Where Van Gundy Happens

By Johnnyrottin

Considering that a former NBA assistant coach’s wife co-founded this blog, I’m certainly not the most qualified blogger to comment on the 2009 NBA playoffs (or any of the NBA playoffs preceding 2009, with the possible exception of the 1993 playoffs, when the Phoenix Suns left John Friggin’ Paxson open for a series-clinching 3). No matter, some observations and other epiphanies from “Where Amazing Happens…to mean that no charging fouls will ever be called on Kobe or LeBron”):

1) When they pan the crowd for celebrities at Laker games, a severe depression overcomes me. Why? Because I’m old enough to remember when Penny Marshall was considered hot. Laverne had a nice set of schlamazels.

2) Maybe I’ve missed it, and I’m guessing that if anyone used the line, it would have been Neil Everett (because, sadly, I find our senses of humor all too similar), but when there’s a posterizing dunk shown on “SportsCenter”, I keep waiting for the ESPN anchor to exclaim, “Patrick Chewing!”

3) Here are common first names you won’t find on any of the starting fives still remaining: Michael, John, Tom, Chris, Mark, David, Joseph. Here are first names you will find: Hedo, Nene, Kobe, Pau and Mo. By the way, a quick check of the “Most Popular Baby Names of 2008″ (source: Babycenter.com) reveals that four of the top 13 boys names were Aiden (1), Jayden (2), Caden (5) and Brayden (13).

4) Stan Van Gundy looks like the kind of guy who should have been riddled with bullets in the first hour of “Scarface”. And, by the way, aren’t Stan and Jeff, brothers who seem not to have both or even either parent in common, the breakout stars of the ‘09 playoffs?

5) Bill Simmons wrote an impasssioned 60,000-word column yesterday on the espn.com that can be distilled down to this: Someone, I dunno, maybe a referee, needs to start enforcing the rules. Fans are peeved because there were 58 fouls called in Game 3 of the Eastern Conference finals, which would be upsetting if there weren’t 358 fouls that took place. If referees begin calling the game consistently–and that includes calling a charge when Kobe or LeBron goes Jerome Bettis on a drive down the lane–teams would recalibrate the way they played.
About a month or so ago Bill Cosby was on “Mike & Mike” on the ESPN and one of the hosts (I’m guessing Mike) asked Cos what’s the difference between the superstars of today, i.e. Kobe-LeBron-D-Wade, and those of his era such as The Big O and Jerry West. Cos, quite succinctly and accurately, replied, “They cheat.”
In short, they palm the ball on every possession, which gives them an unfair advantage over any defender attempting to guard them one-on-one.
Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me. Just because everyone does it doesn’t make it right. Did the financial crisis learn you nothing? If the NBA could hire a few referees who a) didn’t all come from a 25-mile radius from Philly and b) were under under 40 years old and impress upon them to call the game as the rule book stipulates (the principle of verticality, for example), then we’d all be better off.

6) Is it just me or do you also notice that whenever Laker center Pau Gasol disagrees with a call, he looks like Rodan after Godzilla pegged him with a giant boulder?

7) Also waiting for someone to describe No. 3 on the Lakers as “The World’s Most Famous Ariza”.
8) And while we’re at it, what are the chances that they’ll pan the crowd in Denver and show us the room service gal Kobe allegedly, um, room-serviced? Or even Katie Hnida?

9) I would kill for Wally Sczcerbiak’s hair, Dwight Howard’s shoulders and Rashard Lewis’ salary. What am I saying? I’d kill for Sonny Weems’ salary (http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/players/profile?playerId=3467)

10) Magic Johnson circa 2009 and Mr. Potato Head…separated at birth? Discuss.

Published in: on May 29, 2009 at 9:03 pm  Comments (4)  

When It Rains, It Pours…

By Katie

Crap. 

My toilet broke. Literally, crap. Everywhere.

No, no, that isn’t really true, it just seems like it should be true and let’s face it, it makes for a funnier story to say my toilet exploded and sent crap hurtling through every breathable bit of airspace in my house than to say “The toilet came off the floor and created a moisture problem in my walls”. 

But really, aren’t toilets supposed to stay attached to the floor for longer than 18 months? ‘Cuz that’s about how long ago this happened the first time, folks. I mean I know small appliances like toasters and computers are meant to fritz out after a couple of minutes these days, “planned obsolescence”, I believe it’s called. But toilets? 

There was a lot of talk about a wax ring between the plumber and I this afternoon. He kept summoning me into the bathroom to discuss it, as if I knew what the hell he was talking about.  

“Your seal is broken. On your wax ring,” he kept saying, in the kind of voice usually reserved for informing a loved one that Uncle Bob didn’t make it.

“Huh”, I said in return. I found it difficult to match his gravitas.

Not because I don’t care, OK? Of course I care. I want my bathroom floor to stop being wet and I want the moisture source that is creating big stains on the walls downstairs to be contained, y’hear? But if I knew why it happened or how to fix it, I wouldn’t be paying a plumber 10,000 dollars a second to show me his ass crack.  All I know is  that “wax ring” sounds like something for purchase in a Key West porn shop, and every time he said it I had to stifle a smirk.  

He fixed it. I think. I actually have no idea. But he said he did and I have no reason not to trust him, I’ve practically seen him naked, for Pete’s sake.

My oven broke, too. And my kitchen cabinets are melting. More later. I have to go to bed.

Published in: on May 29, 2009 at 3:48 am  Comments (4)  

Late Night TV

I got sucked in last night to a show on the Learning Channel about Dede, the treeman.  I couldn’t look away.  Here’s this poor guy, minding his own business, being a human and the next thing you know, he’s growing what looks like tree roots where his hands and feet are supposed to be.

That’s messed up.

Turns out what ails him is a wart virus run amok.  Those horns growing out of his palms, soles and head are giant warts. 

Grossed out much?

The article I’ve linked to says that local doctors were stumped.

No shit.  We’re talking about a part of the world where migraines are caused by demonic possession, I can’t believe they’d look at tree man and say “Dude, get some Compound W.”

In fact, his doctors have been surgically removing the warts which grew back almost as fast as they could cut.  It took an American dermatologist to figure that until they could kill the virus causing the warts, poor old Dede would keep sprouting branches.

The story had a happy ending.  Dede underwent chemo to kill off the virus, it seemed to work and now he’s scarred but fairly normal looking with functional extremities.

Even in Indonesia, Dede is pretty darn lucky he’s alive in the 21 century.  A hundred years ago, folks would’ve thought he’d crossed a witch or committed some unforgivable crime and social ostracism would’ve been the better of his choices.  Stoning or burning would’ve been more likely.

After that show ended, I had to watch the next thing which was about two cases of people who suffered undiagnosable ailments.  One was a woman who suffered debilitating headaches, which escalated into a racing heart and heavy sweating and finally into fits of violent rage.  Turns out the poor thing had a tumor on her adrenal gland that was causing her body to pour huge amounts of the stuff into her system almost constantly.

What bothered me most about that case was that after two or three doctors told this chick it was just stress and to chill, she gave up.  Despite her husband begging her to continue to seek medical help, she decided that pain and anger were simply her lot in life. 

That’s just stupid.

Sure, it would be frustrating to have your doctor dismiss your symptoms, but nine out of ten times, the doc is probably right.  When you know there’s something wrong with you, refusing to seek medical help because your first doctor was a douche is stubborn and spiteful.    In the meantime, her kid’s childhoods were ruined and her first husband left her.

I found it interesting that he left the kids with pyscho-Mom.  WTF?

She suffered this way for sixteen years before finally finding a decent doctor and now she’s okay. 

The second half of the show was about a young man who’s now 18, who suffers from what can best be described as an acute allergy to sunshine.  It took his parents and doctors about seven years to figure this out.  I figured it out after the second incident at the community pool when he was a baby, but I had the advantage of knowing it was some weird-ass thing no one’s ever heard of.

Again, I’m impressed by the similarity of this youngster’s illness and mythology, this time of vampires.

There’s probably not much in our collective stories of monsters, gods and super heroes that didn’t come from the outer edges of medical reality, which is the premise that M. Night Shamalanamganadaa based “Unbreakable” on.  Too bad he’s such a crappy director; that should’ve been a really good movie.

The bottom line is I stayed up way too late and all I got for it was dangerously little information on a subject I know nothing about.

I love it when that happens.

Published in: on May 29, 2009 at 3:26 am  Comments (1)  

And Then There Was Nothing

By Katie

Tuesday evening. I’m supposed to be watching American Idol right now but I can’t because it isn’t on anymore. And now I guess I’m supposed to just sit here and figure out what to do with myself on Tuesday evenings between 7 p.m. and 8. 

I dunno whose bad idea that was; “Oh, we’ll just make this really great show, right? The kind of show that when people see it, they won’t believe they were able to muddle through some thirty-odd years of their lives before it ever existed. They’ll cry bitter tears over the wasted years that no one had thought to invent it, wasted Tuesday nights watching Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley and not American Idol. They’ll hold candle-light vigils over whatever stars went undiscovered all those years during those dark ages of it’s non-invention. And we’ll show it every year, and people or maybe one person in particular will get super invested and have dreams about Adam Lambert and how maybe she’s the woman who can turn him around. And then we’ll take it all away.”

We’ll take it all away. And leave nothing but an Adam-sized hole in her heart in it’s place.

Because surely, she’ll be strong enough to wait until next January until she sees us again. 

Lots of people don’t understand my dependence on American Idol. “Think of all the other things you could be doing,” they say. Like I’m going to go cure cancer or something for an hour every Tuesday.

I’m trying to fill my time. I made cookies. They’re OK. I helped my son with his homework. Well, I tried to, but I don’t know how to do his math. And by “his math”, I mean “math”. I swept the kitchen floor. 

I flipped on the TV. 

All that did was depress me; remind me of all I had that got taken away. TAKEN AWAY.

I don’t know where Adam is, or when I’ll see him again. Hell, I’d even take Kris right now. And Danny, poor, sweet Danny…Alison. She was like a sister to me. 

Ten minutes left of the loneliest hour of the week.

Published in: on May 27, 2009 at 12:51 am  Comments (3)  

Take a Bow

By Katie

I’m about to say something that isn’t going to make me very popular. Now, I know what you’re thinking; “Katie,  you were never popular” or maybe “You know what? Stop always saying you know what I’m thinking. If you knew what people were thinking all the time, you would be enjoying a very successful career in the circus, not writing that stupid blog while you stuff your hole with Fig Newtons.”

Both good points.

Susan Boyle is not that great a singer. 

See? See that? You hate me now, don’t you? She’s adorable, after all! It’s just so fun to buy into the fairy tale that this endearing old spinster, who admits right out loud she’s got cobwebs on her cooch, is suddenly the World’s Greatest Singer…but she isn’t. She’s OK. 

But that’s all. 

I’m sorry. It’s how I feel. 

Please address the hate mail to Bill.

Published in: on May 26, 2009 at 2:47 am  Comments (3)  

Stay At Home Actress

Headline courtesy Melanie

So it’s been an awfully long time since I’ve shown my face around these parts, but there’s a good reason for that. Actually there are many good reasons, but listing them here seems silly and boring. I know what you’re thinking, “Why Katie, ‘silly’ and ‘boring’ is what DAK is all about!” and while that’s true, I think it’s a little rude of you to say that while I’m still in earshot, and  find your emphatic punctuation especially cruel.

Hurt feelings and cogent explanations aside (don’t act like you’re not impressed by my use of the word ‘cogent’. There are lots of people who don’t know what that means. I know this because I am one of them. Seriously, did I use that right? Here’s another word I don’t know, one I hear all the time and heard today, as a matter of fact: bi-monthly. I never know if that means once every two months or twice a month. I know I should know, but it’s one of those things that it seems to me,  the statute of limitations on asking for clarification has passed. Maybe it means a month that enjoys dating either sex), there is a point to this post, and it is that I am a terrible gardener. 

I like the idea of gardening, love the idea of wandering happily through the rosebushes in a floppy hat and matching rubber boots, gathering blooms to display with haphazard charm throughout my house. I imagine giving bouquets as gifts to my neighbors. If only any of them were speaking to me.

The reality is, every spring I go outside with the best of intentions and ruin whatever might be working and downright destroy what isn’t. My latest escapade involved trying to edge the grass around the landscape bricks in my front yard. The same bricks I installed several years ago, which have now sunk so far into the sod you can’t see them anymore and the wood chips won’t stay contained. 

I bought an electric edger from a delightful, little-known hardware boutique called Home Depot. They may have a website, I don’t know. Anyway, I brought it home, plugged it in and then did what any good wife would do: I told my husband to go out and edge the grass. Which he did. Or at least, he attempted to. The last thing I saw before leaving to go enjoy some margaritas with my girlfriends was him dragging the edger across the sunken bricks, surrounded by a large cloud of wood chips, grass and the occasional spark. “I love gardening,” I thought, as I licked the salt around my glass. 

The next day, I went out to observe the result and while I commend Miguel for the ol’ college try, the edge of the grass did not quite have the hospital-cornersy sharpness I was hoping for.  I went and got a kitchen knife and for the next three hours, hacked large divots away from the bricks until where were once a few tufts of unruly grass was now a large trench. Which quickly filled with wood chips.

It looks I hired Scott MacIntire to do my yard.

I guess this story really belongs under “landscaping”, not gardening. Let’s not split hairs.

Back when I was writing YSWB, I wrote a story about spraying my entire lawn with Round-up to kill three dandelions.

I once killed a houseplant by spritzing it with Windex.

I planted petunias in a pot a few years ago, and they “failed to thrive”, to borrow a phrase from the medical community. I put the pot in the car, drove to the garden center and showed it to the fellow who worked there, sure that he would shamefacedly refund me for the faulty plants. He looked at me with a smirk and asked, “Did you ever water them?” 

No. No I did not. 

There are many things I have oddly romantic ideas that I’d be good at or enjoy, sometimes despite proof to the contrary.

I’ve always thought it would be fun to be a soldier. I hate getting up early, getting yelled at and I imagine, getting shot at, but for some reason I think I’d love it. 

And being a stewardess. Not a flight attendant, that sounds hard and I hate handling food and talking to angry people and flying. I mean a good-old-days, old-school stewardess, who wears a short skirt and a beehive hairdo and spends the entire flight mixing sidecars and playfully slapping away the hands of rich businessmen. 

Bartending. I don’t like staying up late, or touching sticky things or loud music, but wouldn’t it be fun to dole out sage advice to friendly regulars, tear-up when they remember my birthday and chip in on a gift card, when I thought no one cared about my life? 

Yes, I do know what all these things have in common. I probably would’ve enjoyed being an actress. But I would’ve wanted to be the kind who goes to fancy awards shows and gets my hair done and laughs along with the ladies on the View, not the kind who goes on auditions and has to listen to some fat buffoon tell me I’m too old or has to learn a bunch of lines.  I wouldn’t have had the stomach for that. 

I’m going to plant a vegetable garden tomorrow. I’ve got the overalls, the hoe, the chicken wire and I’ve been practicing a small town, east-coast, ‘Pepperidge Farm Cookies’ accent, and blowing a tune into a brown jug.  I’ve settled on a single braid in my hair. I feel like I’m ready, but I have this sinking feeling I’m forgetting something.

Published in: on May 23, 2009 at 2:05 am  Comments (6)  

iStupid

by Muzz

I got an iPhone.

It’s really cool, I think…  I mean, it’s flashy… and I can check my email from it. And Youtube, I can dink around on there, too. I had to call some chick at Apple though, because I couldn’t figure out how to download facebook on to it. That was interesting.

Those Apple dorks think they’re sooo coool: “I’m so smart! I can work a computer! Being smart is awesome! Meep meep!”   But they’re right, kind of;  Everyone finally has to talk to the nerds. We don’t have a choice- they’re the cool kids now. Yesterday when I bought my iPhone I had all kinds of questions, and the sales kid tried his best not to make me feel like the idiot I am,  but I’ll be perfectly honest- he immediately lost my interest. He was using words that I didn’t understand, like ‘dock’ and ‘port’,  and my brain was all  “Is he still talking about phones?  Am I allowed to bring all my cds here so they can just magic them into my new phone for me? I’m hungry. I wonder what Zac Efron is doing right now? Why won’t he stop talking? This place is neat looking. They should offer juice or M&M’s here. Buh buh buh buh buh…”

 Anywhuh, in order to keep my phone number I had to get my account number from T-mobile.  As I walked on over to the T-mobile kiosk  I got totally nervous, like I was about to break up with someone. I slowed waaaay down, practicing what I was gonna say in my head.

“Stay cool,” I thought. “All business. I don’t need an excuse. What are they gonna do, beg me not to go?

While I waited for the T-worker to finish up with other T-customers I couldn’t help but look back over the six years I’d been with T-mobile. Friendly service; decent phones; ne’er a dropped call.

“Hi, please. I need my account number, please,”  I said, not looking him in the eye.

“OK, Mary Jeanne,”  T-worker said,  “(blah blah blah, some other boring stuff),  are you switching carriers?”

What? None of your business! Why are you making this harder than it already is?  Awkward Avenue!

“Uh, yes. Yes I am.”  Here come the tears…

“Ok,” he said back. “Switch all your (blablahblahbleeeblahblah boop boop nerd talk) and that way you can keep your number. Have a nice day!”

I sprinted back to the Apple store. And now I have an iPhone.

But I do feel some tension.  This new phone knows I’m not using it to its full potential; I sense a screaming match between the two of us soon. Oh well, it’ll clear the air. And I’ll win in the end.  Because I am human, and I can drive a car. I can drive a car right over this smarty pants iPhone if that’s what it comes to.  Wait, iPhones don’t have knives that slide out of the sides like those Red Cross thingies do they?

It has all the signs of a great relationship: I’m in love, but I’m also afraid I might get stabbed.

Published in: on May 4, 2009 at 10:40 pm  Comments (3)  

I Remember When Swine Flew…

by wingnut

Dont’ panic. 

 There’s  no need for hysteria. 

Just wash your hands, cover your mouth when you sneeze and calmly, collectively, run for your lives.

That’s how the newsmedia covers the fact that people get sick these days.  I know, I know; folks in Mexico have actually died from this stuff.  Yeah.  People from Mexico have been known to  pack their babies into the trunks of cars with enough food to survive a week in the Arizona desert so as to  sneak over the U.S. border.  You think one of the reasons they’re willing to run such risks is because Mexico has such great health care?  I don’t know about those Cubans who are apparently willing to cross 90 miles of shark infested water in an inner tube just to escape their great state run health care system.  All I’m sayin’ is that I’m unaware that Ted Kennedy went to either Cuba or Mexico to treat his cancer.

I’m sick.  Call it swine flu, mexican flu, bird flu, undocumented flu or SARS, I’m  sick to death.  Sick of the hysteria, fear mongering and overblown rhetoric every time somebody, somewhere, gets sick and dies.

Was there ever a time when no one on earth was in danger of dying from something?  It wasn’t so long ago that the common cold killed a lot of people.  Think about the last time you had a cold.  Now imagine trying to survive ten days of that without the benefit of aspirin, sudaphed, nyquil or contac.  You would be praying for the sweet release of death. 

George Washington survived samllpox without the benefits of any of those pharmaceuticals. 

There was a swine flu outbreak and accompanying hysteria back when I was in high school.  I remember SNL even did a skit about it.  I had a bad cold that spring that lasted for months.  As far as I know, I may have been the only American who was sick at all during that epidemic.

What’s the difference between “epidemic” and “pandemic” anyway?  I looked the terms up and “epidemic” basically means ” lots of sick folks” and “pandemic” means “even scarier than ‘epidemic'”. 

As I write this, the news is reporting that one case of swine flu in Minnesota has them raising the “pandemic” alert to the highest level.  My god, what will we do, what will we call it if there were ever three cases in the state??

There has always been death and disease and there always will be.  I just wish  the media wasn’t constantly screaming “look out, we’re all gonna die!!”  I keep hoping that someday there will be a story whose coverage is marked with perspective and circumspection.  But I guess that’ll happen when pigs fly.

Published in: on May 4, 2009 at 10:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

You Probably Think This Post Is About You… Don’t You?

 by Bill

  “You walked into the party…. like you were walking onto a yacht”– Carly Simon

Miss Simon’s 1973 number one hit about a self-involved former lover was meant to belittle the guy (whether it was Mick Jagger, James Taylor or most likely, Warren Beatty) and maybe in some circles it does– but I’m sorry, the guy sounds like a sweet-daddy to me.

   “You had one eye in the mirror… As you watched yourself gavotte…And all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner…they’d be your partner”

Nope, it’s not just me, this guy is SWEET!  (gavotte– “an old formal French dance in quadruple time”–  you’re welcome.)  This is the kind of guy who regular schmoes might look at with disdain and say, “he just can’t see the forest for the trees!”  Well sweet-daddy’s reply to that would be,  “I couldn’t give a fuck about the forest or the god-damned trees… look how sweet I look as I gavotte across the room! Whatever, you were checking me out too– you know you were!”  And you were.  Damn that sweet-daddy.

So what is a sweet-daddy?  Getting a number one song about what a jackass you are is a pretty good start.  Here’s an up-to-date reference–Jack Donaghy is certainly a sweet-daddy:

Liz Lemon: Why are you wearing a tux?
Jack Donaghy: It’s after 6 o’clock Lemon. What am I, a farmer?

Liz Lemon: How is this happening? You’re so OLD!                                                                                                                                 Jack Donaghy: Lemon, rich 50 is equal to regular people’s mid-30’s.

Tracey Jordan: I’m gonna make you a mix tape. You like Phil Collins?
Jack Donaghy: I’ve got two ears and a heart, don’t I?

There’s really no rhyme or reason as to who is a sweet-daddy and who isn’t– but context is pretty important.  To be a sweet-daddy you need some life-experience to back it up.  Justin Timberlake is a sweet-daddy, Zac Efron is not.  Zac might be one someday, but he just doesn’t qualify yet. 

 It’s not just numbers and experience either: Derek Jeter is a sweet-daddy and Alex Rodriguez is certainly not— why? Context.  If a drunk-ass Red Sox fan saw Alex Rodriguez in a bar after a game he’d say to him: “Yo A-Rod you faggot….you like apples? We got ya numbah you loser, you SUCK! You got bitched by freakin’ Madonna you homo! How ya do like them apples? YOU SUCK!!!”  If the same fan saw Jeter he’d say something like: “Yo, Derek freakin’ Jeter! The Yankees can seriously kiss my balls, but you da man Jeter, you alright!” 

Now here’ s the difference– Drunk Red Sox fan’s buddy, “even drunker Red Sox fan” would immediately jump in with, “fuck that shit– Jetah, you’re a punk-ass pussy too!” At this point, Jeter would probably acknowledge both of them with a wry grin and a head nod.  “Even drunker Red Sox fan” would then begrudgingly say, “yeah, fuck you Jetah, you alright you cack-suckah!”  Same situation and A-Rod would have some roided out body guard dressed in army fatigues and wearing really creepy earrings and an even creepier spray-on tan flex up on the Sox fans.  Context– Jeter is a sweet-daddy and A-Rod is definitely not.

We’ve all got to know our place in the world.  For most of us it is a constantly changing status– one day we’re sweet, the next day we’re complete dorks.  I was going to be sweet the other day (totally relatively speaking of course, there was certainly no gavotting involved)– but I double-checked the context of the situation and just stayed a dork.

Here’s the deal: I’m at a movie and a teenage girl in the row in front of  me won’t stop texting– constantly opening up her phone and blaring the rays of brightness into my eyes.  She was being  rude and a dork– no question.  I would have been well within my rights to lean down and demand that she turn off her phone because it was bugging me.  I almost did, but I caught myself and just decided to screw it, it wasn’t that bothersome anyway.  I was a pussy, right? 

Well here’s more of the deal: the movie I was at was “17 Again”.  I’m an older-than-40 year old man who was at “17 Again” by himself.  (Yeah, that’s right, “17 Again”, whatever, I see everything).  This kid was probably 15 and she was there with 5 other 15-year old girls.  Zac Efron didn’t make this movie so that I would have a good time watching it.  He made it so 15-year old girls would go in droves and fall even further in love with him and one day evelate him to “sweet-daddy” status.  I would have been well within my rights to be the grumpy old man and growl at this kid to turn off her phone, but did I really want to be that guy?  Wouldn’t that kid have been in her rights to say, “whatever old man, why are you even here?” (Well, no, probably not, but remember, when you’re 15 society’s rules and regulations aren’t too cool).  If it would have been a 22 year old girl texting at “State of Play”, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say something– she should know better.  Five 15-year old girls were just trying to have fun at a Zac Efron show– they didn’t need some weird old dude who may or may not have been wearing pants barking at them.

  “Well I hear you went up to Saratoga…. and your horse naturally won. Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia to see a total eclipse of the sun…”

Carly, if you were trying to get us to think this guy wasn’t a sweet-daddy, you didn’t do a very good job.  Oh and that part about when he “had you” when you were still quite naive isn’t really popping the balloon either.  The guy probably first heard that song and thought, “sweet, I’m cooler than I thought I was!”

So yeah, I could have chastised a 15-year old girl and been in the right.  Should I have? A-Rod would have.  Jeter wouldn’t have been there in the first place.  Warren Beatty would have walked her out to the parking lot and tagged her mom in a shag-rug covered van.

Yes, I had pants on.  I’m not that sweet-daddy.

Published in: on May 4, 2009 at 9:54 pm  Comments (11)