A Day At The Links

As Monday loomed on the horizon this past weekend it looked to be a bad one. I would be leaving California (after 5+ days of boozy good times in 85 degree weather) at 10:40 PM PST (Sunday) and arriving at JFK @ 7:15 AM EST (Monday), knowing that I can't sleep on planes (despite taking Ambien furnished by a friends mom), followed by rush hour traffic into NYC and a ChinaTown bus ride back into Philly, which got me home at high noon with about 1.5 hours of sleep to my name. So what was my move at such an exhausted moment? Play golf of course.

I headed over to Walnut Lane Golf Course (the challenging par 3 5th pictured to the right) knowing that their 16$ greens fees (Walking, After 2 PM, weekdays) would be just what the doctor ordered. I was not disappointed.

As I walked into the clubhouse and began to pay for my greens fee, I noticed a group of four older gentlemen (the only other people in the "newly renovated" space other than the cashier and myself) sitting at a plastic table with beers (2PM = EARLY afternoon drinking). Hearing them carry on about some 'little shits [who] probably don't even live on Martin St.' followed by some serious guffaws, I dismissed them as silly old drunks. However, at the suggestion of the cashier, I turned to see that one of the men was none other than John Chaney. As I admired his camo Phillies hat and Temple windbreaker (circa 1999) the cashier told me that the legendary coach has made Walnut Lane his 'retirement home', coming by almost every day of the week (please read the article, especially the part about what they do after golf). Although I didn't engage Mr. Chaney as much as I would have liked to, I got out "Hey Coach, how's retirement?" to which he replied "not bad," before taking another sip of his beer and getting back to his conversation with fellow old heads. I couldn't hide my smile.

After hitting my tee shot to the 228 yard par 3 4th (pictured), I chipped onto the green only to discover exactly what Chaney and Co. had been discussing. In white spray paint, some hooligans had drawn a 6 foot tall cartoon man with a matching 5ft veiny meatstick, ejaculating across the green, with the balls centered on the old hole location. They had included the message "Martin St. Vandals ft. G" and topped it off with "Fuck the 5th District," something that Chris H. will surely loathe to hear. Honestly it was quite a work of art (worthy of the penis drawings in Super Bad), it even made me chuckle, but the message was all wrong and the location unacceptable. I two putted for bogey and moved on.

I was flying around the course and playing decent golf as I finished up the 8th hole looking to finish up my front nine playing bogey golf (thats nine over par, I realize not exactly a lofty goal) when I was invited to play through the group in front of me, three guys, about 20-21 years of age, who looked liked they had come straight from class (glasses, buttondown shirts, jeans, not what real golfers wear). I teed off and as I walked by they asked "Want a beer" as they produced a lukewarm High Life tallboy, which I happily accepted and drank over the next couple holes. As I walked away I heard the familiar sound of a Bic lighter and the accompanied coughing that made me realize "Hey, these guys might not look like golfers, but they sure know how to play the game."

Along the rest of the way I shot a mediocre round, found a few balls in the rough, lost a few balls in various places, chased a gopher, saw a fox, pared a couple holes, triple bogeyed a couple holes, and finished the course in a brisk 2.5 hours. All in all, not a bad day for a Monday that could have otherwise been disastrous.

In other news the Flyers went up 2-1 in their series with the Caps following a 6-3 victory in Philadelphia highlighted by Mike Richards penalty shot through the 5 hole of Baby Huet to seal the deal in the third period. The game also saw the return of Darien Hatcher (who played well) from his broken leg and Patrick Thoresen who almost lost a testicle the other day. Scary Stuff. Yesterday the Sixers were totally siked out of a win over the Cavs by instant replay resulting in a difficult first round match up with Detroit. Think the NBA wanted to see 'Bron get homecourt?

Big News on the Eagles Front

The Sixers are about to start the playoffs, the Flyers are in the midst of a playoff series, and the Phillies are in the beginnings of defending their NL East crown and improving upon their first playoff trip in 13 years.

So what's the big news today?

The Eagles, our only non-playoff team in the past year, have released their 2008 schedule.

I'm not gonna get into a detailed analysis, or even list all the games here, because I'm lazy and so much can change between now and September.

But what I will do is say these three things:

1. We have our bye in week 6 (not a bad time for a bye).

2. We play the Cowboys in our last regular-season game (can't beat that).

3. We play on Thanksgiving!

How cool is that?

A Thanksgiving game for the Birds? National audience on one of the biggest football days of the year. Awesome!

Certainly better than watching the Lions and Dolphins stink it up again.

We're playing the Cardinals too, so it sounds like a W for the good guys.

Go Birds!

Getting to Know You

I'm sorry, today is probably the busiest day of the year at my office, unless tomorrow is somehow busier, so I don't really have much time to say anything of value.

Instead, I will leave you with a quick little story from the personal vault that I just remembered yesterday.

While in high school, perfect friend and I decided to start a Students Against Drunk Driving club. We needed a teacher to be a sponsor/administrator so we asked the health teacher, who was very young and extremely pretty.

She was hesitant at first, because perfect friend was in her class and very candid about his weekend exploits. Eventually she gave in, and agreed to be our advisor.

I was promptly suspended from school for drinking during a school trip, and she called us both assholes and never talked to us again.

The lesson, as always, is something about boozing beers.

PA to Factor Big in Upcoming Primary

'Vote Early and Vote Often'
-William Hale Thompson

I have been hearing a lot about PA in the news lately- the upcoming primary on April 22nd in our state is the biggest prize left with its 158 delegates. As far as endorsements, PA democrats are all over the place. I quote NBC 10, "Clinton's backers in the state include Rep. John Murtha, who was an early advocate of withdrawing from Iraq, and Philadelphia Mayor Michael Nutter, who is black." Well said. Clinton is also supported by Fast Eddie, who I am a big fan of. Obama is supported by Sen. Bob Casey, but is pretty well behind in the PA polls. But, as they say, the only poll that matters is the one on election day.

So this April 22nd, show your support for your favorite candidate. For example, starting bright and early I am helping my local ward leader coordinate a number of mustachioed policemen with nightsticks and tall hats to be posted at all voting places to make sure the members of local unions vote in line with our choice for president. Additionally, we are rounding up day-laborers from area breadlines and promising each of them an Indian head nickel if they vote for our candidate. Of course, there is also the painstaking task of bribing each and every one of the vote counters to alter tallies in our favor.

I will also personally be voting on behalf of those members of our party who have died of Yellow Fever and Smallpox over the past year.

But the work doesn't just start on the 22nd. The night of the 21st, I will be siphoning petroleum from my '32 Ford and filling a bakers' dozen of whisky decanters half-full, in order to create incendiary devices with which to bomb various of the opposition's headquarters in Brickyard, The Devil's Pocket, Franklin Town, Wharton, Southwark, and Haines St. Hollow.

After a hard-night of machine-politicking, my chums and I will head down to the local tavern for a few pints of room-temperature draught beer. Election season is indeed an exciting time of the year!

An Open Letter (to all the guys busted for pot on Cops and similar shows)

Dear All The Guys Busted for Pot on Cops and Similar Shows,

Let me be the first to offer my condolences. With all the unsolved murders, wife-beatings, and random acts of teen violence, it is ashame that you are getting arrested for possession of marijuana. You may not know it, but while you are handcuffed and pinned against your vehicle, I am sitting on my couch feeling for you.

To the Mexican guy who got caught with three nick bags of dirt rolled up in his sock, I am sorry it went down like that. Maybe if you had proper tags on your 1985 pick-up truck things would have gone differently, but the past is in the past. Best to just forget about it.

And to the two teenagers who got pulled over in their father's Audi, I truly felt that one. That was a really nice bong that the cops made you break on the street. You probably should not have been driving around smoking out of a brand new two foot bong but that is not the issue here. I hate to see it happen, but at least you did not get charged with anything. I guess you can take a life lesson out of this one.

The gentleman who got pulled over while out on a boat with some buddies? My heart goes out to you. It could have been a simple charge of boating under the influence but then they found your bowl and a glass container of what looked like a gram and a half of some high quality bud. Too bad. At least you have a boat.

The Afro-American lad who was chased through a few backyards got it pretty rough. Probably should not have run from the cops but these things happen. Getting caught with a zip-lock bag containing 20 or so grams of weed is never a good thing, and nobody wants to hear the words 'intent to distribute.' You were probably just trying to share some of that with some close friends.

Finally, to the older sir who got busted with a gram of marijuana, two crack rocks and a vial of cocaine, along with what looked to be a crudely fashioned crack pipe, I don't know what to say. Can't really approve of the other drugs. Hopefully you know a few guys in the local prison.

Though I may not be with you in the flesh, kind purveyors of the stickiest of the icky, I am there for you in spirit. So while you spend your time locked up behind bars, doing community service, or just thinking of an excuse to tell your parents, know that in a little patch of the country, there is a young man feeling your pain, sympathizing with your predicament, and keeping you in his prayers.

So to all those guys busted for pot on Cops and similar shows, I am sorry that it happened. But, as they say, better you than me.

Sincerely,

R. Patrick

First Day of (my) Spring

As winter turns to spring, we have come to expect certain things. Days get longer, birds begin to chirp, and boobs seem to get bigger and more properly displayed. Collegiate lay-ups and full-court presses are replaced by professional fungoes and suicide squeezes. And while the weather may not have wholly cooperated on the 3rd, it truly was my first day of spring (Rita’s owners and operators be damned) because I went to my first Phils game of the 2008 season.
Make no mistake about it, this year is pregnant with possibility. With key additions like Brad Lidge and Pedro Feliz (not to mention addition by subtraction moves such as dumping Barajas and assigning Helms), Chaz’s bunch looks poised to repeat as NL East Division Champs in the face of competition from the Braves and Mets. This last sentence demonstrates the recent arrogance of the Phils and their phans, because young and hungry teams such as the ExposNationalsFarmTeamformostNLSquads step their game up when they travel to the cozy confines of The Bank, and the result can be taking two of three.
The day started off quite well. By Noon, a healthy group of a dozen or so were boozing and playing lawn games in the gem that is FDR Park. (Author’s Note: if you haven’t been pregaming for Philly sporting events at FDR, you are no friend of mine because you seem to A) enjoy paying for parking; B) not enjoy watching things like Toomey knock over a tub of approximately 1,200 cheddar goldfish and then giggle himself into a near urine-inducing stupor; and C) disregard the right, no, the duty, to piss as openly as any mountain climber would dare to dream). Wawa sandwiches were in the mix, the newly constructed washers set was making as many friends as Shuptar was alienating, and signs ostracizing the baseball and love-making skills of Pat Burrell were nearly completed if Primo hadn’t given the first “W” wayyy too much real estate on the sole 8” x 16” placard. (The piece of construction paper soon met its final demise at the hands of Petrillo. Its final resting place is a garbage can, its headstone reads only a solemn: No Household Trash. Truly, a life taken too soon).
If you can believe this, Richards and I selfishly decided to leave this Eden to actually make it to the park and watch the game. As we strolled in during the top of the first, reality quickly replaced the euphoria that hovers like a dim mist which intoxicates the nostrils and pores of all FDR pregamers. Moyer was getting shelled, the wind was whipping icy hatred into section 114, and dollar dogs were nowhere in sight. Before we knew it, it was 5-0, Nats.
Like Tim Redding before him, Jason Bergmann was mowing down Phils like Chelsea does man-egos. As we settled into the bottom of the third with nothing brewing, our own 34 y/o second-year stud Chris “the Coste with the most” Coste swaggered into the box. Before Bergmann even started his wind-up, I mentioned to the man of un-average height, “What does this guy need to do to play everyday? Every time I see him, he’s doing something great for our squad, and look at his hilarious picture on the jumbotr….” *CRACK*. And like that, it was 5-1, Nats, after a Coste moonshot. The first highfives since a “hole-in-one” which occurred during a washers match were thrown and said man of un-average height scampered into the concourse to get a round of cold ones.
It was at about this time that tragedy struck. As Richards and I joked about flexing muscles on the FanCam to impress “all of the too-bundled hardbodies up in here”, he received a call that whose effects are similar to a pet dying, receiving an unjust parking or moving violation, or finding a bare fridge at 3am when its just you and a slightly too-hot girl for you to pull otherwise. Our favorite officer had turned around on 76 and decided not to attend the game with us. We knew he’d be late, we were both sympathetic to his laborious schedule these days, but, nonetheless, a significant amount of wind came out of our collective sails. Now, stories about apprehending the slime of Germantown after a high-speed pursuit in rush hour traffic while getting blown by a councilman’s daughter resulting in receiving three merit awards at a banquet in the deep Northeast with other hirsute heroes who demanded that a shot taking contest precede an accuracy contest at an underground gun range which serves both reuben sandwiches and Thai happy endings would be replaced by humdrum predictions like “you think they bring in Saenz here?... nah, I bet Condrey…”. Boo-earns, indeed.
Things took a turn for the much better in the 6th inning when we used up all of our bleeding, seeing-eye singles for the entire first half of the season to rally from the early deficit. It was great. Things later took a turn for the much more hilarious in the 8th. Two Caucasoid gentlemen who appeared to hail from the Rawnhurst or Bustleton section of our fine city were walking up the aisle that intersects sections 114 and 113. Just as they were about 3 steps below our row, one guy, without saying a word, just turned and 180-d the other guy. They both spilled to the cement stairs and the melee was on! Tall man had a better view of the entire affair, so for real “facts”, I defer to his account. By my more entertaining account, however, I believe the rhubarb was the result of either misplaced sneeze particles or the classic “oh, I thought you were somebody else who also happened to insult my jean short/Wrangler performance fleece/Umbro bandana combo.” Either way, an unmarked guard separated them and continued his investigation in the concourse behind our seats. Beware of these Gestapo-like gentlemen. Plain-clothed fight breaker-uppers seem to be ever-looming at The Bank like Tallman around 19 y/o’s at parties who don’t seem to know anyone.
I found a few things to be very comforting yesterday. When The Vet was imploded, I thought the years of blue-collar passion (the very same passion that has cheered career-ending injuries and booed ex-hometown heroes when they return with arch-nemesis teams) forever perished along with the dust and rats to be forever replaced by the bourgeoisie clientele of The Bank, $11 sandwiches, and vomiting in bathrooms stalls as opposed to other fans’ faces. I was wrong. I saw a fight ten feet from me. I saw two old friends from high school just by chance. Tallman and I snuck down to Rolls-Royce seats after the 8th inning. Beers were, one could say, going down like beers. While it may no longer be with us in body, the spirit and the sweaty charm of The Vet lives on to this day. After pirating the previously mentioned Tera Patrick/Miko Lee/Dani Woodward/Kobe Tai-esque seats, Tallman and I had the opportunity to see the play of the game. Reigning MVP Rollins went from first to third on a bunt proving that big players make big plays, all but sealing the W.
As we went back to FDR and the car, I couldn’t help but notice the grass looked a little greener and the air smelled a little fresher, as expected when they days are just recently growing. This was but a fleeting moment, however, because the entire area surrounding Tallman’s car was soon flooded by a symphony of urine, vomit, and spilled cooler juice as we all (and I mean us two and then like 15 other dudes in a 100 foot radius) got in one more outdoor piss at FDR before the trip back up 76 to reality.

bdod

Cal Ripken Busted in Steroid Scandal (Brother Billy leaked the evidence)

You know what, we need a new day for April Fool's. Every time I see a goofy headline on the first of April, I immediately get suspicious, it's like the fun is gone.

And this year, April fool's was the same day as Opening Day. I couldn't really be bothered with pulling any pranks when I'm worried about those Phightins. And I had big plans to post a blog here that would involve some trickery, maybe a little haberdashery, but I was too busy sucking down Lager Bottles.

Whattaya gonna do?

How about make April Fool's a free-for-all? So long as you pull a prank in the month of April, I say it's fair game.

Glue-ing your roommate to the floor? Check, so long as it is done in April. Telling your boyfriend you're pregnant? All's fair in love and war, and the month of April.

How 'bout this one: Mail a big box of porn to a made-up address, and put the return address of someone who is either married or still lives with their parents. Just check your calendar ahead of time.

So good talk, we'll go ahead and call this April Fool's Days, maybe April Fool's Month.

Whatever you want, so long as you're pulling pranks.

And I will leave you with this little tidbit, definitely not made up, but I wish it was:

Years ago, Jason Varitek and Derek Lowe were traded for Heathcliff Slocumb. Also, David Ortiz was traded for Dave Hollins.

Factor in Terry Francona and Curt Schilling, and it's like Philly gave Boston that championship.

Go Phils! Santana who?