So I was a little out of the loop this weekend ... rum will have that effect on you. I must thank Ryan and Matt for three days of drunken fun, and I must thank some divine power that allowed me to work two out of the three of those days. So basically, between the working and the drinking, I haven't had a lot of spare time to blog. I guess this is what it feels like to lead the daily life of the Jack Nicholson character from "Five Easy Pieces."
I did, as perhaps you've noticed, have time to jam more ads into this space, so I hope you don't mind my blatant attempt to squeeze money out of this enterprise. Yes, that's right, even someone with as many communist ties as me has to resort to capitalism at times. It's a brutal world we live in.
Speaking of consumption, I'm currently consumed with thoughts of taking over a rotisserie baseball team. As you may know, I swore off fantasy sports years ago when I realized it's only a slightly more accepted form of dungeons and dragons. Despite the fact the only time I played dungeons and dragons as a kid I was propositioned by a sneakily attractive woman who I believe is now in the New York Philharmonic, it's still a pastime for nerdy agoraphobics who are afraid to come out of their parents' basements. And fantasy sports is still for the same sort of loser who on top of it all enjoys watching sweaty men run around for 18 hours a day.
So I resisted the beckoning of current and former sports-writing colleagues to sign up for their leagues and was unceremoniously booted from a NASCAR league for non-participation. I consider the latter one of the most affirming moments ever for my sense of good taste. I just couldn't go on knowing I was a NASCAR fantasy owner. It was just totally incongruous with the rest of my identity, and was like walking around in an Armani suit with a mullet. Not good.
But my friend Alan has come to me with an offer I can't refuse. Alan joined a fantasy baseball league for the first time this season, and just to show everyone that years of exploring the world outside his parents' basement have given him superior intellect, he's in first place. And he's not obsessed with the team either, like most pencil-necked fantasy geeks are ... he talks about his pitching rotation, sure, but he still remembers the name of his two-year-old daughter. Seriously, Alan is a worldly, grounded fellow, and if he can manage to keep a fantasy team at arm's length, so can I. Especially since the team I'm supposed to inherit is in second place and there's only two months left in the season. Its original owner drafted well before he went AWOL, and it's really the perfect fantasy sports situation to step into: low commitment, good buddy with high cool quotient in the league, and commissioner with ties to Phillies management.
So don't expect this blog to become a daily wailing wall for concerns about Jake Peavy's ERA and A-Rod's power slumps. I promise I won't open up a poll on whether I should trade a surplus starting pitcher for J.J. Putz. If I do, please remind me that I used to be this urbane writer with his own apartment, a witty and intriguing sensibility about current geopolitical events and a rich life full of friends who could care less what Hunter Pence's slugging percentage is and think Coco Crisp is a cereal.
Which reminds me, I think Crisp is due for a big August ... I wonder if the guy who owns him needs bullpen help ...