I Love Tomatos

So Manfred Mann never did get, or advocated getting, wrapped up like a douche. That's stunning to me. Not simply that I've spent every post-release day on the planet thinking they had, but that I never questioned why someone would, indeed, enjoy being packaged in such a way. The song has now lost all meaning.

It reminds me of Marsh, a childhood friend who was notoriously hilarious about mis-heard/interpreted lyrics, like his take on Judas Priest's "Take These Chains," which go, in part:

Take these chains offf
Take 'em off my heart

Marsh's version?

Daisy's Danger
Take a walk on by

Oh if you only knew how funny that was.

I have a little post-Bash malaise, a Fun Hangover, if you will. Nothing I see on my immidiate social calendar provides a comparable level of anticipation or promise of debauchery. I am going to see the AL West Champs on Saturday night at the Big A (-hole), but with Loaiza (The Tijuana Turd) starting in front of half a Triple-A squad, my main enjoyment will stem from hearing all the stupid things said by Angel fans around me and, 'round about Beer #5, my sarcastic retorts to them. I'm mulling drinking a fair amount of adult beverages this evening and romping through the field in the Stars Crazy Re-buy, but that'll probably be a game-time decision, because I have a full slate of weekend activities that will require me to be rested and responsible.

I'm taking requests for my next trip. It's not exactly an experience on the level of DonkeyPuncher and Bobby Bracelet invading your home game. More like me crashing on your floor, complete with snoring and beer farts. I have an offer from the lovely April for South by Southwest in March, which is a definite possibiity. I'd love to hit up the NYC crew, take in an afternoon at The House That Ruth Built (before The Boss un-builds it) and feel the vibe of the City (not a euphemism. I don't think). The Land of 10,000 Lakes would be swell. Ah, who am I kidding, Minnesota sucks. But it'd be fun to play unsociable online poker at the bar with Chad. Seattle? Nah, I'd get arrested coming off the plane. Anyway, make a bid. I'm thinking spring. But I'm easy. Convince me.

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I've been filing through the mental rolodex to satiate the huge public desire for more Donny stories. The problem with many of our adventures is they don't translate well to the page, what with the juvenile behavior fueled by excessive drug intake. An equally important factor is that we, along with Schotty and Kool Breeze, tended toward esoterica, inside jokes that only we would enjoy, so many of the more hysterical moments would take a lot of back story to explain. Others, like Marsh above, are simply "had to be there" moments. You had to see Donny with his new buzz cut doing Rickey snap catches and a little dance every time he made a play at the Hot Corner. Had to hear the utter confusion and tangental trainwreck when he said, "Are you saying...to my statement of you're just stoned...no...it's not...that I'm not that really stoned." Needed to be in the back seat with Kool Breeze and I, laughing our fool heads off as Donny drove in the opposite direction of the miniature golf course, even though we smoked the Fatty in full view of the establishment's parking lot.

But I'll see what I can put together. In the meantime, if you haven't seen these yet, I've had two Donny stories in Truckin'. Both are as true as far as I remember them, which is to say, based on a actual events.

With the Lights Out

I'll Do Anyone

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Mean Gene blew off the sandy beaches of Malvern, PA for a gig in Aruba, a head-scratching decision if ever there was one, but, you know, I suppose it's working out okay for him. He's been stalking doubleas in recent posts as our favorite Pressure Poker-ist makes his way through the field. I know Gene is heartsick over missing the Bash, so perhaps you can cheer him up by following his reports on the Ultimate Bet Blog. Good luck, gents.