Giving a Toast Dinner Time The picture to make all vegans in my reading audience disgusted. Sorry Keri. The sun was still out and people were still relatively sober. Or at least I was. That all changed quite abruptly.
The Staredown: Memphis Style The groom mere moments away from matrimony. No, really, I look just like Luke Wilson right? Right? I love that the alcohol was flowing even before the vows. A very nice touch. Sometimes being oblivious to things is a good thing. It seems that I was the only one who hadn't really read or remembered what the invitation clearly stated - MARIACHI BAND! Hell yes! Next installment - the drinking really gets under way.
Before Alex and Anne's wedding on Saturday, some of us suited up for some wiffleball action.
It wouldn't be official unless the bat is taped. Jamie contemplates all the homeruns he's going to mash. Jamie and Mooney decide who is going to throw who into the puddle of water behind them. Hot Tub Eric is unhittable. I love the sweatshirt strike zone. Balgavy gets the call. The Anatomy of a Homerun The beauty of Wiffleball is that you don't have to run the bases. It is all about where the ball lands upon being hit. That didn't stop Mooney from celebrating after his ball cleared the fence. Homerun! I only got a few innings in before being called to lunch with the family. I had just enough time to take this picture through the fence. When I left, the score was 2-2. Apparently, it was a long day for my squad after I left. Final score: 20-7. Hot Tub Eric hit two bombs and Mooney gave up 12 runs or something in an inning or it has been reported.
I've been busy recently and I've slowed from my usual breakneck speed of posting in this space. However, don't forget that I also have a movie and baseball blog that I update fairly regularly.
Anyway, this past weekend was a blur of booking trips to Asia, playing wiffleball, attending weddings, and drinking beershakes. More on those later. Although Youthlarge already has a full wrap of the food gossip on The Park Slope Gastronome.
But there's something on my mind this evening, other than the fact that I had to miss the Yankees-Mets game at Shea and work today because of my strained back from Sunday morning. Although my back problems did lead Hot Tub Eric to the quip of the weekend "You've got the back of an 80-year-old and the Cargo shorts of a 12-year-old."
No, what I ponder tonight has to do with the delivery of my NY Times.
Youthlarge and I have it delivered everyday. On occasion, it gets stolen. In the past, I've simply called the "customer care" folks at the Times, report that my paper has been stolen and ask for a credit. This has never been a problem. Although, when the Saturday paper is stolen, it is a bitch. Half of the Sunday paper is delivered on Saturday including Youthlarge's favorite part - the magazine.
This Saturday, the paper was stolen. Normally, that would lead to a breakdown on my end, but since I didn't have the time to do any reading anyway on Saturday, I was fine. The Saturday paper is the worst one to get stolent. Any other day, you can go the newsstand to replace it. But since half of the Sunday paper can only be attained through delivery, you are screwed when the Saturday paper is stolen.
I called the Times and asked to have the entire Sunday's paper delivered on Sunday. Simple, right? Well, I've tried that before but my delivery guy usually fucks that request up. He also has been known to deliver the paper even when I'm out of town and have requested a stop in delivery. But other than that and the occasional paper that misses the steps completely and lands on the stairs leading to the sinister basement of my building, he's been okay. I haven't had too many reservations mailing him a tip every December when he sends me a holiday card with a return envelope included.
Anyway, the woman at the Times told me that she would lodge a complaint with the delivery person. But I said that she shouldn't do that because I'm sure he had delivered it. However, since it was stolen, I wanted the entire paper redelivered the next day.
Sunday morning rolled around and at 6 am, our buzzer went off. None of us answer it (Hot Tub Eric was staying with us) but I had a sneaking suspicion that it was the newspaper guy getting his revenge on me by buzzing at 6 on a fucking Sunday morning! When we eventually made it downstairs to the paper, only the Sunday sections were included, rather than the advanced ones too. Typical.
Youthlarge and I decided to buy a paper because we wanted the whole thing. I called the Times and asked for credit on the entire weekend since we didn't get Saturday's paper and only half of Sunday's and felt compelled to buy a whole other Sunday paper. They had no problem with my request.
Last night, I was sleeping on the couch because I thought it would be better for my strained back. Guess who rang our buzzer, not once, but twice this morning at 5:30? Yup, the asshole newspaper guy. I looked out the window and saw him as he sauntered off of our steps down to the next apartment with his papers. What the fuck? What would he have said if I had answered the buzzing? How does he miss our steps when he walks right by them?
My first thought was to go running down the block after him and give him a piece of my mind but my sore back told me that that was a bad idea. I thought maybe I'd call the Times and lodge another complaint? But for what purpose? So he can wake me up tomorrow morning at 5 am? Maybe call and make an anonymous complaint? Anyone have any advice?
All I know is that this fucker is never ever getting another tip from me at Christmas time.
Tonight, Youthlarge came up with a brilliant idea. She proposed that I start a new business where I create baseball trips for people. Granted, there are businesses that already do this. However, I think that between the two of us and perhaps Hot Tub Eric (if he is game), we could be onto something here.
I could book the games based on the client's desires. Youthlarge and Hot Tub Eric could recommend food options in each city during the journey. And then, we put Hot Tub Eric in full charge of planning the non-baseball watching activities, or at least in cities deemed worthy of his attention.
The possibilities are endless here. You could book the '92 Dickie Bird tour whereas your fearless hero and his high school pal had to sleep in their car in Toronto after their tent blew away at a campground. Or perhaps the '01 Washcloth Classic complete with dirt track racing, wiffleball on the banks of the Mississippi, under the St. Louis Arch, and Red Rocks amongst other places, and plenty of barbeque. Or maybe you would prefer a little drama and you could book the '04 Softbatch tour where you can wander around Altoona, PA endlessly in search of a decent bar.
How do I get my name out there and start booking? I want to make some easy money.
The Buddha and the Peanut So far, so good. Watch that hand creep around. The Buddha isn't sure if she likes the sudden turn of events. The Peanut channels Jerry Lawler. Sausage Legs! The takedown move. Buddha wonders, "Why?" Look at that look of satisfaction on the Peanut's face. Brilliant.
No comment on the attire of my teammate. But I do like the prison garb of our opponent on this day - the Court System. We won and are now 2-1. Youthlarge showed up late and played well but not well enough to win her second straight MVP. Then we went to meet Erik for his party but got confused by the B77 so we headed back home. Youthlarge decided to go to Skippy's for some good times while I stayed at home and had a meltdown about my job status.
Saturday Worked on report cards and then went to a co-worker's dance performance in Williamsburg with Mactechwitch, Mr. Mactechwitch, Cousin Leah, Uncle Brian, and Aunt Rosemary. Brian and Rosemary were visiting from Philadelphia for the weekend.
Afterwards, we all ended up at Maria's (plus both ladies of the Park Slope Gastronome) for margaritas and more good times.
Sunday Brunch. There was a two hour wait for a table at Stone Park so we ended up at that arrogant French bistro on 5th Ave. At least, this time, they didn't presyrup any French Toast but the coffee is beyond bad, almost as bad as the coffee at my school.
Rosemary badmouths former Phillie Billy Wagner. Then it was bocce time. And we won the first round of the playoffs in scintillating fashion. Finally, we headed to the Gate to celebrate May birthdays.
Chris Larry convinced me to stay at my current job for one more year. Youthlarge showed up with Princess for a spell. The cleanshaven Mooney stopped by after just getting back in from Japan. The Unibomber look must be the new Spring thing if it is fashionable enough for Kip to sport.