the end of softball season

Softball season is finally over, for both my girls and the ladies.

My girls team basically sucked, and I mean that with the utmost affection. Eleven and twelve-year-old girls are just simply whacked. Some are tomboys, some are girly girls, some would love to be anywhere but on the softball field, some are all enthusiasm and effort but still suck, and some are the divas who think they play well but don't. They actually improved as the season went on, however.

I managed them this year because none of their parents would. One player's dad helped me out sometimes, but really: these girls wouldn't have played if I hadn't coached them. And I said at the beginning, if one gal got through the season wanting to play next year, then I did my job.

So I keep it together during the last game. They play ok, but we lose. No biggie.

I give them each a silver softball angel charm and some Dubble Bubble. They gather in the dugout for my final words.

"Ok," I say. "Let me just say that it has been..."

Choke. Splutter.

"...an honor and a privilege..."

Sniff. Snort.

"...to have coached you this year."

Turn around, walk to the pitcher's mound, collect my thoughts, hold my head back so whatever tears are there will suck back into my eyeballs. Return to dugout.

"Ok, as I was saying. You gals have been the best..."

Splutter.

Anyway, I choke out whatever stupid final last parting thoughts I wanted to say, which I'm pretty sure the girls had already tuned out by that time.

But wait. Here's the team diva, getting up to give me a hug, looking teary-eyed. Here's one of the tomboys, a big galoot of a gal; she comes up, sniffling, gives me a hug, and says "I'm never letting you go."

Here's Taylor--who had never played before, who beamed each time she had the weakest of hits--who clinches it:

"I want to play again next year. Are you going to coach?" Follows with hug.

"Maybe," I say. "If you'll play on my team."


NJ State Champs, 1978

sex education

I depend on the show Rescue Me to keep me informed of current sexual practices and mores, since I'm apparently woefully behind the curve. It's completely sexist to the point of misogyny, but I love it anyway. Denis Leary wrote himself about 1000 sex scenes in the first season, but has thankfully eased up some. C'mon, he's nearly 50. Do we really want to see him having all that sex?

Last night's episode referred to one's "spank bank." I understood what it meant, but I'd never heard the term before. Am I really that out of it? Or perhaps I just don't spank it enough to warrant having an entire bank to store the necessary visual cues. Maybe I just need a "spank jar."

A couple of seasons ago, the gang was talking about the Venus butterfly technique. This was in fact referenced from L.A. Law years before (yes, I looked it up), but I'd never heard of it before. This technique is pretty involved, and I'll assume the gentle reader knows what it entails. There's so much going on at the major orifices and hot spots that it's almost like working on a car engine, or performing major surgery.

And while I appreciate the detailed attention that a woman's genitalia--and other regions--receives during the technique, how the HELL can you relax with all that going on? It's almost too focused and detached, intended only to elicit orgasm without all the other fun stuff that goes with it. I can imagine a car mechanic, fiddling with wires and knobs and bolts and hollering into the engine, "COME already, for crissakes! What the hell else do I have to DO?"

Not that there's anything wrong with that. As long as the guy doesn't insist on cuddling afterward.

separated at birth

I just had a thought today--hey, it happens--and forgive me if someone else has already noticed this similarity. If you remember Max Headroom, you'll realize even their voices are similar.

whack job

I heard the Sopranos series finale was last night.

Here's what I know about the Sopranos: the main mob guy was Tony. Little Steven was also in it, which doesn't sound like a very intimidating mob-type name. Not like Philip "Chicken Man" Testa (who inspired Bruce Springsteen’s song Atlantic City, which opens with the lines “Well they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night/Now they blew up his house too”) or Harry "the Hump" Riccobene, two real-life mobsters in Philadelphia. Apparently, one did not address Harry by his nickname, or his other nickname, "the Hunchback," without fear of some gruesome reprisal.

One other thing I know about the Sopranos: there's a Tony Sopranos pizza joint in nearby Deptford. There's gotta be some copyright infringement going on there.

Evidently, I'm the only person in the country who never saw one fuckin' groundbreaking episosde of the Sopranos. Not a one. The only reason I know it's over is because of this ridiculous hue and cry about how lame the last episode was. Waaaaah. Cancel HBO and get on with your lives, nitwits.

Nevertheless, I do feel a little out of the loop, and yearned--just a little--to get in on some of this hip mob action. How to do that now? Hmmmm. I know! I want a name! A mob name!

I was happy to see that anyone can get a cool mob name, and you don't even need membership. Mine's "The Butcher." What's yours?