Songs For Brooklyn

In a semi-regular Notes From a Former New Yorker feature, Notes From a Former New Yorker Records presents a new CD collection, this time a collection of songs drawn from hits made by the iPOD shuffle as I wandered the City last weekend.

As always, trades are welcome.

01) Dreaming Man, Neko Case
02) Saddest Quo, The Pernice Brothers
03) Coming In From The Cold, The Delgados
04) Confetti, The Lemonheads
05) Cigarettes & Alcohol, Oasis
06) Pale Blue Eyes, R.E.M.
07) Seventy-Four, Seventy-Five, Shearwater
08) I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You, Tom Waits
09) Hollow Sidewalks, Cub Country
10) Starfish, Bionic Finger
11) You Kill Me, Sukilove
12) Fallin', De La Soul
13) Let's Not Talk About It, The Mendoza Line
14) Over, Kate Maki
15) Memory Lane, Elliott Smith
16) Not What I Had In Mind, Kelly Willis
17) Imaginary Bars, Great Lake Swimmers
18) To Be Young (Is To Be Sad, Is To Be High), Ryan Adams
19) Walk of Shame, Truckstop Honeymoon

Random Tidbits From My Weekend

Over the last few days, I hoisted a few pints with Mondale, Listmaker, Briar, Wes and the mysterious J. Frank Parnell.

Briar, Wes and J. Frank are old chums and it is always good to spend some time quaffing a few rounds with them. Listmaker and Mondale I'd never met before, but Mondale gifted me with a lovely portrait of Gerald Ford before hurrying off on a bulk product carrying mission, and Listmaker had vintage Rod Stewart vinyl on his person. I assume we will lift our glasses together again sometime down the road. And, of course, Weasel stood me a drink in abstentia, a favor I hope to someday return.

But Wes and I also went upstate to look at art with my friend D. and her son Z., a boy who drums like a toddler Keith Moon, on any surface, anywhere. And sometimes, the joy of drumming just makes him air drum.



In addition to visiting with New York folks, I snuck into New Jersey to surprise family and even older friends at a very muddy steeplechase meeting on Saturday.



This event, something I first attended in utero and then in most of the years since, is largely an excuse for New Jersey's landed gentry to actually engage the four wheel drive on their Range Rovers and to drink themselves stupid. The crowd was sparse this year, due to the blustery wind, the calf deep mud and the threat of squalls. Usually, one can count on an array of hideous pants and terrifying hats, but the weather seemed to curb the sartorial excess somewhat. Still I learned two important things.

First, when one has access to legal teams that can make "public intoxication" and "drunk and disorderly" disappear faster than one can say "Muffy and I met at the club," the usual rules on public drinking do not apply.



Second, you'd better buy F. Scott that pony or he will totally kick your ass.

Home...And Back Again

All in all, a lovely weekend.

More later; I've got a class to prepare. But there's little better than brisk air and stiff winds, old friends and new, strong drink and lingering meals with good wine, the windows fogged over as the night presses on and the temperature drops.

These are a few of the things that make me feel at home. New York, on the cusp between autumn and winter, is one of my favorite places in the world.

Whoops...

Rep. Jim Gibbons (R-Hypocrite) is running for Governor of Nevada. Of late, Candidate Gibbons has been a little harsh with his rhetoric on immigration and, of course, he voted in favor of H.R. 4437, the disgusting bit of race baiting that sparked a wave of protest last spring.

But, much like Mark Folley (R-Sleaze Ball), who wrote a bill to protect children from on-line predators while e-lusting after teen aged boys, it seems Gibbons only wants the laws he favors to apply to other people.



Oh, yeah. There's one more thing. Last week, Happliy Marrited, Family Values Candidate Gibbons was involved in a little sscrape, in which he may or may not have assulted a woman--and threatened her with murder--after she rejected his sexual advances in a parking garage.

Ah, the Republican Party, so full of integrity.

The Nutty Buddy...

The Nutty Buddy provides complete protection so you can play hard and protect the family jewels!

There's a video at the link. Watch it please. Please?

In The Spirit of Friendship

This is hard for me. Very hard.

But anyway.

Be it resolved:

Because I am a baseball fan first and a Yankee fan second, and

Because The Mets play in New York, and

Because Tony LaRussa is responsible for making baseball games last far too long with all his pitching match-up crap, and

Because The Mets are still in this despite having 1.43 actual major league quality starting pitchers backed up by players who were demoted to the minors by the freaking Pirates, and

Because I want to see Jose Reyes lose his mind completely and dance his booty off,

I will be cheering for The Mets tonight over Lone Stars and greasy burgers.

He's Home

Things are a touch quiet around Casa Notes From a Former New Yorker tonight. It seems my efforts to locate Rufus' owners (his actual name is the far more generic and inferior "Duke") at last proved successful.

When his owner pulled up today, the little guy went crazy and jumped into his car with nary a backward glance in my direction. And while I know he's back where he belongs, I'd started to get attached to him.

Even Lucy, who'd spent the last two days playing with him, while being sure to remind him who was boss, is subdued this evening.

It may just be time to bring another dog into the house.

For The Love of God, Make Them Stop

I don’t want to make light of the deaths of two people, and I certainly don’t want to belittle the anxiety that must have ripped through New York today when a major league baseball player and his flight instructor decided to take a detour into an Upper East Side condo in mid flight, but it continues to amaze me that anyone with even a touch of fame would get into a small airplane.

Call it the Buddy Holly Rule. It goes something like this: If one has reached a level of public awareness and/or fame that is marked by the appearance of one’s name in the headline of a national newspaper or periodical, then one does not get into an aircraft, under any circumstance, that seats fewer than forty people. (See also, The Stevie Ray Vaughn Addendum, the Aaliyah Amendment, the Big Bopper Corollary, The Roberto Clemente Rule, the Ritchie Vallens Effect, The Wellstone Awakening, etc.)

And, in this case, Cory Lidle seems to have also violated the Munson Mandate, a subset of the Payne Stewart Prophecy, The JFK, Jr. Conundrum and the John Denver Rule: Under no circumstance, ever, should a person who has reached a level of public awareness and/or fame that is marked by the appearance of one’s name in the headline of a national newspaper or periodical attempt to pilot an aircraft that seats under forty people.

The Travolta Travesty, in which the world’s most famous disco dancer continues to survive, despite repeated flights in his own plane, only serves to reinforce these rules, as Mr. Saturday Night Fever’s personal plane, which he sometimes pilots, is a retrofitted jumbo jet.

I thought, by now, this would be self evident. I’m begging here people, if you know anyone who could remotely be considered famous, please be sure to remind them that friends don’t let celebrities fly in small planes. It’s for their own good.

The Best Thing About Living In Austin

One could make an argument for the temperate winters.

One could make an argument for the transvestite street person who once ran for mayor and finished second.

One could make an arguement for the live music scene, noted the world over.

One could make an arguement for the rich and varied cultural opportunities afforded by the presence of a large, national University.

One could make an argument for the many green spaces and outdoor recreational activities.

But those arguments would be wrong. Because the best thing about living here is, simply, meat.

Olga and I hit the The Texas BBQ Festival on Sunday and were able to gorge ourselves on the many and varried permutations of meat cooked with flame. It did my inner cave man good.

While Texans generally prefer the bovine to the swine, there were examples of both on hand.




Brisket and pulled Pork from Big Oak BBQ in Buda, TX:



Shiner Dogs and Shiner Brats from Patek's Shiner Smokehouse in Shiner, TX:



Quite the saucy bird, don't you think?



Pork Ribs from Austin's own Artz Rib House:



World Famous Elgin Sausage:



Mmmmmm. Juicy Brisket:



Wood smoke, charcoal in the air and the glorious scent of slow cooked meat. Easily the best thing about Austin. Those Shiner Brats: totally awesome.

Do You Know This Dog?

'Cause if you do, he's in my house and he doesn't belong to me. He came up to Olga and I at the Crown and Anchor tonight, no collar, no leash, but otherwise seemingly healthy and well cared for. No one in the bar owned him. He's well behaved, but a tad anxious. He's also making Lucy a touch uneasy.

I'd like to get him back where he belongs, so if you know him or his people, please drop me a line.

My Head is About to Explode...

Here's a lovely photograph of President Bush and disgraced former Congressman and charter NAMBLA member Mark Foley discussing, um, something.



Too many jokes. Too, too many jokes.

Please, your captions?

I'm thinking, "That big? On a sixteen year old?"

Appeasement of A Doubting Brit

Despite the deeply unpleasant national memory the word "appeasement" might bring, I shall address some of The Former Vice President's doubts in the comments to my previous post.

He writes:

Secondly, he is clearly wearing a wifebeater which leads me to suggest that he was wearing a shirt of some type OVER his tattoos when moving about in public (assuming that nobody I know including stalkers/dear friends of dear friends would willingly wear such a garment in public outside the home).

Thirdly, and this is crucial, there is no evidence of anyone else in any of these pictures. I cannot accept the humilation of the Norris until I see actual evidence of it. Meaning I need to see other people seeing the Norris.

Fourthly, Where were the last two shots taken? Beautiful scenery.

As to the wife beater, it was demanded of me:

I expect photos of you as a fully-inked construction worker from Providence or Saugus, Mr. Norris.

The wife beater is part of that costume.

As for other people, here is an outtake:



Note the people in the background. The opening shots were taken at The Crown & Anchor Pub, my local, while the late NFL game was in full swing. While not as crowded as it would've been if it were a college game, there were some folks there, folks who did not give us a second look, as an inked Sox fan in distress barely registers on the odd scale in these parts.

Finally, the last three shots (and the outtake above) were taken at Covert Park/Mount Bonnell, the highest point in the city limits of Austin, looking out over Lake Austin, one of the two names people here insist on calling different sections of the Colorado River as it runs through town.

Payment

A short recap for those not already following along: Weasel and I had a running bet this season on the outcome of each of the Yanks/Sox sets. Assorted indignities have been assigned and played out by each of us. Alas, the Yanks dropped the final series, and on the eve of baseball’s playoffs, which will be featuring the Yankees while Weasel’s Sox watch on television, it’s time for me to settle our wager.

Weasel’s Terms:

While I am sure Bill is a paragon of moral probity he is a Yankees fan and therefore not be trusted not to seek a loophole. Therefore, I'm not sending clothing but temporary tattoos.

There are enough in a package to cover both arms to the point where Bill will resemble a riveter on the Big Dig.

I expect photos of you as a fully-inked construction worker from Providence or Saugus, Mr. Norris. A pillow up your shirt to simulate the accompanying beer gut is optional.

Today, with Olga’s help, I am here to make good on our bet.

I confess to taking a touch of liberty with the placement of the temporary tats, but I think Weasel will approve of my choices.

That said, I could not resist having a bit of fun with the assignment, so here is a dramatic re-enactment of important moments in the season of a Red Sox fan.

First, of course, the season begins, and hope springs eternal. The beer is cold, there are 162 games to be played, and this, of course, is the year.



But history will not be denied, and he can’t help but reflect on January of 1920, on that terrible trade that, for so many years, doomed this franchise. Yes, “The Curse” seemed to be lifted with that glorious run in 2004, but perhaps it was an illusion.



And, how can he forget October 2, 1978, when he was just a wee lad? How can he forget Bucky Dent and that improbable ball into the net above the Green Monster?



And, of course, there's October 25, 1986. How can he not recall that dribbler through Buckner’s legs when a title was, literally, within his grasp?



And, oh how it hurts, October 16, 2003. Finally, the Sox are looking at a trip to the Series, leading Game 7 of the ALCS, in Yankee Stadium. It was so close, he remembers buying a pitcher of Miller Lite for all his buddies to start the celebration early, and the first sips were sweet until it all turned bitter. How can he erase the memory of Pedro staying in too long and Aaron Bleeping Boone and that fateful Wakefield knuckler that didn’t knuckle? How can he when he can still taste the room temperature dregs of that pitcher, those nasty sips he tossed back when the game finally ended?



And this year. This year that seemed so good, with the damned Yankees ravaged by injuries and chinless wonder Randy Johnson pitching at speeds more familiar to Jamie Moyer, and that nice lead in July, until, no, don’t make him remember, don't make him think about August 21. Don't make him recall the day that marked the Sox losing five straight to the Yankees, in FENWAY.



It’s enough to make him seek answers beyond the earthly realm.



Yes, he’ll appeal to the heavens, he’ll turn to the Pats or the Celtics for winter solace, but still, surely God must have the answers. Surely, he can pray and wait until next year.



He really has no other choice.

_{Thanks to Olga for some nifty camera work.}

Say It Ain't So Andy...

Back in June, Listmaker noted his belief that Roger Clemens would be implicated in the Jason Grimsley HGH/'roids/uppers story.

Today, the LA Times does just that.

Here's the lead from the Times story, which may go subscription only at some point:

Roger Clemens, one of professional baseball's most durable and successful pitchers, is among six players allegedly linked to performance-enhancing drugs by a former teammate, The Times has learned. The names had been blacked out in an affidavit filed in federal court.

But the real shocker, for me, comes in the next graph:

Others whose identities had been concealed include Clemens' fellow Houston Astros pitcher Andy Pettitte and former American League most valuable player Miguel Tejada of the Baltimore Orioles. (emph. added)

Miggy doesn't surprise me. Those A's teams he came up with had some pretty obvious juicers, including the already caught "Giambino."

But, oh, Andy. Shouldn't you have asked yourself WWJD? Surely, given your VERY public faith, you should be aware that the Baby Jesus frowns on cheaters? ESPN is reporting, through Pettitte's agent, that he is "shocked." Well, Andy, so am I.

Buried deeper in the article, we get this nugget:

According to the 20-page search warrant affidavit, signed by IRS Special Agent Jeff Novitzky, Grimsley told investigators he obtained amphetamines, anabolic steroids and human growth hormone from someone recommended to him by, a source said, former Yankees trainer Brian McNamee. The former team trainer is a personal strength coach for Clemens and Pettitte.

Oh, dear. I'm a Yankee fan of the highest order, but if this is true, I can't help but think that any of the years that trainer was associated with the Yankees are tainted. According to The Sporting News, McNamme joined the Yankees before the 2000 season, at the request of Clemens:

Some scouts are predicting major improvement for RHP Roger Clemens in his second season in the Bronx, and it has nothing to do with any adjustment to New York. Some believe Clemens wasn't completely healthy last year. That might explain why Clemens had the Yankees import Brian McNamee, his personal trainer with the Blue Jays, from Toronto.

A quick google search on McNamee also turns up an article from the July 7, 2001 edition of USA Today. Here's the interesting bit:

Of course, it's hard for any New York pitcher to be out of shape with McNamee's regimen. He spends a lot of time in the offseason with Clemens and several other Yankees, devising individual programs followed up with periodic checks.

So, who were these players? Someone from those years needs to step up. While I hold no illusions that other teams and players weren't doing the same things, until we learn more about what was happening in Yankeeland, the 2000 World Series victory, at the very least, is tainted.