best part about having a blog

isn’t the fame, the money, the gifts, the groupies, the notoriety, the power, the influence, the excuse to talk to yourself and answer back, no.

the best part of having a blog is that if you run across a picture of the ever lovable kirby puckett, you can put it up and not have to explain shit to anybody.

saps like bob costas are going to get on the tv and tell the millions of viewers that this is the perfect time for us to appreciate kirby puckett, but costas is a short little condescending fire hydrant ripe for a dog’s hind leg. we don’t need costas to tell us when to love kirby. any time is a perfect time to appreciate the hall of famer.

costas will get on his soap box and try to tell us something we don’t know about the former twin who rejected wheelbarrows full of cash to pull a giambi and sign up with the bronx bombers, and instead stayed where he belonged, where he was adored, in the twin cities and helped win the world series for minnesota in seven games back in ’91, the year that punk broke.

old bob will go on and on and they might even play the music from “the natural” or “field of dreams” or some made for tv tear jerker starring the blue eyed golden boy and his game winning moon shot over the old wooden fence advertisizing a shaving creame and the slow motion cameras and the cheers and the fanfare and his ma in the stands in her straw hat and his best girl.

too bad hollywood baseball movies don’t star big fat round black guys who stand five foot nine going blind on one eye youngest child of nine who sign autographs and go to hospitals for the kids and really do end game six with one swing of the bat. not in the bottom of the ninth. but in the bottom of the eleventh, sucka. because if they did make those sorts of movies you could get kirby back in those slimming pinstripes and theatre-goers would finally have someone they could root for again.

it’s good to have kirby puckett back in the spotlight again in this series between the never-say-die angels against the team that selig wanted to kill, the twins, because kirby reminds us that good guys don’t always finish last. kirby was part of two championships for the twins during his days. costas will show you the numbers. he’ll get the words out right. he’ll hammer home the old standby that with guys like latrell sprewell and randy moss and john rocker and influencing kids, we could use a few more kirbys. but costas had great role models growing up himself, and he still turned out to be a pudtz.

kirby didnt have a willie mays or a bobby bonds around like barry did. kirby had all the pressures that bonds had, a town that relied on him, all the cameras all the time, and not only did kirby smile when he was underpressure, but that smile was geniune. there was love there. there was a man who loved playing baseball and loved to win, and was mighty good with the glove too, jack.

but i just like having kirby back cuz he makes me happy when i see him. theres your next governor, minnesota.

Beastie Boys

Paul’s Boutique

Grand Royal Records


Riddle me this brother can you handle it

Your style to my style you can’t hold a candle to it

Equinox symmetry and the balance is right

Smokin’ and drinkin’ on a Tuesday night

It’s not how you play the game it’s how you win it

I cheat and steal and sin and I’m a cynic

For those about to rock we salute you

The dirty thoughts for dirty minds we contribute to

I once was lost but now I’m found

The music washes over and you’re one with the sound

Who shall inherit the earth? the meek shall!

I think I’m starting to peak now, Al

and the man upstairs I hope that he cares

If I had a penny for my thoughts I’d be a millionaire

We’re just 3 M.C.’s and we’re on the go


Only 24 hours in a day

Only 12 notes a man can play

Music for all and not just one people

And now we’re gonna bust with the Putney Swope sequel

More Adidas sneakers that a plumber got pliers

Got more suits than Jacoby & Meyers

If not for my vices my bugged out desires

My year would be good just like Goodyear’s tires

So I’m out pickin’ pockets at the Atlantic Antic

And nobody wants to hear you cause your rhymes are so frantic

I mix business with pleasure way too much

I mean wine and women and song and such

I don’t get blue I gotta mean red streak

You don’t pay to play, yo, man, that’s weak

Get even like Steven like pulling a Rambo


Steal from the rich and I’m out robbing banks

Give to the poor and I always give thanks

Got more stories that J.D. Salinger

I hold the title and you are the challenger

I’ve got money like Charles Dickens

Got the girlies in the hoopty like the Colonel’s got the chickens

Always go out dapper like Harry S. Truman

Inventor of Mad? Alfred E. Newman.

*Never gonna let them say that I don’t love you*

My noggin is hoggin all kinds of thoughts

Adam Yoggin is Yauch and he’s rockin of course

Smoke the holy chalice got my own religion

Rally round the stage and check the funky dope musicians

Jerry Lee Swaggart or Jerry Lee Falwell

You love Mario Andretti cause he always drives his car well

Vicious circle of reality since the day you were born

And we love the hot butter on what? the popcorn.

Sippin on wine and mackin

Rockin on the stage with all the hands clappin

Ride the wave of fate, it don’t ride me, boy

*Being very proud to be an M.C.*

And the man upstairs I hope that he cares

If I had a penny for my thoughts I’d be a millionaire

Amps and crossovers under my rear hood

The bass is bumpin from the back of my Fleetwood

They tell us what to do? hell no


rosalita picked me up in her momma’s newly leased xterra.

she knocked on the front door. always looking good. slightly ridiculous because she loves to show off her belly at any expense. she looked around the place, saw there were no fresh flowers in the vase near the fireplace and smiled to herself. flowers meant that ashley had been there.

ready for bowling? she asked.

always. i got my golden ball and put it in my new bowling bag. wished i had new bowling shoes. but if kisses and wishes were nickles and dimes… i was losing it.

rosalita curled up next to me as i looked through my book bag for keys to the house. she smelled great. strawberry conditioner and a hint of perfume. giggly as hell but she has some class sometimes. i was glad to see her, to be honest. missed you. she said. i had seen her a week ago.

locked the front door, exited through the back. rosalita unlocked the doors with her remote and we climbed in. mmmmmm new car smell. i could get used to this. she said she was having problems with the cd player but it was okay. we talk so much there were only a few times i think we ever listened to one song all the way through. and that was only when we were singing along to it.

she told me that she just knew i was going to get the job i was applying for. i told her that it meant i might have to move. she said, please don’t move.

i told her that she would live without me. plus she would be able to visit me. she said that’s hardly a silver lining.

she said, if you had moved a year ago when you were offered that job, i would probably be with paco right now, living in his houseboat, cooking his food.

my stomach turned.

why would you do that?

he’s nice to me. he pays attention to me. millions of people the lord gave us in this town. i don’t think we’re supposed to be alone. or with people who are super average.

i did love rosalita. super average. she had her own language. wasn’t afraid of anything other than loneliness. somehow she picked good boyfriends and hardly ever had a clinker. how did she know who to say yes to when it seemed like she’d just say yes to the first one who didn’t completely blow.

drove down vermont to the ten headed west to santa monica. got off on fourth street. made it to pico.

perfectly good bowling alleys in hollywood, rosalita laughed. was that glitter in her lip gloss?

i knew she would try to renegotiate our situation since i kissed her last week. any time we had a good kiss she would ask me to be her boyfriend.

be my boyfriend, tony.

hadn’t even gotten to the alley. or the bar with its twenty ounce buds shaped like pins.

no thank you.

you can do whatever you want to me.

yeah, no thanks.

no seriously.

so i can get with you and your roommate?

ok, don’t be gross.

she parked the truck and we got out. two young black highschoolers were leaning up against the wall of a pet store. matching outfits. pearl white plain tshirts, thick gold rope chain, baggy shorts so long they were almost pants. white socks that folded at the ankle. gucci sneakers. venice beach gangsta chic. nwa 89, tough guys.

they stopped talking when i saw them whispering about rosalita. i hadn’t been to the wesssside in a while. for some gangs it’s disrespectful if you look down, it says you don’t believe that they’ll kick your ass. it says that you don’t believe they’re anything worthy of keeping your eye on. other gangs it’s disrespectful to keep eyecontact. they’ll snap back “what you looking at!” they want you to look away to prove their dominance.

i always looked at a black man in the eye.

fuck their juvenile thug games that only keep us down.

“who you lookin at brotha?”

most kids don’t have guns. flash the handle of yours and that’s all they need. it also doesn’t hurt to have a fake badge. especially nowadays when the toughguys wear sunglasses at night in a dirty parking lot with only one light. i reached to flash one point of my badge and the one guy said to the other five-oh and they both looked past me. not down.

we called it even and i opened the door to the bowling alley for my super hot latina date and we went straight to the bar where we belonged.