Postcard to A Lost Weekend II. 05.13.03
Oh, my head.
Rhinegold, you come back with a kick in the mornings, when I am laid out on my friend’s couch, reaching for a conveniently placed cup of water.
But, Rhinegold, buddy—what is this laying in front of us? A copy of Moneyball, the book about Billy Beane and his baseball genius featuring a section that might as well be called, “how I made Steve Phillips drop his pants and hand me one of his testes garnished with a lemon.” Ah, Steve Phillips. You have managed to sell the Mets’ player assets at “I need to win now!!” prices. Meaning New York received the pleasure of Billy Taylor and other such washed up players.
Thank you for making the New York Mets’ impatience into a piece of art. Not that Mr. Phillips is the only victim on the skewer. But he is there.
And I can’t stop reading about the man who mounts an occasional challenge to the Yankees' evil empire. Even though I need to leave and wash and go to Linner’s “it’s my birthday” barbecue. This is what Saturdays are made for—lazy ass reading and wondering what was the name of the beer truck that hit you.
Rhinegold, you play rough but I love ya.
Yours With Cottonmouth.