Reprinted from a ranting email I sent last week (to a friend, not the borough prez):

Dear Marty Markowitz,

Congratulations on your shit-for-brains hard-fought victory. You've got your sign. Way to go! Now, if you could devote some attention to the ongoing campaign to destroy your borough by one hideous, ill conceived and wrought boondoggle after another, that would be nice.

Cordially,

Adair Iacono

The bad news (from my perspective), is that the Yankees lost--lost UGLY--the decisive game in the ALDS and are heading home for the winter. It was a weird but rewarding season, and I'm not one of the outraged fans who feel that the season is a waste of time if they don't win the World Series. But it still would've been nice if they'd lost while actually playing well; they may have lost anyway, since it's not as though the Angels dumbassed their way into the postseason, but it wouldn't have been such a depressing Game 5 to watch. Also, one prefers for one's favored team to be defeated by a team without a rally monkey in its sordid past. Alas. The Angels played well, the Yankees did not.

Now, I have to figure out how much of the remaining postseason I can stand to watch. Generally, I like watching baseball regardless of whether I have a rooting interest--live, on ESPN, on local TV, or even the Braves on TBS. But man, without the extra pull of needing to see how my favorite team fares, I don't know how much of Fox's Tim McCarver and Joe Buck I can endure.

Usually, when somebody sounds like Gomer Pyle, it's superficial; they're smart people who happen to share an accent with some fictional TV boob. But McCarver . . . oh, god, McCarver. I'm convinced he's to blame for 85% of Northern stereotypes about the South. The rambling anecdotes when the goddamn play is unfolding, the stupid pronouncements (personal favorite: a walk is as bad as a home run), and the fact that HE CAN'T TALK (what the fuck is a "splate", Tim?) . . . it's all too much. Joe Buck, meanwhile, is a fucking parody unworthy of further comment.

And it's not like the rest of the staff is loaded with aces: these are the people who called the Astros the Expos while they clinched their NLDS. But the worst of all their offenses came in the Angels-NYY series: the goddamn "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" music video WITH FAKE KID HANDWRITING AND MISTY GRAPHICS that Fox made of a montage of wild Vlad Guerrero swings. THEY PLAYED IT WHILE PEOPLE WERE ON BASE AND THE NEXT AT BAT WAS CONTINUING. Because what baseball fans need isn't information on what's happening, it's a toddler video that looks like a douche ad.

In summary: though I regret the Yankees' loss, it has--in enabling me to tune out of future playoff games when I need to--at least kept my blood from shooting out of my eyeballs.

Courtesy of Maura, a genius who knows everything and finds the best links the moment they hit the Internet:

Tim McCarver Must Die

(Click here to see in context.)

One of the best things about publishing is that almost everybody goes into it for the right reasons. No one expects to make heaps of money; everyone just wants to do his or her part to further a worthwhile endeavor.

That is rather idealistic, of course, and that leads to one of the other best things about publishing: the manifold ways that disappointed idealism manifests itself.

A case in point: the recently profiled rapping ascendance of a former colleague. Awesome. Listen here.

This totally inspires me to get over the fact that I am the worst guitar player in the history of humankind--seriously, my midget sausage fingers can't stretch far enough to make any of the damn chords, and I am demonstrating about zero natural ability in all areas of songwriting and performance--and get going on my first Adairdevils album. (Tentative title: Sympathy for the Greeting Card Industry.) I half want to just buy a microphone and see how horrible I can be in GarageBand. Oh, Apple, you foster creativity in the most dangerous areas.

Until today, I had a very clear ranking in my bum stories (bums being homeless people who harass others, not homeless people in general). They were:

#1: Winter 2001-2. Lunch hour, walking along 25th St, returning to office. Homeless lady walks up to me, kicks me in the shin, tells me, "watch your white ass"

#2: Winter 2002-3. Waiting on bench on a crowded downtown NQRW platform at 34th St. Suddenly, I am hugged from behind and have to bellow and push to be released. Homeless man spends remainder of time following me up the platform as bystanders give me "if he touches you again, I'll help, but for now . . " looks; he explains that he thought I was Lucia, but I am prettier, though she is not as fat as I am. Nice. Even crazy guys who reek of pee have something to say about my ass. He does not follow me on the train, though, so it's over.

. . . OR WAS IT?

This morning, who should walk onto the Q train at Canal St. but Crazy Huggy Homeless Guy. And what should he do but once again fix on me? He stood beside me singing a song of his own devising. It went:

I love you barely
I'm hooked on your love

over and over again.

So my question: does encountering the Huggy Bum again elevate story #2 to first place?

Go read "Afterward", an Edith Wharton story that finds its horror quietly.