Remembering Ol' Dirty Bastard

His sound was an acquired taste. Those who like hip-hop liked Ol' Dirty; those with no affinity for hip-hop thought he was horrible. He was a rapper for the fellas, although he won over the ladies with songs with Kelis, Mya, and Mariah. He became a folk hero of sorts, a pre-cursor to Flavor Flav's VH1 celebrity. How could he be a famous rapper and still be on welfare, they asked? He was the epitome of celebrity ills, an artist whose character overwhelmed his real self. Where would he have been without hip-hop? Although it may have been his status that fueled his self-destruction, it was the talent behind that status that blazed an unforgettable path in hip-hop history.

R.I.P. Ol' Dirty Bastard
(November 15, 1968 - November 13, 2004)

Probably the oddest O.D.B. tribute you will ever see, by Buckethead.

Not quite a night at Baseball's General Manager Meetings

Following the success of last year's trip to baseball's annual Winter Meetings, I decided to once again attempt to crash the main stage and hob-knob with baseball's power brokers. This year my target was the General Managers' Meeting, a pow-wow of baseball's wheelers and dealers. While not as grandiose as the Winter Meetings, the General Managers' meeting usually lays the groundwork for transactions throughout baseball's off season.

Similar to last year, my trip to the GM Meeting began at the end of the work day. Although last year I was able to leave at 4pm and avoid a majority of the Tampa-Orlando traffic, this year I wasn't so lucky. Call it foreshadowing.

What follows is a chronological description of my night. No, it's not a diary. It's a journal.

4:58 - left work. Yeah, that's right. I normally get out at 5, but because I had something to do, I left two minutes early. Gotta love stickin' it The Man.

5:00 - 6:20 - listened to Playboy Radio on the way to Orlando. Yes, that's a plug. Playboy Radio is the only talk radio I listen to. And I am awesome at their dating quiz show. One day I might just call in.

6:25 - Arrived at the Hyatt Regency Grand Cypress Hotel and Resort.

6:26 - Stopped at the gate by a sweet old lady in a security uniform who politely asked me what my business was at the hotel. Rather than saying, "I'm a huge Pat Gillick fan and I heard he was here", I went with the more confusing "Umm ... a friend told me to meet him here." That always works.

6:28 - Unfortunately, the sweet little gate guard didn't let me in. She pulled out her clipboard and asked for his name. Here is where I should have pulled an Obi-Wan Kenobi, waved my hand, and used the Force to control her weak and feeble mind. Instead, she was persistent that I not pass the gate without either a valid reason or proof that someone I know (and who knows me) was somehow beyond the gate.

6:30 - Dejected, I made a U-turn and pulled away from the hotel. I was curious though, what lay beyond the gate? Is that the normal procedure? Did the hotel put this little old lady at the gate to protect the sanctity of the general managers' meeting? I've always pictured the general managers hanging out in a smokey bar, sipping whiskey, and plotting their next blockbuster trade. Perhaps it's more like their own Hedonism event.

6:40 - Instead of getting back on the highway and driving the hour and a half back home, I decided to see if I couldn't get into the Hyatt another way. Might there be a back entrance, one that doesn't have a merciless old lady manning the gate?

6:42 - Pulled into a nearby Chinese buffet. I was attempting my own Mission Impossible. This was going to be a Dead Presidents-type gig.

6:48 - Walked along a passageway separating the Chinese buffet from a hotel neighboring the Hyatt. So far, so good.

6:52 - Strolled along the perimeter of the hotel's parking lot looking for a way in ... a break in the fence, anything.

6:54 - Found a way in. Although most of the fence dividing the two hotels was at least six feet high and lined with barbwire, a small section was not. It lacked barbwire completely and was only five feet or so in height. This was my way in.

6:54 and 24 seconds - Looked at the fence and its surrounding shrubbery.

6:54 and 32 seconds - Kept staring at the fence. You know, I am not as spry as I used to be. Especially when I am still fresh dressed like a million bucks in my work clothes.

6:54 and 51 seconds - What if I got arrested for trespassing?

6:55 - Do you think if I got busted for trespassing I can get Peter Gammons to interview me from jail? Maybe some one else? I'll even take Skip Bayless.

6:55 and 49 seconds - Tried to psych myself up for a simple fence climb - a hop, skip, and a jump into the bacchanalia that is the GM Meetings.

On second thought ...

6:56 - Walked back to my truck.

6:58 - Felt a vibration in my pocket. Realized it was my phone. Glad I didn't try to sneak in. Fielding phone calls while trying to sneak into a world-class resort is probably not advisable.

6:59 - Talked to my mom. I'm sure she would have been happy if I told her I was trying to break in to a resort to meet with people from pro baseball. She would have understood. She's supportive like that.

7:03 - Got in my truck and drove the long, dark, lonely highway home.

I'll be the first to admit this year's visit to the GM Meetings was nowhere near as productive as last year's trip to the Winter Meetings. This year there was no Ozzie, no Omar, no Jim Leyland, and no admittance.

Bummer.

Jay Busbee loves the Mets ... just kidding ... just the '86 version

As a result of a tied bet, both myself and Atlanta blogger/writer/connoisseur of southern things Jay Busbee decide to write our favorite versions of the other's favorite team. Unfortunately, Jay is a Braves fan so I had to write about the Braves on his site. And here is his take on the Mets team that absolutely won me over those many moons ago. Jeez, has it really been 21 years since the Mets won anything?

Hey there, Serious Tip readers. I’m Jay Busbee, head honcho over at the Atlanta sports site Right Down Peachtree. Being an Atlanta sports site, one of our obsessions is the Atlanta Braves ... which puts us directly at odds with Mets fans like Jordi here. So back at the beginning of this season, Jordi and I made a little wager, much like those cheesy mayor-versus-mayor bets. Whoever’s team won more games would get the benefit of a post from the other guy. Worse, the loser would have to write about the winner’s team ... in positive terms.

Well, the Braves and the Mets split the season 9-9. If either team had managed to put together a winning record against the other, they would’ve probably been in the playoffs. But it wasn’t to be, for either of us. (Tom Glavine has been spotted driving a brand-new red-and-blue Lamborghini around the streets of Alpharetta, Georgia, but that’s another story.) Anyway, earlier this week Jordi turned in a fine essay on the 1977 Braves, perhaps the most woeful team ever assembled.

Me, I’m taking the opposite tack. My personal favorite Mets team—besides the ones that finished in second place behind Atlanta, of course — was the 1986 squad. Thanks to legions of annoying Red Sox fans — who make me want to embrace Mets fans at this point — the 1986 season is known at least as much for “it gets behind the bag!” as it was for the Mets.

And that’s a damn shame, because the 1986 Mets were — oh my lord, I can’t believe I’m typing this — one of the coolest teams of all time.

Look at that team: Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry, a couple of young phenoms who were already being sized up for Hall of Fame plaques—and, based on what they’d already demonstrated, deservedly so. Keith Hernandez, probably the best defensive first baseman of all time. (Before baseball ruled it illegal, he used to stand in foul ground to make it easier to lay tags on runners leading off.) Gary Carter and Ray Knight were among the best in the game at their respective positions. Lenny Dykstra, Mookie Wilson, and Wally Backman, young loons who were every bit as talented as they thought they were. And Davey Johnson, a manager who had no problem declaring right from the start that this team was going to kick in the teeth of the rest of the league ... and proceeded to inspire his team to do just that.

The team began with a 20-4 record in April, and — much like the 2007 Patriots — didn’t let up at any point during the season. They got into no less than four bench-clearing brawls over the season; in July, so many players got thrown out of the game that Johnson had to put nutjob pitcher Roger McDowell in right field. The team finished with an astonishing 108 wins, running away from the league and fooling the rest of the sporting world into thinking that collections of wacko personalities could actually gel into a cohesive unit.

But as impressive as the regular season was, it couldn’t compare to the ’86 Mets’ postseason—particularly the two Game 6s. In Game 6 of the NLCS, facing the Astros, the Mets found themselves down 3-0 after the first inning, and wouldn’t tie up the game until the ninth. The game ran until the 16th, when the Mets put three across in the top of the inning, the Astros followed with two in the bottom, and Orosco closed the door with the winning run on base.

Game 6 of the World Series saw the Mets down to their final strike before Mookie hit that fateful slow roller up the line. Of course, the Red Sox still had a chance to win the Series in Game 7, but much like the Bartman fiasco with the Cubs nearly two decades later, the Sox were dead before the first pitch of Game 7 was ever thrown. (Interesting side note: I was at the 1993 Old-Timers’ Game befre the All-Star Game in Baltimore. Buckner was playing first. Somebody hit a slow roller up the line, Buckner fielded it flawlessly, and you could hear 50,000 people go “ohhhhh ...” — as in, “Why couldn’t he have done that seven years ago?”

Anyway, the ’86 Mets were a once-in-a-lifetime collection of insanity, and sure enough, they all fractured not long afterward. Strawberry, Gooden, and Hernandez saw their careers affected or derailed by drugs. Dykstra achieved more fame as the sparkplug of the grubby 1993 NL Champion Phillies, and is now — I swear this is true, here’s the link — a stock-picking columnist for TheStreet.com. Hernandez and McDowell were the first and second spitters in that famous Seinfeld episode, and McDowell is now the mild-mannered pitching coach of the Braves.

So raise a beer — or something stronger — to the 1986 New York Mets. (Check out Jeff Pearlman’s The Bad Guys Won! for far more on the subject.) They were baseball’s last great team of knuckleheads that actually won anything. (The 2004 Red Sox were self-promoting, self-aware knuckleheads, which is infinitely worse.) In a world of 24-hour sports scrutiny, we’ll never see their like again, and that’s a damn shame.

My Favorite Braves Team - The 1977 Atlanta Braves

Earlier this year, in approximately March or so, Jay Busbee and I decided on a friendly wager on who would win the season series: my New York Mets or his beloved Atlanta Braves.  After much deliberating, we decided that while the winner would get to gloat all off-season, the loser had to write about their favorite roster in the winning team’s history.  As luck, or as I like to call it “the Mets utter ineptitude”, would have it, the two teams tied 9 to 9.  So in lieu of counting stats and breaking it down to the knitty-gritty, we decided to both write.

I’ll be honest, before the Braves became an NL East powerhouse, I never paid them much attention.  Growing up in New York in the 1980s, the Braves were an afterthought, a minor speedbump on the road to further Mets glory.  Before the days of David Justice, Ron Gant, and John Smoltz, the only time I had any feelings towards the Braves was when Lonnie Smith hit a game-winning home run against Sid Fernandez sometime in 1989.  Fernandez was a personal favorite of mine and I was quite mad at this last-place Brave outfielder for standing in the way of my favorite team.  But I digress.  As for my favorite Braves team, for the sake of colorfulness and sheer ineptitude, I am going with the 1977 Atlanta Braves.

Besides being the year I was born, the year of the Son of Sam, the year Interpol made it illegal to copy video tapes, and the year the Bronx supposedly burned, 1977 marked one of the lowest points in Atlanta Braves history.  Gone were Hank Aaron, Dave Johnson, Ralph Garr, and Dusty Baker.  In their place were Jeff Burroughs, Willie Montanez, Gary Mathews, and a position-less youngster named Dale Murphy.  Add in a new charismatic owner and his penchant for hands-on management, a knuckleballer who won 16 yet lost 20, and the legendary Biff Pocoroba, and the 1977 Braves were one of the worst teams the city of Atlanta has ever seen, and that includes some bad Hawks basketball.

Leading the charge for these bumbling Braves was manager Dave Bristol.  Bristol would manage 160 of 162 games in 1977, making way for the first Bobby Cox era in 1978.  Of course, thanks to new owner Ted Turner, the Braves made headlines on one of Bristol’s “days off”.  Turner, eager to show his baseball prowess, took the reigns of the team on May 11th, promptly losing to the Pirates 2 to 1.  Although he would go on to claim that "Managing isn't that difficult, you just have to score more runs than the other guy", it would be the last day Turner would venture into the daily on-the-field management of the club.

As much of a mess as they were in the dugout, the Braves were as much a mess between the lines, and probably nowhere more so than on the mound.  The so-called ace of the staff was future Hall-of-Famer Phil Niekro.  Although Niekro pitched for the Braves from 1964 to 1983, 1977 was by far his worst year.  In 1977, Niekro gave up over 300 hits and walked a whopping 164 batters.  Rounding out the staff was a gaggle of has-beens and never-weres including one-time 20-game winner Andy Messersmith and one-time NL ERA leader Buzz Capra.

Although the aforementioned Burroughs had one of his better years and was clearly team MVP, my favorite Brave on the 1977 team is shortstop Pat “Don’t call me pocket” (can I say that?) Rockett.  I could be wrong, so long-time Braves fans please help me out, but by his stats, Rockett seemed like he epitomized the light-hitting, slick-fielding shortstops of the era.  Sort of a Rafael Belliard of his day.  Except for one glaring problem – Rockett wasn’t very good with the glove.  Although he only played in 84 games, Rockett was perhaps the worst fielding shortstop in the National League in 1977, committing 23 errors.  His 1 error per 3.65 games was second worst in the league behind stone-handed Padre shortstop Bill Almon and his horrendous 41 errors.  Whereas the Padres moved Almon to third the following season, Rockett wasn’t so fortunate, playing his the final 55 games of his career in ’78 and hitting an unmistakably pathetic .141.

Without a doubt, the 1977 Braves were a mess.  Similar to today’s Giants, they were a team in transition.  Young prospects Dale Murphy and Bob Horner would emerge the following season as stars, and after a few more years of struggle, the Braves would finish in first in ’82 and second in ’83 and ‘84.  Unfortunately however, their success was short-lived, and the Braves turned into the eventual doormat of the NL West.  Yet no matter how bad they were throughout the 80s, no other Atlanta Brave team featured a Rockett, a knuckleballer, and an owner gutsy enough to think he could manage.  That’s why, as a Mets fan and a fan of eccentric personalities everywhere, the ’77 team is my favorite Braves team.

Counting down the best of death

If you've read The Serious Tip since back in the day (March to be exact), you might know I have an unusual fascination with extreme heavy metal. The most fringe of the rock/metal genre has piqued my interest for quite some time. To be honest, I am not sure why these bands interest me. Perhaps it's their appearance, their defiance of death and their embracing of dark, or maybe I just think they are an amazing anti-establishment sub-culture as evident by their creative names and over-the-top lyrics and theatrics. Upon investigation, one might even be drawn to question their "realness", similar to the "studio gangstas" in hip-hop culture.

Anyway, before I start to babble on about the socio-economic-religious impact of extreme heavy metal on global culture, HailMetal.com put together a list of the best death metal albums of all-time. I definitely recommend taking a look, if only for the artwork and the creative monikering.

Before I give you the link however, I would like to share a couple of my favorites and my own commentary:

Number 3:

Hmmm ... "Amorphis". Doesn't "amor" means love? And "phis" is, of course, more than one "Phi" - possibly short for Phi Mu, or any other Greek organization. So if I have this right, the translation of this mega-power in death metal means "Love Phis".


Number 42:

Yeah, you see that right. The cover of Macabre's death metal magnum opus Sinister Slaughter is a mock of The Beatles's Sgt. Pepper album, only depicting mass murderers and other assorted deranged psychopaths. What else would you expect from a band with songs named "Ted Ted Bundy Song" and "Nightstalker Richard Ramirez"? My only question is, is music about killing people considered "snuff rock"? Not to be confused, of course, with the "Snuffy Rock" they play on Sesame Street.

Ok, those are my favorites. Do I own either of these? No. Could I understand what the singers were saying/screaming/bellowing without looking at the lyrics? Probably not. But, I'll give them credit, they are creative. In their own special way.

As for the rest, they can be found here: Hail Metal.com's Best of Death.

Supplement Raids Stun Porn Industry

Recent supplement raids across the U.S. have intercepted numerous cases of erectile dysfunction drugs addressed to pornography stars and caused uproar throughout the adult film industry.

FBI sources have told The Serious Tip shipment lists on over 69,000 cases of ED drugs seized since February 2007 contained the names of numerous high-profile male adult performers. The most recent of these raids netted approximately 2,500 cases in Brooklyn, NY. Other raids have seized drugs in Miami, Fla., San Francisco, Ca., and Salt Lake City, Utah. Many of these raids, such as the recent NY seizure, made headlines due to their seizure of huge amounts of human growth hormone and other sports-related drugs.

“Although sports supplements such as HGH have gotten much of the publicity, we have seen a huge jump in the amount of illegal ED drugs headed towards the porn industry,” said an anonymous FBI officer who has worked on the case since late 2006. “We are working hand-in-hand with our other agencies to stop this epidemic.”

According to FBI sources, the drugs are generic versions of name-brand ED drugs such as Viagra and Cialis. Many are manufactured in poor third-world countries by children with no shoes and women who haven't showered recently.

“I mean, I don’t want to take away these peoples’ only source of income,” said a second FBI agent new to the agency, “But we don’t need drugs like that in our porn. Those beautiful, blond, big-breasted, lovely, attractive, kind, sweet, young women need guys like us to protect them from the evils of drugs. Especially the girls in the cheerleading outfits. They look so innocent, yet sexy. Not that I watch porn or anything.”

Results of the raids have also caused controversy throughout the porn industry. Among those concerned is Jon Longfellow, a recently retired male performer and holder of several porn records, to include longest performance without ejaculation.

“I was clean my whole career,” said Longfellow. “Now I have to question these new guys. I mean, as some of them get closer and closer to the all-time records, how do we know if they were natural?”

Although the FBI has only recently disclosed the names on the shipment lists to top porn officials and not made any of their findings public, many female performers already have their suspicions.

“I knew something was wrong when one of the guys in my gangbang scene last week lasted way longer than any of the others,” said Britney Bazoombas, a three year veteran of the industry. “I was kneeling there, waiting for the moneyshot, thinking ‘wow, this guy has to be on something to last this long’. Now I know.”

Velvet Revolver / Alice in Chains Live in Tampa

I wanted to post this over the weekend, but my previously mentioned ISP problems made doing so impossible. Anyway, last Saturday I got to check off a major goal in my concert going career. I saw Alice in Chains open for Velvet Revolver at the Ford Amphitheater in Tampa. Granted, Velvet Revolver was the headliner and they put on an absolutely great show, but I have wanted to see Alice in Chains in concert since I became a fan in the mid-1990s.

A few notes:

- When I bought the ticket, the guy at the ticket place told me new lead singer William Duvall sang just like late frontman Layne Staley. I'll admit I was a bit skeptical, but Duvall nailed it. Very impressive.

- The set list was nothing new, which also kinda surprised me. I thought perhaps they would slide a new tune in or perhaps a song from one of guitarist Jerry Cantrell's albums. Instead I got a heaping helping of classic Alice in Chains. And there is nothing wrong with that.

- Most of the songs came off of Dirt and the self-titled album, except "No Excuses" from the Jar of Flies album and "We Die Young" and "Man in the Box" from their first album, Facelift.

- As I watched the show, I started thinking, what is Alice in Chains' most famous song? "Would?" was probably their first major hit, and "Rooster" is definitely up there, but I would almost have to go with "Man in the Box". It gets plenty of radio play still, and has been used in a bunch of movies and at sporting events. Opinions welcome in the comments, of course.

- Speaking of "Rooster", the band closed by playing the song while showing an awesome montage of war footage that spliced scenes of troops in Vietnam with scenes from the current conflict in Iraq. Flashing throughout the footage were pictures of Richard Nixon, Lyndon Johnson, Donald Rumsfeld, Dick Cheney, and President Bush. While definitely not at the level of a U2 Bono statement, AIC's video did a good job of putting geopolitics aside and showing the traumas, stresses, and similarities of two wars generations apart.

A few notes about Velvet Revolver:

- I've never seen Slash perform live before and I was blown away. His guitar playing skills were better than I thought.

- Unlike Alice in Chains, Velvet Revolver mixed some other material into their set, playing songs from their members' former bands, Stone Temple Pilots and Guns'N'Roses. Of course, these songs drove everyone in the crowd wild.

- I was really surprised they played the Guns'N'Roses tune "Mr. Brownstone", however. If memory serves me correct, the Virginia Tech killer wrote an essay with the same name and quoted the song quite extensively. Here it is. I thought maybe the band would have retired the song in tribute to the victims.

Overall, I would give this show a solid “A”. The 60 dollar ticket and the fact that the ushers did not let people take pictures (supposedly at the artists’ request) was the only reason it doesn’t get an “A+”. Highly recommended.

(Picture acquired from the Velvet Revolver web site.)

A belated 1st birthday to this site

Wow.

I forgot my blog's birthday. For some reason, I thought it was September 19th. No, it is September 14th.

So now I sit remorseful. I was going to impress you, dear reader, with amazing stats and trivia about The Serious Tip. I was going to tell you all the sites I have been linked to, all the great people in the blogosphere I have corresponded with, from those who have given me advice, to those who have responded to e-mails, to those who I persuaded to let me cameo on their sites. I was even going to impress you with a ballpark figure of all the words I have written on this site (~70,000). And then there was the story of about how one year ago, after discovering Deadspin and other great blogs, I said, "I can do this". You were to be awed.

But alas, I forgot. I am a horrible, horrible blogmaster/host/writerperson.

Seriously, who forgets their blog's birthday? This is probably worse than forgetting an anniversary or a friend's birthday. A blog is supposed to be like your kid, and in some cases, maybe more important. And its birthday is supposed to be a big deal.

What does that say about me? I don't have a kid, nor a significant other. What if the future Mrs. Scrubbings finds this post before an important date? Will she think "Wow, he can't even remember his own blog's birthday. How is he supposed to remember mine?". From now on, I am writing down all the important dates I have to remember. Mother's Day, Arbor Day, Opening Day, and The Serious Tip's birthday.

Anyway, since you were denied an all-out birthday extravaganza, let me at least offer you a pleasant Talk Like a Pirate Day. Yar.

Interview with Playboy Model Angela McLin aka Lexi Stone

Yes, it's another interview. Introducing Playboy Model Angela McLin. Enjoy.

The Serious Tip: Hi Angela, how are you?

Angela McLin: I am great! I have never worked so hard in my life! I have a full time job as a hair stylist /makeup artist and holding down lots of networking on the side for modeling!

TST: Where are you from?

AM: I am from Fort Worth, Texas. I went to Southwest High School class of '01. I have been here my whole life.

TST: How old are you?

AM: I am 24. I will 25 in September, can't wait! Every year I get older I get wiser and more established!

TST: How long have you been modeling? How did you get into it?

AM: I tried modeling when I was in cosmotology school years ago. I shot a few times for some of their ads. But it was not till Playboy called that I had my 1st real job. I was kind of a surprise find, I went to just say I had tried and then they really called me; it was a huge shock to me. They then flew me to LA (my dream spot) to shoot for PlayboysFreshFaces.com (NSFW - ed.) and here I am!

TST: What is your ultimate goal as a model? What is in your future? Will we see the "Angela McLin Show" competing with Tyra Banks anytime soon?

AM: My ultimate goal as a model is to prove that dreams really do come true if you work really hard. I don't have to be the next Gisele but I would like to be known as someone who made it as a savvy buisnesswoman. Not just a pretty face and big boobs! Oh, and I am 1 1/2 inches too short for Next Top Model! LOL!

TST: How did you get involved with Playboy? Were you a surprise find or have you been working your way up the modeling ranks?

AM: I went to the web page and got signed up for the casting call and my boyfriend drove me to Dallas where I bared it all for Hef!

TST: Are you an exhibitionist at heart, or was it difficult taking that step from bikini to nude? If so, how did you overcome the fear?

AM: Not an exhibitionist at all. I am very shy but I love the camera, always have. Playboy photographers make you feel very comfortable; they are very professional.

TST: What was the popular opinion from family, friends, etc after you appeared on a Playboy web site?

AM: Everyone that knows seems to be happy for me. Playboy is not as frowned upon as it used to be. Some really big names have been in there! Plus this is 2007, it takes alot to get in the door, there are beautiful girls everywhere you look. Playboy is a great company to get your name out there and they take great care of you!

TST: You've been to the Mansion. Is it the party nirvana everyone thinks it is?

AM: It is awesome. Beautiful girls everywhere. Everyone takes your picture like you are someone special too! The scenery is beautiful. There are birds and monkeys. There is a landmark on every corner!

TST: Ok, enough small talk, are you single?

AM: No, I have an amazing boyfriend that I have been with for about a year. He's a really great guy like no other, possibly the one!

TST: What kind of guy gets your attention?

AM: I like guys who are real! A nice, funny, hard-working guy with goals in life that he actually acts on. Someone who knows how I am feeling and understands exactly what's wrong. Someone who makes me feel special and does not make me cry. Oh, and of course, someone who knows how to touch me in all of the right places!

TST: What about guys who write for sports web sites and blogs?

AM: If I was not already in a relationship, sure I would give you a shot! I really do like all kinds of guys, just not losers!

TST: Describe your worst date ever. Did you see the guy again?

AM: Never really been on a bad date but if you ever took me out for sushi I would puke! Oh, and I hate loud obnoxious guys who try and talk to you when your boyfriend leaves for a second to go to the bathroom or something. I mean come on. Does that really work!?!

TST: Is there a set number of dates before you'll sleep with a guy?

AM: There is no set number of dates, I wait as long as possible. When the time is right I will make your night! LOL

TST: What if he was this great writer and you were absolutely smitten with his words even before you saw him? Would you still wait?

AM: Everything good in life is worth waiting for.

TST: Been with another girl? Open to the idea? Thoughts?

AM: I have kissed another girl just for fun. I have always known exactly on what side of the line I stand.

TST: You mention in your Playboy video interview (again, NSFW) that to turn a guy on, all you would have to do is look at him. What if he was blind? How would you get his attention?

AM: LOL! Good question! I guess I would whisper something sweet in his ear, that always tickles my fancy!

TST: Stranded on a desert island with one famous guy - who would it be? Why?

AM: The Survivor Guy from the Survivorman show on the Discovery channel. He could keep me alive for a long time; he knows all kinds of crazy stuff. Did you know Fritos Corn chips are like little coals you can add them to a fire to make it last forever? Crazy!

TST: Stranded on a desert island with one famous woman - who would it be? Why?

AM: Well, Paris is my favorite so I choose her. That's hot! She could call a jet to come get us. Plus the paparazzi are never too far behind her so she could never be lost!

TST: Of course, because this is a sports blog, are you a sports fan? If so, favorite teams? Why? Favorite athletes? Why?

AM: I did get into the Mavs when they were in the playoffs, I never had sat down and watched a game before and it was fast paced so it kept my attention. I liked it! Now I love Texas Hold-Em and depending on who you ask these days it may or may not be a sport. Now my favorite player is Daniel Negreanu but all my friends say I play like Mike "The Mouth" Matusow. LOL. It is true, I must admit!

TST: What is the craziest thing you have ever done at a sporting event?

AM: I cuss people when playing poker or any kind of competitive game, I am a very sore loser!

TST: Web site? Myspace? Where can fans see more of you?

AM: Myspace: you can enter my full name Angela Mclin or my fake email (cause someone on there stole mine) enter angelashairdesign@myspace.com. Check me out on http://www.playboysfreshfaces.com/ (one more time - NSFW - ed.)

TST: Give a shout out for people to vote for you.

AM: Thanks to all the friends who took the time to go and vote for me. Every vote counts. And all the people who write to me on Myspace, you all have been a blessing! I am just a normal girl who's trying to make a name for myself in this big world. I never knew how many people would play such a role in my success.

Thank you, Angela. XOXO

TST: Thanks Angela, and the best of luck to you.

Mrs. Rizzuto's Bat

My dad grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood as baseball Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto. According to legend, when Phil was away playing for the Yankees, Mrs. Rizzuto, the Hall of Famer’s mother, would invite the local kids over and pay them to help her with household chores. A nickel here, a piece of candy there; no favor was too large. To the neighborhood, the Rizzutos were like family and Phil was their pride and joy.

Of all the times my father did chores for Mrs. Rizzuto, one payment towered above all the rest. As the story goes, my father was out and about one summer afternoon when Mrs. Rizzuto called him over. According to my dad, the Rizzuto basement had been neglected of late and Mrs. Rizzuto needed someone to clean it out. Of course, my father eagerly volunteered.

After he complete the epic task of straightening the Rizzuto basement, Mrs. Rizzuto came down to negotiate payment. She was out of change and candy she said, but if he wanted he could take his pick of items from an old dusty footlocker her son Phil had left behind. Not one to go home empty handed, my father quickly strode over to the footlocker to find his compensation.

The footlocker was old, alright. The type used in the 1920s and 30s before suitcases became the rage. There was also a name engraved on the top: G.H. Ruth. Sensing nostalgia, my father eagerly popped open the locks and lifted the top. Inside, among the trinkets and miscellanea, was a baseball bat. A huge bat, far bigger than he could use in any streetball games. But Mrs. Rizzuto had said he could have anything, and he wanted G.H. Ruth’s bat.

Although the adult-sized bat was too large for my father, he kept it through the years. Rarely used for over two decades, it sat in a spare garbage pail in the garage with other lighter bats, shovels, soccer balls, and random sporting equipment. As we moved from New York to Florida, the bat stayed a seldom-used icon. Then, in the mid-1990s, I, your humble narrator, took my chances with G.H. Ruth’s bat.

One of my favorite hobbies after school in my teens was self-hitting tennis balls up and down my block. Whenever possible, I would use a tee to practice my swing. One afternoon, lacking a functional tee, I decided to balance one of the balls on a local fire hydrant and hit the ball as far as I could. Whereas I knew if I missed with one of my aluminum bats, I could seriously dent it on the hard metal fire hydrant, I decided to use the heavy lumber of G.H. Ruth.

With the ball carefully balanced, I stood ready, sizing the target up with a few half-swings. Then, with an attempt that could only be equaled by a Greek god, I swung as hard as possible. With a bang, the bat smacked against the fire hydrant, missing its intended target by inches. Although the concussion made the ball roll ten or so feet down the road, the vibrations from the immovable hydrant shocked my hands with a stinging pain. Yet the pain in my hands was quickly secondary to a sense of impending doom. I had broken the ancient bat, cracking it right down the middle. I destroyed a cherished family heirloom. A priceless piece of history owned by Mrs. Rizzuto, and before that, G.H. Ruth.

Oddly enough, my father was far less upset than I thought he would be. There were no repercussions. I was not grounded, punished, or sent to bed without dinner. I still had my privileges, and could go out with my friends whenever. Life just went on.

Later that year, while helping him work on his car, I asked my dad who invented the bungee cord. Without hesitation, he answered, “Arthur J. Bungee, during World War II, in order to preserve rubber for the war effort.”

I had to believe him. My dad doesn’t lie.