armed with his super-short, Eric Clapton cut, Trey and the boys came out at 7:35 lookin' to rock all night long ala Lionel Richie. After opening with a new-yet-still-pretty-tight song, the boys jumped into Dinner and a Movie and Curtain With with some gusto (Donnie and I actually caught both those tunes in Vegas in 2000, an excellent two-night run that requires its own entry). Next came Sample, and I'd probably like this song if the band didn't insist on playing it every time I attended a show. How many fuckin' times can I sing the assinine lyric, "I was foggy, rather groggy, you helped me to my car"? Fifteen Samples later, I'm pretty tired of this one, guys. I'd almost rather see Jennifer Dances (that's a little Phish humor there, funny too).

I'm not going to spend this time reviewing the show, as I generally hate the people who write and post reviews (as Phish is THE most subjective band on the planet). But I would like to take this time to discuss umbrellas...They may be laughing at us this morning, but those douchebags who brought umbrellas into the show and blocked the sightlines of those behind them seriously need to be spayed or neutered. I mean, this one chick in front of us had on a big floppy (donkey dick) hat AND a raincoat hood, and this dumb bitch still put up an umbrella. As we remarked at the time, and subsequently screamed at her, that's like having an extra pair of gloves in Aspen. This whole time, you had an extra pair of gloves?

So now I got the sniffles, a bit of a chill, and that 2:00 AM McDonald's run ain't sittin' too pretty with me. But we gotta do it all over again tonight, and tonight we shall. First let me get through this day of work with my eyes open. Here's last night's setlist, for those who care:

Set I: Song I Heard The Ocean Sing, Dinner and a Movie, The Curtain With, Sample in a Jar, The Moma Dance > Free, Nothing, Maze, Frankenstein

Set II: 46 Days > Possum, The Oh Kee Pa Ceremony > Suzy Greenberg> Jam, Axilla, Also Sprach Zarathustra, Birds of a Feather, Kung, Mike's Song > I am Hydrogen > Weekapaug Groove

Encore: The Divided Sky

MY PERSONAL HIGHLIGHTS: Curtain With; Moma > Free; Possum, Oh Kee Pah > Suzy > Suzy Jam; Wet Ass Blues > Put Down Your Umbrella, Whorebag > Prune Hands

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Dodgeball, Sexually Assaulting Doc Rivers, and The Foul Ball Kid

So, after a long day, I finally have a free minute to discuss the new movie Dodgeball. Thanks to my roommate's cosmopolitan girlfriend, seven of us got to attend a sneak preview of this movie, which mere mortals can see in theaters starting Friday.

Overall, I give the movie a pretty high grade...I went in expecting to laugh a bit and be entertained, and guess what, that's exactly what happened. It's a good feeling not to be disappointed. You know, as I sit down to write this review, I realize that I don't even wanna do this. I have nothing funny to say, not a thing, and anything I do say may give away the best lines of the movie. So, go see it, I give you the George Foreman guarantee that you won't be disappointed. It's not quite Old School, but it's worlds better than Starsky and Hutch. So there you have it...I wasn't disappointed, you won't be either. Damn, that actually sounds like a terrible review.

Switching gears a bit, a hearty congrats to the Pistons, and also to their fans for not rioting in the streets. I mean, who would have ever thought that Detroit could outclass Boston? Well, I for one sure did, Boston's about as classless and second-rate as cities get -- it's like Toronto after the entire city's had a dozen Molsens (which reminds me, Boston, don't be wearing your Schilling jerseys and Sawx hats all over Manhattan, it makes me want to throw vicious haymakers and uppercuts at you. That shit is not cool. Wait, pull what out?).

Speaking of Boston, I love how new Celtic coach and current ABC announcer Doc Rivers last night kept saying, "Can we give the MVP trophy to the whole team instead of an individual?" Um, how can I put this without being crass? If you agreed with Doc, you need to be severely ass-raped by a huge rubber dildo, then the handler needs to break that dildo in half, and beat you mightily over the head with the non-ass remainder. The Pistons already won a team MVP trophy, and it's called the Fucking Championship. Yes, Doc, that's what that big fuckin' Larry O'Brien Trophy is, an award for your team being so valuable that it wins the championship games. And, seriously, what asswipe gave this motherfucker a doctorate anyway?

And don't play coy, Al Michaels...this guy's response the first time Doc made that assinine remark was, "They have to give the MVP to an individual player, according to the rules that I'm aware of." You fucking bastard, Michaels. What other rules could you possibly be made aware of that you didn't know existed? Do you think it's possible that the stat man would say in Al's earpiece, "Pssst, Al, there are rules you are not aware of, and in these rules, it says an MVP trophy can be awarded to the whole team"? I don't think that's happening, hence my harsh stance of assaulting Doc Rivers with a giant phallus about the head, neck, chest, breast and ass.

OK, one more note, a follow-up on the foul ball kid from Monday's post. The douchebag who dropkicked that four-year-old kid for the foul ball is a former YOUTH MINISTER! See for yourself...

"The man who took the foul ball has not responded publicly to the criticism, but The Dallas Morning News identified him as Matt Starr, a married, 28-year-old landscaper and former youth minister. Starr did not immediately return a telephone message left by The Associated Press on Wednesday.

Starr is 'not the bad guy he's been made out to be,' said Rick DuBose, senior pastor of the Sachse Assembly of God Church. 'He probably got a little aggressive and did something he regrets. But that's not Matt. He's a good kid, a good young man.'" --from

**And a late addition...New band name: Forgotten Walnuts. My main man Hoobs ordered some Chinese food this evening. The chef's specialty, Crispy Shrimp with Walnuts. The only guessed it, they forgot the walnuts. They forgot the walnuts in the Crispy Shrimp with Walnuts. The only thing worse would be if they forgot to crisp the shrimp.

I May Be Dying

Hey Slacksters. Sorry for the lack of content from Ol' Fiedler. I only slept 45 minutes last night and here I am grinding away at the office again. Boy, good thing I did that whole college thing to make labels. And another thing...{tailing off into disgruntled whining, for at least 30 minutes}...raga, shmaga, raga, shmaga, grrr, grrr, diploma, damn, grunt, gonna be a lawyer, i'll show them, oooo! pretzels!, damn work, only 2 weeks left, grrr.

Anyway, I'm so out of it right now that I wouldn't be surprised to see Tim Russert burst into my office, do the "running man" and then explode into a million Skittles. Seriously, it's like I'm fartin' stars over here. And they want me to make labels. I think I would be more effective dreaming about labels and wishing that my dreams would come true. I'm worthless. Is this a musical table? Anyway, say a prayer for me. In 24 hours, this should all be over.

eBay Gold, Jerry, eBay Gold

So we're one day away from the popular rock band Phish's two-night appearance in Coney Island...a field trip that Donnie and Ace have been looking forward to for months.

I got the following eBay posting from a friend earlier today...and apparently, the kid in question is not looking forward to the Phish in Mansfield, Mass. anymore. Take a second and scroll down to read the whole description, it's funnier than Dodgeball (which Ace saw last night and will try to review without spoilers later).

Until then, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars...

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Colorado's Prez is a Cunt...In a Nice Way

As a public service, here's the best story of the day, perhaps of the month:

"The president of the University of Colorado would not say in a sworn deposition whether she considered a certain slur against women 'vile,' and later said she had heard it used as 'a term of endearment,' according to media reports."

Read the above story, I guarantee it'll make your day.

Now, as another public service, because I'm so awesome, here are two stories that lead me to believe that nobody in journalism today has good editorial judgment anymore...

CNN is a lovely outfit. I know plenty of people who work there, they're all lovely people. But the fact that these guys still call themselves a news network is astonishing. Of the eight "More Top Stories" on the front fuckin' page of, two of them are:

T-Boz files for divorce, claims abuse and Glen Campbell gets 10 days in jail for drunken driving.

Ummm, slow news day? First of all, T-Boz filing for divorce from a no-name rapper is considered major news? Didn't this bitch already die in a fiery car crash? Or was that the one that burned down Andre Rison's house? Or was that the one who's plane went down because she had too much luggage? I'm all confused.

And Glen Campbell? Who the fuck is this guy? What kind of a world do we live in where some out-of-work country singer can drive drunk, get sentenced to 10 days in jail six months later and that's fuckin' front page news on CNN?! Wow.

Now, if the story was Glen Campbell Donkey Punches T-Boz After a Hot Carl, then I'd be impressed. That story would be Lenny Krayzelburg.

As it stands, shame on CNN for ridiculously bad judgment. Where's mustachioed Arnold Diaz and the CBS 2 Shame on You crew when you need 'em? I bet they're out givin' T-Boz a Dirty Sanchez or two...

Off to see a sneak preview of Dodgeball tonight. Hopefully it'll be as funny as advertised. I'm predicting at least two or three Oscars for this one -- I hear the sound guys did an amazing job on this flick.

Agent Kujan: "Convince Me"

I've heard nothing but good things about Deadwood (see post below)...I shall check it out post-haste. But be careful about saying that your new favorite show's better than the mind-fuckingness of 24 or the sheer brilliance of The West Wing (before almighty creator Aaron Sorkin's departure). You do not know of which you speak. There are few things in this world of which nobody can convince me to change my mind -- Deadwood being better than old school Wing is one of 'em. Here are just a few more:

New Afghan President Hamid Karzai is just a character being played by Ben Kingsley. You cannot convince me otherwise.

Child molestors, or horned up men in their 20s, may think twice about getting little girls pregnant if a billboard, napkin or coaster tells them not to. If you live in Richmond or Roanoke, I'm lookin' at you. According to this article, "In 1999 and 2000, men over 18 were responsible for 219 births involving girls who were 13 and 14." Had these "Isn't she a little too young?" billboards been operational during those years, these incidents would never have occurred. You cannot convince me otherwise.

And any woman with Parker in her first or last name is automatically right for me -- Parker Posey, Mary-Louise Parker...these women are hotter than two rats fuckin' in a wool sock. I wouldn't even mind being reincarnated as a tampon so that I may always be in Camilla Parker Bowles' knickers. Ordinarily I wouldn't be too attracted to Ms. Bowles, but with Parker in her name, she's hotter than a half-fucked fox in a forest fire. You cannot convince me otherwise.

You could try, but you would not be successful. On all other issues, from the budget deficit to the separation of church and state, I can be convinced. But on those three issues, I'm not budging from my convicted beliefs.

Man, this post was just a waste of 10 minutes for me, two minutes for you. Here's a voucher for your lost time, this is great stuff.

Master of His Domain

Deadwood is the best show I've ever seen. There. I've gone and said it. Whereas Seinfeld used to be the ultimate television experience, it has now been eclipsed. In fact, I would love to see a "Very Special Deadwood" where the cast of Seinfeld comes to the mining camp and is eventually and unceremoniously fed to Mr. Woo's pigs. The pinacle of television characters used to begin and end with Costanza, everyone's favorite miserable, conniving loser. Let it now be said that Al Swearengen has so far surpassed Costanza as to render him to the level of Sister Kate or Wesley Owens from Mr. Belvidere or "Uncle" Joey Gladstone. Why? He's elevated the word "cocksucker" to a work of art. He's murdered a magistrate, a dope fiend, a New York dandy, and a reverend, a 19th Century Grand Slam. He told the story of his life while getting a BJ. And he plies his trade in whiskey, cards, and whores.

None of this is up for debate. Ace can have his 24 or West Wing or any reality drivel he wants. I'll take Al and Bullock and Sol and Charlie Utter. I'd like to take them all out for drinks in Yankton. I'd like to hang out with the "Tit-licker" and the newspaper guy, played by real-life kiddie-porn magnate, Jeffrey Jones. (You know him as Rooney from Ferris Beuler.) I want someone to tell me to go fuck myself, but in a genteel 19th Century way:

"I reckon that by running your lip like that, you're liable to be told to go fuck yourself"

If you say it that way, then you're not telling someone to go fuck himself, you're just alerting him to the possibility that if he keeps acting in a certain way, you WILL tell him to go fuck himself. I love roundabout insult profanity.

By the middle of the past season, I was just waiting for the Sopranos to end so that I could watch Deadwood. When Tony's dad's gumar was blathering on about sleeping with JFK (and, in the process, boring me to tears), all I could think about was Al telling Dan to stab this whiny old bag in the throat with his trusty awl and Calamity Jane shouting, "Fucka youknow bout relations wit fuckin'presidens y'old slutbag whor....{unintelligible as Jane is still talking while face down in a pile of horse shit). Now that's compelling TV!

Monday, June 14, 2004

Four Random Tidbits

I thought of a great band name this weekend: Stabbing Monica Seles. I would pay a million pesos to see a band with that name perform, even if I don't care for its music one iota. Let this be a lesson: If your band's name is Stabbing Monica Seles, I'll see your show and pay top dollar for the evening. The same goes for Pontius Pilate and the Nail-Driving Five, a suggestion from our friends at Everything is Wrong with Me. That name's Classico.

Anyone catch the highlights of a St. Louis fan trying to catch a foul ball at all costs, knocking over a four-year-old boy with a crane kick to the back of the head? You may be outraged, but I say good for this guy, I'm tired of kids getting all the foul balls at the ballpark. He paid his $50 too, there's absolutely no reason he should let up on a foul ball just because some asshole toddler happens to be in the way. Crane kick? Kid's lucky it wasn't me, I'd have kicked him right in his virtually non-existent nuts. And maybe a punch or three delivered straight to his momma's breasts. I mean, look at the picture of this kid -- he got a game-used bat and the foul ball in question, all for a little Danny LaRusso action to the spine. Lucky shithead.

So I had my eyes checked this weekend, and it turns out I need a new eyeglass prescription. Whatever, that's not the story here. Without telling me I may need a driver, the good people there dilated my pupils, told me I'd react harshly to light, and then kicked me out of the office right after my appointment because they were closing. Well obviously it's the brightest day of the year and I ain't got no shades. So I pretty much drove home with one eye completely closed, one eye squinting in blinding pain, one hand on the wheel and the other doing a terrible job of shading my eyes. Picture fuckin' Corky driving his mother's automobile (and keep in mind this was my first time driving a car in well over a year). Needless to say, my driving was about as erratic as Ray Charles' would be, and I nearly ended up in the same place as him, wherever it is he may rest eternally. Too soon? Shut up, he was blind, and now he's dead, these are just facts, don't look at me like I'm the bad guy.

And finally...from the "Happy Birthday, here are some breasts and a pearl necklace" department: The number of 18-year-olds who underwent breast-implant surgery nearly tripled last year — from 3,872 in 2002 to 11,326 in 2003, according to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery. Interestingly enough, the number of 18-year-olds being date raped also tripled last year -- from 3,872 in 2002 to 11,326 in 2003. And according to one of my esteemed colleagues here at work, "You can't beat good rape humor." Truer words ne'er been spoken, Chuck.

Eating Crow on Cape Cod

Right about the time the soon-to-be bride was dropped on her face while doing a keg stand, I realized that I had been all wrong about the Jack and Jill Shower. Sure, the name is a barf-inducing insult to all things manly. But really, good times were had by all, including Ms. Faceplant and her maids of honor. She even liked the cobalt blue lasagna pan Irene (and I) got for her.

As I watched the happy couple opening box after box of appliances, flatware, and fondue pots, it got me to thinking, God, life must really suck after you get married. I mean, look what goes for gifts. It was all stuff you need in a real house, a house where dust doesn't accumulate in the corners and people use coasters and ants are a cause for concern. It was really see people my age acting all happy to get the gift-giving equivilent of baldness and a FUPA. "OOOH, honey! Look! A Williams Sonoma match the rug! What's this? Yay! A Crockpot. Oh, and look, a pair of scissors for snipping off your balls! And they match the doorstop!"

Needless to say, I left the room, went outside, and played flip cup...with all of the other non-grooms.

Friday, June 11, 2004

Jack Off

Alright, a quick farewell. Let the vomit fly as I leave the office and embark on a journey that will conclude tomorrow at the pukerific Jack and Jill Shower! Someone asked me if I was missing the big corporate Funberg party tonight because of business or pleasure. Initially, I responded pleasure but c'mon...let's be serious. This is all business. Damn you, Irene Polito. Damn you for making this weekend a business trip from hell.

(For more vomitous details, see "Jack and Jill" from June 8th)

The Latest in Casual Racism

Here's a pretty troublesome exchange between my roommate and me last night...

Ace: The iPod is everywhere, man. I've noticed a lot more Latinos with them on the subway.

Roommate: Most likely stolen.

Ace: Well, obviously.

You know, that's probably in the file of blatant or overt racism. But hey, at least I didn't say that I've noticed a lot more Latinos with iPods in low riders, with their top buttons buttoned and wearing hairnets, screaming "Yo, ese" and "Ariba La Raza."

OK, now I just said it...don't hit Publish Post, don't hit Publish Post, don't hit Publish Post...

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Grim Threeper

Have you heard the old adage that death comes in 3's? Sure you have. Have you heard the saying "Deaf, dumb, and blind?" Of course. Well if you merge the two together, I think it makes for some pretty interesting stuff. You see, Ray Charles died today. He was blind. Ronald Reagan died a few days ago. Sorry to say, but by the end there, he was super medically dumb. Now, who's next? I'm looking at you Marlee Matlin. I'd stay inside and take my vitamins and fake listening to music for a couple days if I were you. You could say you heard it here first but we'd all know you were lying.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Assist This

I'm really not much of a celebrity gossip at all, but for some reason I was pretty psyched when TiVo recorded the E! channel's Revenge of the Celebrity Assistants yesterday. Suuuure, why not give'r a whirl? Within the first five minutes of the show, three complete morons made three completely moronic statements about the life of a personal assistant to the stars. I offer no more set-up, they're pretty self-explanatory...without any further (Freddy) ado:

"Unlike any other profession, we are here to make somebody else's life better."
--Kerri Campos, personal assistant to Antonio Banderas, Melanie Griffith, and Sally Field

Let me see if I have this straight, Campos...The doctor who performs a life-saving operation on a child, the school teacher who non-sexually touches a bright yet unmotivated student, the Peace Corps volunteer, the Jedi rebel, these people aren't in a profession that makes somebody else's life better? But you, Campos, you can sleep better at night because you baked Sally Field a fuckin' corn and tofu quiche? And if she asked, you know that you'd comb through her stool and pick that corn right the fuck out of there. Motherfucker, Mexican goalkeeper Jorge Campos has done more for the betterment of people's lives than you have. Get over yourself, lickbag, you pick up dry cleaning and Nun crap for a living.

"They do everything...It's an incredible amount of pressure, when you think about it, to be in such a delicate situation, right there in Ground Zero."
--Tina Dirmann, US Weekly Magazine

Yes, these personal assistants are right there in Ground Zero. Now I realize that the phrase "ground zero" existed before 9/11. But hasn't it become a proper noun at this point, one that signifies the tragedy of that world-changing event? Do you think then, Ms. Dirmann, that comparing the pressure of folding David Spade's freshly bleached tightie whities with the plight of New York's Bravest in the city's darkest hour was an appropriate analogy? This bitch should be forced to perform an hour of cunnilingus on a sweaty Kirstie Alley for making a mistake like that.

And finally, "Sometimes the celebrities need that support to get them through the day -- whether it be working, whether it be shopping, whether it be breathing."
--Flaming Flamowitz, owner Elizabeth Rose Agency

OK, I see where he was going with this. But let's assume for a moment that the celebrity in question did, in fact, need assistance breathing. Here's the part where I have trouble with this, and I have arranged a list of questions. How would the personal assistant even provide breathing assistance? Shouldn't the celebrity just hire a breathing assistant instead of a personal one? Is that a Lamaze coaching kind of thing, or is there some sort of pulminary massage involved? I'm sitting here racking my brain (for real, you should see me concentrating on this) and I can't think of a single way besides maybe punching some sorry asthma kid in the face and stealing his inhaler. "Sucks to your ass-mar," you'd say and run into the ocean. But then I'd be making some poor kid's life worse at the expense of enriching the life of, say, Olympia Dukakis. I loved you in Coneheads. You too.

**No children with asthma were harmed in the writing of this entry. I actually have asthma. Wilford Brimley has Diabetes.

No Dutch Money

Just because you're dead and just because you happened to be President and a whole bunch of people liked you and worshipped you and just because your wife scared Arnold shitless on Diff'rent Strokes and beat up the Gooch for selling H and had a romantic dalliance with Mr. Drummond, doesn't give you the right to appear on the $10 bill, or the $20, or on the front of a dime, Reagan. Stay off my 10-spot.

You know, we send people to Congress to represent us and, in turn, they get the chance to fatten their wallets living off of kickbacks and lobbyist freebees. And you know what? That's fine. But couldn't these bastards have a little perspective? No. Any yahoo with a -(R) after their name is vomitting forth legislation to annoint Reagan a money-worthy president.

I mean, everyone loves the recently deceased, well, except for dead people like Hitler and Stalin and Jeff Dahmer and Maurice Gibb. That's why we have funerals: to remember the good times. Unfortunately, in the short term, this obscures our perception of the dead guy. We can't decide their place in history because the deceased is forefront in our minds as a current thing. You have to wait for someone to die, and then wait for the grieving about that person to die, before you can assess their legacy. Sure, Reagan did a lot for this country. But are we really in the right mindset right now to decide whether he should reside in our wallets...forever...or at least until someone else dies? (Easy on the gas pedal, Janklow, or you're next.) Ronald had really big flaws and we need some perspective to analyze these flaws, and his place in history, before we go around minting his adorable, craggy mug on our greenbacks.

Once upon a time, the great catcher Thurmon Munson, former MVP and captain of the Yankees and sporter of a truly fantastic pushbroom moustache, died in a plane crash, cutting short his career. I'm sure there was a tremendous push to put him in the Hall of Fame, to immortalize the fallen great, taken in the prime of his life. I'm sure if they passed around ballots at his funeral, they'd put him in the hall. But the Hall of Fame was wise on this...prescient if you will. There has always been a 5-year waiting period before a player can be considered. This allows the necessary time to get perspective. Sure it's sad that a ballplayer is turned into a steaming pile of entrails. But that doesn't make him a Hall of Famer. And Thurman just hadn't accumulated the stats to go in the Hall.

Now maybe Reagan does have the stats. But come on. He's been dead for like 2 days. You need time, especially if you are considering putting Reagan on printed money. We haven't changed the ragtag bunch of dead white men on our paper money since 1929. Is Reagan really the guy to buck the trend over? They've got a name for countries that change their currency every 3 years: Europe. And I don't want to be no pussy European.

So here goes: 50 year minimum waiting period after death before you're eligible to be depicted on U.S. money. This would preclude Reagan, Nixon, LBJ, JFK (who's on some bunk coin you get from NJ Transit when you pay with a $20, along with that miserable assbag, Susan B. Anthony), Ike and Harry Fuckin' Truman. Get in line, Jelly Bean. See you in 2054. Maybe then, we'll have the proper perspective to call you dollar-worthy.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

One Man's Slack Review

First of all, I second Mr. Fiedler's assertion about "comments." No more free riders...either comment on our site or suffer a near-deadly punch to the genitals and/or boobs. So, men with boobs better comment or there's trouble.

Here's a funny review of Slack LaLane from one Lukas W, easily the most impressive web-cat I know:

"Definitely impressive (in content and quantity). Can you keep up the pace? I hope Slack doesn't end up like what Bill Parcells would call 'one of those Jap pitchers.'

They start out with a bang, workhorses with pitch counts in the 130s, strike out everybody. And then their arms wilt from early-career over-exertion. And no one brings those funny Japanese K signs to the games anymore."

Well, here's to hoping that Donnie and Ace don't flame out like some of those Jap pitchers, who may or may not have taken part in gay pornography. I can only speak for myself on that one. Donnie? Take any role in Sperms of Endearment to pay for college?

Jack and Jill

I'm not proud of it, but, yes, I'm going to a Jack and Jill shower this weekend for a couple I hardly know. Thanks Irene. Apparently, the blushing bride, incapable of settling for a tasteful engagement party (to which I was dragged), a bachelorette party on a remote island, her own goddamn shower, and the fucking wedding itself, couldn't get enough of making people sacrifice weekends to celebrate something that people can do with a blood test and a stamp from city hall: GET MARRIED.

Personally, I'm not getting the happy couple a goddamn thing. In fact, it is I that deserves the gift. Do you realize how uncomfortable I've been over the last few days, explaining my upcoming weekend? ", I can't go to the Yankees game this weekend because I've got to go to a {puke launches into mouth only to be forced back down} Jack and Jill shower." That's awful. I'd rather get an invitation to my own briss. It wouldn't even be that bad if it had a different name, like "Joint Shower" or "Duo Shower." But Jack and Jill? Everytime I use the term a small piece of my masculinity disappears into the ether. By Friday, Richard Simmons will be able to kick my ass.

Anyway, this weekend, when you're playing frisbee in the park, drinking on a rooftop, sleeping late, having a really late lunch, or just doing nothing, think of me, celebrating the institution of marriage at the {vomit rising, gag, receding} Jack and Jill shower.

In other news, I just got 2 new things:

1. A Franz Ferdinand CD (self-titled) which I heard in a bar and decided to order and I really like it (This would be my musical recommendation to Muldoon)
2. Network (the movie) on DVD, probably the smartest movie I've ever seen, way smarter than this goddamn {puke rising, masculinity eschewing} Jack and Jill shower idea

Don't Make Me Come Over There

Would it kill you people to post a few comments once in a while? Even if you have absolutely nothing on-topic to say, it might be nice to do a little give-and-take here, huh? You should have seen poor Ace the other day, crying about how Reagan was dead and that no one was giving us any feedback. Over and over he lamented, "Ronnie. Comments. Ronnie. Comments."

Monday, June 07, 2004

Yo, I'm Cuban, B

Every major and mid-major news outlet on the World Wide Web (,,, etc.) is carrying the same AP wire story right now. And they all start like this:

Cuba harshly criticized former President Ronald Reagan and his policies on Monday, saying he should "never have been born." In the first reaction to Reagan's death from the communist government, Radio Reloj said:

"As forgetful and irresponsible as he was, he forgot to take his worst works to the grave," the government radio station said. "He, who never should have been born, has died," the radio said.

I hope you'll join me in finding that statement funny on many levels. But before that laughter begins, first join me in admiring the fact that the entire country of Cuba managed to criticize the former president in one radio address. That's Craisins. No matter how poor and how malnourished, Cubans today stood together as one nation and spoke harshly of a man they probably couldn't pick out of a lineup. Never mind if maybe one or two Joses and a handful of Marias a whole, as a people, Cuba believes that Reagan should never have been born. Communism rocks me like a hurricano.

I'd like to take this time to apologize to the Cuban community. See, I embrace what some people refer to as "casual racism." Casual racism makes the world go 'round...we'll have more on this topic in depth at a later time and date. For now, let's just come together as the Cubans did and proclaim something as one, so that all the news outlets in France or England run an article that reads: "The United States of America announced an undying love for Mary-Louise Parker on Monday, saying the talented seductress can 'come over here and bang us silly.'"

What the fuck am I talking about at this point? I should just cut my losses and shut this thing off. OK, one more thing, then I'll go...Reagan's obituary for many news outlets was most likely written in the late 90's. To me it would be a great story if for the second time this year, a famous person outlived his obit writer (which happened in the case of Bob Hope and New York Times' obit guy Vincent Canby). Life, and death I guess, can be funny like that. Cuba thinks so too, they told me.

Ms. Yothers, Tear Down This Wall!

Ronald Reagan was the President who cried wolf. How many times over the last decade was it all but confirmed that he had died? 7? 8? When Nancy released word of his passing to the authorities they probably responded with a, "Sure, lady. Right. Ron's dead...again. You must think we're pretty dumb to expect us to come up there. Save it, Nancy. Smarty Jones is about to race."

And how pissed off must the thousands of D-Day survivors have been? They drag their old asses halfway around the world to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the defining moment of their lives and Reagan, who was probably smoking dope poolside with Hollywood dames in too-tight sweaters during the war, has to go and die on them. All media coverage of the ceremonies were eclipsed. They must have felt like Jesus when Billy Martin got liquored up and drove over a cliff on Christmas and ruined his birthday.

Saturday was also a bad day for Alex P. Keaton, perhaps Reagan's staunchest supporter. I wonder what that must have been like for the now nearly 40 year old wiseacre, who, I'm sure, still lives upstairs? There's Baxter Berney and Big Mike Gross, those dirty fuckin hippies, dancing around Alex, taunting him that his savior is dead. "Who's gonna cut federal spending to alleviate homelessness, refuse to fund AIDS research, and allow crack to spread unfettered on our streets? Tom deFuckinLay?" Alex, feeling cornered, flees out the front door of the Keaton's suburban Ohio home. Skippy, who was leaning out his window in yet another vain effort to see one of Mallory's boobs, falls during the commotion and cracks his head on his driveway. Brains scattered everywhere, Mr. and Mrs. Keaton look to each other, spread their arms wide, and say, "Oh, Skippy." Alex runs over to Skippy's driveway to help but is killed when unnecessary little brother Andy, a serial drunk driver, runs him over in Elyse's Prius.

Dead: Alex, Skippy, Reagan
Stoned: The Keatons
Incarcerated: Andy
Yo: Nick

Sopranos = Pedro

The Ace Cowboy has a lot on his mind today...Had a nice weekend in Chicago and I've got lots to talk about:

I took in a Roman Catholic wedding ceremony ("Peace be with you"), I hit up Wiener's Circle late night, I had an aborted trip to a karaoke bar with 15 wedding-dressed people who really wanted to sing "Endless Love" and "Get Outta My Dreams" and possibly "Faithfully", and many many more hilrious hijinx in the Windy Apple.

But I had to get up at 5:30 this morning because The Gipper finally remembered that it was time to stop living. And now I'm freakin' busier than Kelly Ripa's fallopian tubes, so that'll all have to come later.

For now, here's a quick take on The Sopranos finale from my Boston friend Eric:

"anyhoo, pranos is good. not great. that's just how it is. it's the pedro martinez of tv. you could get the 8 innings and no runs (two weeks ago). you could get the 7+ innings, 7 hits, 2 runs (finale). or you could get the 3 innings, 10 hits, 6 runs (dream sequence a few weeks ago). overall, good but not great. just the way it is. will streinbrenner still throw dollares at pranos? probably yes."

Absolutely brilliant analogy. Does Boston suck, though? Absolutely. Pedro can eat my ass.

Friday, June 04, 2004


I know they're from different Christian denominations but, with President Bush in for a visit, would it be too much for the Pope to pull this off?:

Pope: You know, God doesn't like you.
Bush: What?
Pope: He told me right after you became President that He thinks you're a real douchebag.
Bush: Really? What did I do?
Pope: Dude, I don't know. He's fucking God. But, really, you should consider leaving the White House.
Bush: But my "father" told me to stay in office, slash funding for social programs, and fight the heathens in Iraq to secure oil for God-fearing Americans.
Pope: Wait...your father George? or God?
Bush: Yes.
Pope: Huh?
Bush: What?
Pope: Step down, really. For God.
Bush: Why are you shaking so much? Are you cold?
Pope: Douchebag.

Thymus Glands

Things were really swinging last night for Don and his ladyfriend as we dined at pompous, rotund Mario Battali's legendary Babbo, mecca of pretentious Italian cuisine and outlandish cuts of strange meat. The meal was spectacular and spectacularly expensive but if you can't dine out over your wallet on your birthday, when can you do it? Advent?

So we munched on pigs feet pounded into a scrapple-like substance, beef cheek-stuffed raviolis in a sauce infused with fois gras (goose liver your face!), and my entree, fennel-dusted sweetbreads. What are sweetbreads? Why, they're the thymus glands of calves, pigs, or lamb. And they kick ass when they're served in a quince-vinegar reduction with duck bacon.

Eating all of this offal made me think of my grandfather, who, like all really really old people, likes to tell us about the hardships of yesteryear. After a similarly organ meat-tastic meal, he laughed that we paid top dollar to eat things that he was forced to eat during the Depression just cause they were cheap. Boy, did he love when Bubby and Zeda came back from the market with hearts and lungs and fingernails and rectal sausage! "Oh boy, pickled favorite!" Then Gramps blathered on about old-time radios and ice-boxes and President Coolidge and bicycles with really big front wheels and really tiny back wheels.

This, then, got me thinking about how wussy mankind has become, especially pseudo-pretentious recent college grads who spend too much money on luxury me. Forget Gramps. I'd like to see prehistoric man bust into a place like Babbo, all drooling and grunting, wearing one of those leopard-skin togas. He could sniff the super expensive plates of black ink spaghetti with calamari and swing his spiky club into the back of the jolly somelier. These cavemen would scoff at paying 29 bucks to eat lamb's tongue with morels. After all, they would tear into the neck of a giraffe on the run, much like wolves do to gimpy elk (come to think of it, they'd eat the wolves and the elk too). I would pay to see Battali, all smug and plump, come busting out of his kitchen with 5 cavemen in full pursuit and then watch him trip over some pretentious plate of truffle-infused goat balls, stumble to the ground, and then be grotesquely devoured by said cavemen, pieces of Moltoman being flung into the air with carnal abandon. Hey, look! Sweetbreads! Irony rocks.

Band Name Project

You'll see a street sign or utter a weird turn of phrase, and suddenly it hits you: "Dude, that would be a killer name for our band. Are you stoned too, man? Dude, pass me that Big League Chew."

Obviously the likes of Three Doors Down, Toad the Wet Sprocket and The Lovin' Spoonful came up with their names in this manner. And though we don't play any instruments, and none of our members can carry a tune, our band is currently looking for a name. We can't kick ass 'til we get ourselves a name, and if we can't kick ass, then we can't take names. And I want to take those fuckin' names.

We've come up with hundreds through the years, but none of us can remember shit. Maybe our band should be called CRS Disease, because we Can't Remember Shit. Here's a short list of names under consideration:

Slow Children, Two-Hour Parking, Omnipotent Vagina, Intentionally Old Strippers, Chicken Gyro, Freezing in Fleece, Derivation of Dutch, Chaco's Headbands, Reverse Peristalsis, Moderate Sprawling, Tanyon Sturtze, That's No Gouda, Human Rectum, and Adolph Oliver Nipples.

Computations, permutations...There's a lot of work to be done here. If you have one that you'd like to add to our short list, either post a comment or email Would be lovely to hear some of your suggestions.

Oh, and as a complete aside, I just got an e-mail from "Canada" with the subject line "Save Money on Your Prescriptions." I have no joke here, that's just funny on its own, eh?

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Happy Birthday Donnie Fiedler

A very happy 25th birthday to one, Donald Fiedler, the bestest blogger this side of the Mighty Mississip (by the way, I love how one of "Happy Birthday" songwriters was an authority on Negro spirituals).

A quarter century, wow you're an old man. I remember a much simpler time, when Donnie and Ace were three doors down in the dorm, when a late wakeup begot bong hits, and bong hits begot Sly and the Family Stone, and Sly and the Family Stone begot strange white boy dancing, and strange white boy dancing begot ass sex. Um, wait, what? Scratch that last one. Strike it.


Ahhhhh, my friends. Today I've reached the quarter turn towards the back straightaway. The big 2-5. A quarter century of Fiedler. Being the retrospective type, I thought you might like to take a stroll with me back to June 3, 1979, the dawn of what is now commonly known as...

The Fiedler Era

1. June 3, 1979 (Summit, NJ) - A Don is born, creating a worldwide hysteria, severe stock market fluctuations and a near-Doomsday nuclear scare.
2. June 3, 1979 (Washington, DC) - With pandemonium breaking out the world over, President Carter goes jogging on the stairs from 5:36 to 5:53. No wonder he wasn't re-elected.
3. June 3, 1979 (Arlington, TX) - Underwear hawker and all-around pompous ass Jim Palmer takes the loss as the Orioles fall to Texas 4-2.
4. June 3, 1979 (Kampala, Uganda) - Slack LaLane's Lunatic Dictator of the Year for 1979, Idi Amin of Uganda, flees his homeland for an extended vacation on the shores of the Mediterranean in Libya, presumably to tutor Africa's next nutso megalomaniac, young Muammar Khadafi.
5. June 3, 1979 (Gulf of Mexico) - Let's go down to Keith Jackson. "Well, Don, I'm down here inspecting oil rigs in the Gulf of...Uh oh. Oh no! The Ixtoc I oil rig has just exploded and, oh look at the oil 3 million barrels of it flowing into the Gulf waters in what is thought to be the largest oil spill to date. I'm thinking of the fish and sea fowl and they don't stand a chance. They are coated in oil and...and...they're gone. Oh my. Back to you Don." Thanks Keith.
6. June 3, 1979 (New Rochelle, NY) - Ray Knight's status as the second best athlete in the Knight-Lopez household and all-around wuss is confirmed as Nancy Lopez comes from behind to win the LPGA Golden Lights Championship.
7. June 3, 1979 (Ottawa, Ontario) - Canada is fatherless today as Pierre "Big Pete" Trudeau leaves office and the evil minions of the Conservative Party take the reigns. Never fear Canada, Papa Trudes will be back in 8 short months after launching a violent revolutionary coup against Conservative Party headquarters. Trudeau's bloody vice-grip on Canada will last another 4 years.

So all in all, it was probably the most pivotal day in the history of mankind.

25 years, man. That's nothing to shake a stick at. Look at all the people who didn't make it that far: Ryan White, Aaliyah, Urkel. It's been a tough road, some ups and downs and radiator burns. But I've made it and I thank no one but myself. Happy Fiedler Day all!

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

Women...Can't LIve With 'Em. Pass the Beer Nuts

That subject line is clearly Norm's best line in Cheers history.

I never thought I knew much about women to begin with...but now I'm really fuckin' stumped. This pretty attractive little vixen in my office and I shared this non-fluid exchange today:

HER: "I really like this guy. But I started booking other dates for next week."
ME: "That doesn't make any sense."

And it doesn't. See, she's doing one of two things. Either she's detaching herself so that she doesn't get too serious too fast. Or, in the event that he is still seeing other people casually, she's not caught off guard. Either way, I'm pretty turned on.

But for now on, these are the types of girls I'm going after.


I saw My Morning Jacket last night thanks to Starbucks' brother who is some sort of big swinging dick on the Nashville music scene. Hell, the VIP passes we got landed us in the balcony at Irving Plaza and I stood right in FRONT of honcho de los honchos, Clive Davis, the second best Clive in the world behind Clive Anderson. Who is Clive Davis? He's the king of cool, as detailed in this quip from his bio:

When you get Rod Stewart, Justin Timberlake, Aretha Franklin, and Alicia Keys to perform at your legendary pre-Grammy galas, you know you're the epitome of cool.

Wow, what a cool gala! Probably the coolest gala since Bette Midler, Jon Koncak and Sen. Frank Lautenberg jazzed up my pre-Cable Ace Awards gala.

So MMJ was pretty good, all in all. They definitely can ride the power chords all night long and headbang with the best of 'em. Hair all over the place, except of course on Clive. You can't see the lead singer's face when he sings, which is cool cause it looks like the back of Janis Joplin's head is singing to you.

So I got shitcanned and I've paid for it all day today. It was one of those inbetween drunks. You know, where you are really aware that you're drunk but you're powerless to stop it. I could sense that I was walking like a complete idiot on my way home, like I had just learned to walk, but I was at the mercy of my drunken legs.

To sum up:

My Morning Jacket in concert: B+
Hangover: killer
Clive Davis: cool
Clive Anderson: cooler
This Baby: huge
Book Club: Tonight (Bunny deserved it)

Information Time (What, We Have to be Funny Every Fuckin' Time?)

One of our generations greatest social commentators once said: "People can come up with statistics to prove anything. Fourteen percent of people know that."

You can tell me that with all the sluggers in the Yankee lineup, you'd like to face Derek Jeter because he's batting .233 on the season. I'd then shoot you in the face and respond with "Oh, you were finshed? Well, allow me to retort," then tell you that no one in beisbol has a hotter bat than Mr. Jeter of late. And here are the stats to prove it:

After last night's Jeterrific performance, Derek now has an RBI-base hit in each of his last eight games. During this eight-game streak, of which seven games were on the road, Jeter is batting .425 (17/40) with three homeruns, eight runs scored, 11 runs batted in and two stolen bases. Against Baltimore alone, in four games, Jeter is batting .550 (11/20) with two homeruns, six runs scored and seven runs batted in. Statistics aside, rumors of Derek's demise were greatly exaggerated. I guess all it took were some fuckin' crabcakes and a trip to Inner Harbor for Derek's bats to finally wake up. Hats for bats, keep bats warm.

But back to stastics...and I know most of you would rather be discussing boobies after yesterday's Titlickman post. But eat shit. It's Donnie's time up there. Down here, it's my time. It's my time down here. That's all over the moment we ride up in Fiedler's bucket o' boobies.

I'm a big stats guy, despite the fact that I routinely say, "Statistics never tell the whole story." I guess you can call ol' Ace Cowboy a walking contradiction. Either way, here are my favorite three major stastics of all time:

1. Wilt Chamberlain AVERAGED 50.4 points and 25.7 rebounds during the 1961-62 season. Now granted, the NBA was a much different league back then. I mean, there were games when Wilt was playing center against, like, Danny Devito and Billy Crystal. Nonetheless, Bill Russell didn't average no 50 points a game.

2. From 1981-82 through the 85-86 season, Wayne Gretzky AVERAGED 207 points per season. To put that in some perspective, no one else has ever tallied more than 200 in a season, and only Mario Lemieux has come close. In the first year of that streak, The Great One lit the lamp 92 times; and in the last year of that run, he (only!) scored 52 times but dished out 163 assists. To put all of this in perspective, here are the scoring leaders of the last three years: Martin St. Louis, 94 points; Peter Forsberg, 106 points; Jarome Iginla, 96 points. And Gretzky even bangs that chick from my favorite Police Academy, Police Academy 5: Assignment Miami Beach.

3. For baseball, it's a tie between Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak and Nolan Ryan's 5,714 career strikeouts. First to the Ryan Express...we like to think that the Rocket is a dominating strikeout pitcher. And in 20 years, including two games of 20 strikeouts (something Nolan never did), Clemens finds himself only 1,600 strikeouts behind Ryan. For Roger, that's about a whole Al Leiter career behind Ryan.

But DiMaggio's streak was even more remarkable. For fifty-six straight games, from May 15th to July 17th of 1941, Joltin' Joe hit safely in every one of 'em. During the streak, Joe DiMaggio had 91 hits, 22 multi-hit games, 5 three hit games, four four-hit games, a .408 batting average, 15 home runs and 55 runs batted in. But the best part: Ken Keltner ended the streak with two fine defensive plays at the hot corner on July 17th. DiMaggio then went on to hit in 16 more consecutive games -- that's 72 of 73 straight games with a hit.

And this guy banged Marilyn Monroe. Damn, I love the Yankees.