Everybody Drops The Dime

This week your humble reporter is dispatching live from the beatfiul terror that is the city of Dis, located with a beatiful view in the sixth circle of the Inferno. And how have you been my blue-eyed sons?

The World Wide Leader has managed to irritate me twice in one day, first with the new graphic on the side of the screen during Sportscenter, then by not showing me Stump the Schwab reruns at 1:00 PM. I have few small pleasures, but the great pleasure of being home at 1:00 in the afternoon is watching Schwab. This will not stand. None shall pass.

And the coverage of Clemens' return has displeased me. I want more focus on the wisdom, if that's the word, on paying a million dollars a start to a 45 year old man who can go five or six innings a start. Anyone who thinks that the bastards of the Bronx just wrote the check that, when cashed, will buy them a seat in October is sorely mistaken, methinks. If the Rocket had returned to the Dirty Water of Boston as a third or fourth starter, I could believe that the playoffs were beckoning brother Roger, but that team in Gotham is too flawed for even the return of the best pitcher of our era to redeem. You heard it hear first.

The Sopranos, now. And boyos, the claret is begining to flow. Brother Christopher has finally snapped, and that's nothing but good news for the audience. My concerns for the last season have been proven mercifully unjustified. David Chase deserved not my skepticism.

As an example of how good I am at outsmarting myself, I managed to spend 70 dollars on Free Comic Day. Apparently, Alan Moore and Transmet trades weren't covered under the Free Comic heading. Ah well, I needed to pick Transmet up again. It's nothing less than a sin on my part to have lapsed from the true faith of Spider. Yes, we will build Jerusalem on America's granite and steel lands...

Brother Ali is tomorrow night. The truth is here, ladies and germs, and although I would dispute it, I eagerly await it. If only I had some idea for my plans for the rest of the day.

Mother's day is coming up my lads and lasses, do you remember that? Because she is unaware of the existance of my signal fires that I light on the interweb, I'll let you all know what I have procured for my mother dearest, and I highly recommend all three of you beg borrow and steal to obtain the same item- the new Van Morrison collection of his movie songs. Van Morrison is an authentic Irish Seraph disguised as the most heartbreaking voice in rock n roll and we are all lucky to have been graced with his genius. Consider this.

I have spent the day watching Boogie Nights for the first time in a couple of years, at least, and reading Transmetropolitan. I can already tell that I'm going to lose my mind, and soon, without something to do. Employment never seemed so lovely. I can go ahead and warn you imaginary, magnificent bastards that the posts are going to begin coming faster and thicker, trying to save my mind by poisoning yours. I still have no idea what I'm doing tomorrow and it is bothering me more and more with every passing moment.

It's probably wrong of me to continually edit posts instead of posting new ones, but that just how I roll. I now know what I'm doing tomorrow before the Brother Ali concert. Expect a full write up of the show if you like. Hell, expect whatever you want. But there's a chance you'll actually get the write-up.

Oh, and anyone who gets the specific allusion that the title of this post is making, then I both salute you and worry about you. I know that you won't get the answer from the first page of google results...

Keith has told me that you can get the answer through google. It's completely unfair if you use rudimentary knowledge of how search engines work against me.

Braves play San Diego tonight. Chuck James is pitching, and we're tied with the Mets for our first place birthright.