Category: Uncategorized

It’s nice to see that baseball’s trying to get some illegal substances banned, with the new steroid penalties. Sure, it was fun to see mega-juiced players belt cartoon-level home runs for the past decade or so, and older players show unprecedented power, endurance and recovery time, but the carnival had to come to an end at some point.

(Of course, maybe that point should’ve been after Brady Anderson socked 50 home runs one season, and then tore the muscles off his rib cage the next year. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind performance-enhancing products. After all, I’m kicking back with a Tanq-10 & tonic right now. But it’s legal, and it makes me virtually invulnerable to criticism.)

Anyway, what’s good about the new penalties is that it whomped the MLB Players Association square in its testosterone-shrunken nuts. Reading over ESPN’s recent “expose” about steroids in baseball, it seems pretty clear that the players’ union was the main obstacle to any sort of testing for steroids.

Sure, the owners were happy that home run numbers were up, because it brought in more fans and got more TV revenue, but that added money was likely offset by the increased number of players getting injured, spending more time on the disabled list than ever.

What is amazing about the new policy is that it also involves testing for amphetamines. What the heck were they thinking, adding speed to the banned substance list? Are they planning to cut the season down to 100 games and give them July and August off?

I don’t care how much these guys are being paid; it’s boring to play 162 games of baseball. Cal Ripken, who couldn’t find anything else to do for more than 16 seasons, has to be the dullest man in existence. Or he had to be totally hopped up on goofballs.

Trying to get players off of speed would be like trying to get me to quit drinking during trade shows; it’d be tough to implement, and the final result wouldn’t make anyone happy.

A lot of companies talk about “sales force synergies” when they merge, but they’re usually full of crap.

On the other hand, it makes perfect sense for Allergan (makers of Botox) to acquire Inamed (makes of boob implants)!

(Since I was hanging up Playboy centerfolds when I was at the tender age of three, I like to think that I have “the leading breast aesthetics portfolio”, but hey.)

Eddie Guerrero–a wrestler I enjoyed watching when I got back into rasslin’ from 1999-2002 (or thereabouts)–died yesterday in his hotel room. He was 38, and my immediate guess is that he had a heart attack probably related to his steroid-fueled massivity.

Eddie used to do a great frog splash from the top of the ropes. This move unfortunately led to his dislocating his elbow one time, which was awfully grotesque. He came back from that injury with an absolutely massive physique.

I tuned into the beginning of WWE Raw tonight to see how they’d pay tribute to him (it’s a live show). I felt like I was in Crisis on Infinite Earths, as massive men in vinyl masks stood crying on stage. Ric Flair, in a purple-and-silver feathered robe, tries to look stoic, but lip quivering. A 7-foot-tall (?) monster walks to the ring trying to smile, but his eyes are red and puffy. Vince McMahon stutters at the beginning, about to cry, but recovers.

They’re trying to perform, but the crowd’s completely quiet. Time for Monday Night Football…

If only a Representative from the West Coast proposed this legislation. Oh, well.

Alternate joke: Maybe this Record Collection Act means that they’ll stop putting out new Tupac CDs!

Of course, you’d have a hard time proving that if you read this page.

The official VM fiancee found this page while researching her OTHER fiancee, NFL referee Ed Hochuli. Seriously, we click through all the games each Sunday on League Pass just to see which one he’s reffing. She’s obsessed. SIGH…

Sometimes this blog writes itself. Othertimes, the official VM brother and the official VM fiancee team up and take care of it for me. To wit:

Here’s some contradictory advice from some WWI vets on how to live a long and happy life!

Thanks for all service you’ve done (or are currently doing) for our country!

I forgot to mention: I had a run of plane trips in which I bumped into second (or third) tier athletes or retired guys. Hasn’t happened in a few years, but I may have started a new streak last night (or this morning, depending on your pov): Neil O’Donnell, quarterback for the Superbowl-losing Pittsburgh Steelers of 1996, was a few seats behind me on Flight of the Damned.

When I saw him in the terminal at Nashville (6’3″ white guy, talking with his wife/girlfriend about an exec at CBS Sports), I figured he was somebody, but it turns out I was wrong.

The flight was insanely arduous. Delayed at the gate (plane couldn’t make it out of Newark for a while, due to weather). Delayed on the tarmac (landing windows weren’t available in Newark). Stacked in a holding pattern in awful crosswinds (hint: don’t put small, light airplanes in holding patterns during bad weather). Turbulence that had the stewardess talking in the shaky-voice over the intercom.

As a bonus, the monorail at Newark wasn’t functioning, so I got to walk over to the parking garage in the rain at 2:30 in the morning, more than four hours late. I’m gonna go to bed. Good to be home.

Bad-ass thunderstorms up in NJ/NY, so my flight back home is delayed. We’re waiting for the plane to come in from there, dump people, refuel, and get us home. It’s a little Embraer 145, one of those 50-seaters, so I’m not looking forward to the bumpy flight home. Which will land sometime way after midnight, instead of our scheduled 10pm.

Also, I realized during lunch today that I actually hadn’t set foot outside of Cracker Biodome in the 48 hours since I’d checked in on Monday. It was another 3 hours before I stepped outside, to get in a cab to the airport. So, not much Nashville-ing for me.

On the plus side, the gift area had a copy of that Sam Cooke biography I want, so I just picked that up. And the wireless hookup is $6.95 for 24 hours, so that ain’t bad.