Would anyone like some pie?

Home Run Derby night in my house has always been a total drag.

My dad will say he doesn't want to watch it and that my mother and I should watch "something we want to watch."
Come on.
Home Run Derby is the first night of an Epic Man Week, which come only a few times a year (these other Epic Weeks include, of course, World Series Week, Superbowl Anticipation Week, and [Insert Sport Here] Draft Week).
"Watch something you guys want to watch."
He doesn't actually mean that.
He means, "Please put on the home run derby and don't ask questions."
Don't ask questions.

Ever since I was a kid, I was told that asking questions were the best way to learn. Unfortunately, being the precocious pain in the ass that I am/was, I never stopped asking questions.
Most of these were stupid, inconsequential things, asked only to feed my limited knowledge of a sport that brought me closer to my male classmates.
As a short, squat, fifth grade pre-pubescent ten year old with heavy dark bangs and a deep love of multi colored scrunchies, the only thing bringing me closer to eleven year old, super cute red-headed Patrick were the Mets. I had found that in my ten years on earth that I could sing, play the violin, understand most college level novels, and pitch a mean underhand. Patrick didn't seem interested in my singing (read as: wailing) ability, feigned virtuosity, or book choices on the Magic Reading Carpet, but he did think it was "cool" that I played softball after Student Council three times a week.
So I asked my dad questions, and went to school filled with facts about Mike Piazza, causing Patrick to say things like "You're cooler than I thought." This, to a ten year old, is basically the same as saying "I love you."

My brother usually spends the night of the Home Run Derby at a friends house. After arriving home at a ridiculous hour, covered in sweat and screaming loudly in a language that can't be English, I can't help but loathe these muscle heads. "Hot Dogs," my dad calls them.
Frankly, I just think it's cool that they can hit the ball so damn far.
Simple as that.
Watch the players kids on the field - every time Pujols hit a home run his little son jumped up and down, yelling for his dad.

This year, Joe decided to watch the Derby at home.
My mother, of course, broke the cardinal rule of Sports Watching At Home* and sent my dad to bed early and made Joe go check his bag for the twentieth time for college orientation tomorrow.
Other than that, it was fairly quiet - No yelling from Joe (except for the barely inaudible screams as he continuously rose from the couch to trek up the stairs to look for travel sized toothpaste, deodorant, etc. etc. GAG), I didn't ask too many questions (Patrick now being my boyfriend I didn't have to impress him anymore), and the television was kept at a fairly low volume level.

Strange, this year.
Very strange.


*This of course being "Do Not Interrupt Anyone While Watching a Game/Event."

We might need a medic.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting the same result.

I noticed something today.

When Brett Favre is under pressure and a sack seems iminent, he usually does the same thing.
He starts by taking quick, baby like steps in any direction, all while swiveling his head looking for a teammate. This is all done whilst pleading quietly to whichever diety it is that he believes in for guidance and liberation.

Watch Mangini's face.
It's true.

He is then grabbed by a member of the opposing team, (this all happens in quick succession) and he cocks his arm, looks up to the open sky, and fires a missle straight up.
This heat-seeking missile (as mentioned a few posts below) will, undoubteldy, find a player.
That player is never a Jet.
I've seen it three times (specifically once today against the Seahawks in the 2nd Quarter).

I'm frightened.

Seahawks' head coach Mike Holmgren just seems angry.

(He looked like the Abominable Snowman during today's game.)

10 outta 10 alright.

This past Wednesday I had the pleasure of attending the Oasis concert at Madison Square Garden. This having been my first real rock concert, I wasn't exactly prepared for what I was about to experience.
Madison Square Garden (as my boyfriend excitedly explained to me as we reached section 90 after taking 6 elevator rides) has been described as the premier venue to hold such events.
Seeing as I'm a self-proclaimed Opera Nerd, I half expected there to be thousands of hand painted cherubs across the ceilings, leaving space in their simulated wonderland only for the occasional Swarovski chandelier, which would hang daintily among them, as if not to disturb their splendor.

I think I've been spending too much time at the Met.

As soon as I swallowed the idea of a giant stadium filled with maroon and teal seats and what I hoped to be a cloud of fake smoke, I couldn't wait.

The first two opening acts finally over, we sat in anticipation, waiting...and waiting…and waiting.
When the lights finally went down, we laughed as “Fuckin’ in the Bushes” rang out, loud as hell, across the stadium.
I half expected them to run out across the stage waving their arms.
But no. They just walked out like they were looking for broccoli at the grocery store like the cool mother fuckers they are.

They played songs from "Dig out Your Soul," as well as those from the album I'm most familiar with, "What's the Story (Morning Glory)."

Not only did they play their most famous songs (Wonderwall, Don't Look Back in Anger, etc.), but they did a cover of The Beatles' "I Am The Walrus" that made me feel like I wasn't just experiencing contact high.

If you know what I mean.

Not quite familiar with Oasis?

Being, basically, the “Oasis Virgin” that I am, I present to you:

Oasis For Dummies

Liam Gallagher

Wears silly glasses, sings in a nasal voice, and demands respect.

He also has HUGE feet, which were in quite nice leather shoes.

During instrumental breaks, he would stand with his feet spread wide apart, hands holding his tambourine behind his back, and his eyes scanning the audience with nary a smile on his lips.

In conclusion:

He is badass.

Noel Gallagher

Noel writes all the songs. He sings backup and plays guitar - amazingly.

In my opinion, he's got a better voice than Liam. He generally sings the ballads, but don't get me wrong - he's a rock and roll god.

During solos, he does not move.

At all.

He just stand there and rocks out. Even when he's singing. Just stands there. Doesn't move.

In Conclusion:

He is a badass.

The rest of the band

It could be these guys.

Honestly, no one cares.

Blog Whores

My boyfriend says that the best way to gain readership is by writing consistently about interesting topics, and, every once in a while, allowing a guest writer to take a crack at it.
So, here's this:

so alyssa is going to write the blog. this is alyssa

so i'm in the room, chilaxin with a weird girl who thinks she has a jew fro. she doesn't, she just does a lot of crack! we're watching judge judy right now with girls named asia and china. i swear this country is going down the tubes. pretty soon, there will be girls named taliban. good times. hopefully, those girls will not be the daughter of the writer of this blog. i'd have to have a serious talk with her, the back of my hand may intervene! i'm done with this blog, have a pleasant tomorrow!!!
yours truly!

atmc


Is anybody reading yet?

Update:
Judge Judy just rebuked the Plaintiff, saying, "Let us not play with each other, ok?"

Trust Issues

Recently I've been disturbed by something even more startling than Favre's inability to complete a pass to a member of his own team:

His Creepy Flesh Colored Beard.

Why does he keep it?

It can't possibly be keeping his chin warm - it's a bit patchy, to be honest.
I don't know how I can trust a team with a QB that can barely grow a full beard.
That, and I'm sure Mrs. Favre doesn't approve of the scratchyness.

But, hey. At least it's not as bad as this:

If ice cream cones are scary, then how does he feel about the questionable tactics of Brian Schottenheimer?

It's a 50 yard pass ... intercepted.

I have come to the conclusion that Brett Favre is like a heat-seeking missile.
He always throws to a person (even though that person is sometimes on the opposing team) and he is always accurate. His inability to avoid interceptions, however, may lead one to believe that he can not differentiate between members of his team and the other team.
He's not color blind (I googled it)*.
Therefore, I believe that his vision is actually a sensitive heat sensor, and he will fire towards any warm-looking blob.

*Saying you "googled it" makes the statement accurate automatically.


Update:
Former Jets QB Vinny Testaverde is colorblind.
Fancy that.