bud selig has a flying car too.

and last night, right before i was tucking myself in to sleep, i heard him land on my roof, pissed as all hell.

he explained to me his point of view, but i said, bro, do you see my nite cap? do you see my empty tumbler of rum? do you see my oprah bookclub bookmark on page 234 of “dot.con“? im nearly finished, it’s time for me to go to bed. come back this weekend if you want to complain.

he said, no. i want answers from you, pierce, i want to know right now what you would do differently going forward. forget the all-star game, that’s over.

i said, ok, first thing i’d do if i were you is i would step down.

not an option, he said. arms folded. standing like a goblin with the sole candle light flickering in the california breeze.

then i would name me commissioner of baseball.

tony, get serious.

as commissioner i would abolish the DH rule, i would order the Cubs to tear down the lights of wrigley field and i would impose a salary cap.

you’re in favor of a salary cap?

i said, as a proud american capitalist, no im not in favor of a cap, but i read somewhere that the Desire of money is the root of all evil, and i think that’s what the problem is with the grand old game.

he said, so how would your cap be different than mine?

i said, because i would put a cap on owners and their incomes off baseball too. if a player could only make $10 million a year, so, too, would a team. profit that is. the rest would go to the united negro college fund for all those years you kept blacks out of baseball.

selig said, but many of the teams aren’t making anywhere close to that.

i said, bud, this bedroom is a sanctuary. it’s as close to holy as your midwestern ass is going to get, please don’t bullshit the king of bullshitters with your dirty lies.

and he clammed up.

then, i said, i would move the montreal expos to las vegas.

and after he fell down i helped him back up.

then i would put pete rose into the hall of fame. it would be a year-long traveling celebration with parades in each city, culminating with the retirement of his number 14 in a similar manner as your predecessor did for Jackie Robinson.

that would never fly, bud selig told me.

that’s what they told the wright brothers. i told him. pete rose is the epitome of baseball. he’s an ignoramus who took what little skills he had and honed them into the finest ball player ever. he did what no other man ever did, he played all the positions except pitcher and catcher in the all star game, got more hits than anyone who ever played the game, won world series, managed brilliantly, all with a fucked up hairdo and a chipped tooth.


and, i said, and he got banned from baseball, was shunned by the game that made him, and now we will reinstate him to a glory deserving of the finest hitter the pastime has ever seen.

but he bet on baseball, tony.

get out of my mansion, bud.

lets get back to moving the expos to vegas.

lets get back to you retiring from baseball. nothing that pete rose ever did was as detrimental to the game than what you have done during your reign. Pete never bet against the Reds, you can barely prove that he even bet at all, but it’s never even been hinted that he ever — that Charlie Hustle ever threw a game so that he could make a few thousand dollars. so quit fronting.

you, though, i continued, in order to help the owners save millions and make millions, you canceled the world series, you colluded to stop players from making the market salary, you wiped your ass all over tradition in the name of Interleague Play, opening day in tokyo, contraction, Bob Costas!, and much more in the name of the all mighty dollar. and just because the chicago black sox didn’t do that a hundred years ago, you get away with it today. fuck you, bud selig and your hypocracy. my warm milk is curdling.

but vegas? he asked.

las vegas is the fastest growing city in america. you could fill a 50,000 seat stadium from tourism alone. the hotels would pack the luxury boxes, Del Webb, Spud Webb, one of those guys, Seigfreid and Roy would own the team and all would be good in the hood. the front row of the bleachers would have slot machines, cocktail waitresses, scoreboards like you’ve never seen, between innings there’d be keno on the jumbo tron, im in my pajama bottoms and i can reel this shit off, imagine what some ivy league marketing major could think up, or the good people at Circus Circus LLP.

but wouldn’t people worry that the mob, that gambling, that…

bud, nobody thinks that organized crime and gambling on professional sports could only happen in las vegas. what did you just try to tell me about pete rose and what he did in cincy? allegedly.

but how would it look?

oh, please, bud. like you’ve ever cared how things look. nice comb-over, by the way, mr. let’s stop the all star game.

i hate you, tony pierce.

and when all this shit was completed, bud selig, you know what i’d do.

no, what?

i’d name hank aaron as my successor and i’d move the brewers to the dominican republic.

you fucker.

at least i admit it.

he slammed the door and the wind blew out the candle and i set my alarm and said my prayers.

breathalizing: a drunken marc brown

Oh, look at my face, my name is might have been.

seems like summer has just started and i already want a do-over. it’s like that Kevin Costner film where he says, “black is white, white is black, we’re through the looking-glass people,” everything that seems real is fake, and everything that you once trusted has turned its back on you.

my name is never was. my name’s forgotten.

I’m the best blamer in the world. if i make a foul and i get called on it i pout, i blame the guy with the whistle, i’ll blame everyone around me. i’ll raise my hand for the score keeper but in my head I’m saying, “this is so much bullshit.”

but unlike the nba, in real life people won’t always talk to you when theres a discrepancy. theres no press conference afterwards where you get to give your take and you get to hear theirs. and you don’t always get a chance to lace them up the next night and prove to the world that you are the real deal. that you are the mvp. that you are the man.

my whole life ive felt incredibly misunderstood. i don’t say that as a victim, im no victim. i say that as a curiosity. i know that sometimes i cause my own confusion, but most of the time i think to myself, “am i insane?” “did that person see what i saw?” “is that person for real with that shit?”

you better watch out, for what i wish for…

ive had a few dreams come true and usually they turned into nightmares. ive met some of my heroes and they were mere mortals, that broke my heart. ive had jobs where i made tons of cash, or had amazing amounts of power and freedom, and despite my best laid plans, the soaring heights that i reached only made for a more tragic and fucked up descent.

and when you fall that far, you don’t end up at the beginning, you sink below the surface. it’s not bad enough that you’ve seen the glory of the heavens, but now you’ve got to start over on the fiery sands of pandemonium.

when I wake up in your makeup, have you ever felt so used up as this?

but i press on. what else can i do? bandage up the shooting arm, slap a knee brace on, stick the elbow out and drive through the lane with my head down. everyone knows im going to shoot it. i cant pass it. you don’t pay me to pass. you pay me to pull up and nail it.

but in life, sometimes, when you think you’ve nailed it, some people will try to convince you that you did something wrong.

theres no scoreboard to point at for reassurance, theres no instant replay or millions of witnesses. theres fucked up me and pissed off you, and after years and years of this shit i don’t even know who to believe– which is why i hung with you in the first place.

but the worst is when you bail on me. the worst is when you treat me like a common frat boy spilling his coors light with his neon visor flipped upside down and backwards. you’ll listen to your fears, you’ll listen to everyone else. you’ll listen to people who are never there for you like i’d be. you ask others questions and you forget that they call me the answer.

honeysuckle, full of poison, i obliterated everything you kissed

now im fucked up

somewhere in westwood

so glad I came here with my pound of flesh.

you want a part of me?

well, I’m not selling cheap

im not selling cheap.

i feel so

fucking cheap.

clicking: the 50 page summer fashion special