After a very long and unplanned hiatus, I’ve returned to the keyboard. With less fanfare and more humility than A-Rod, but I’m back nonetheless. It wasn’t a case of writer’s block that kept me at bay this time. I’ve just been real busy, dealing with a lot of distractions, maybe a little ADD going on, continued frustrations with the Mets, an unhealthy preoccupation with the Jets’ QB “battle royale,” etc.
Actually, maybe it was writer’s block, but that’s all past me now. At least for another week or so.
I really have little to say of substance about the Mets. Other than Harvey, who has saved this season from total irrelevance with his mastery on the mound, there’s not much to get revved up about. The pitching overall holds promise for the future – Gee has had a nice turnaround and Wheeler’s raw but you still look forward to seeing him every fifth day or so – but the offense is just a blender full of mismatched ingredients. Yes, they play hard, may finish within ten games of .500 (amazing!) and even grab second place in the surprisingly shitty NL East. But in the middle of another hazy August, I can only get so excited about the likes of Juan Lagares, Omar Quintanilla, Anthony Recker and Josh Satin. Now if Travis D’Arnaud (remember him?) starts tearing it up and reminds us just a teeny bit of Mike Piazza, and Wilmer Flores shows a bit of Edgardo Alfonzo in his game, I may start feeling more giddy about the future. Assuming, of course, Bobby Parnell (who I’m actually learning to like, kind of) recovers from his neck injury and Sandy Alderson convinces (cons?) us that he really will spend the money that the Wilpons may or may not have in the offseason, and they stick with Terry Collins because the thought of Teufel at the helm bores me and Backman in charge scares me (but in a fun, masochistic sort of way).
Okay, so I had more than a little to say about the Mets. But that’s it. I’ll now offer my obligatory take on A-Rod. And Anthony Weiner. Yes, the two of them together.
Other than physical appearance, these two clowns actually have a lot in common. Their careers circling the drain simultaneously under the bright lights of Broadway, they have hijacked the headlines (and the joke writers) this summer. Both guilty of various indiscretions, both embarrassments to the New York institutions they represent (the Yankees) or foolishly hope to represent (the Mayoralty), and both the very embodiment of hubris. Why can’t these guys just own up to their wrongdoings and cease prancing around expecting everyone to look the other way from their personal train wrecks?
Maybe it’s because they have no clue what it is they’ve dome to offend so many? Yes, maybe.
Earlier this summer, another noisy disruption invaded the New York area in the form of cicada swarms, who like Weiner, can’t keep their overactive libidos out of the public realm. But the cicadas have the good sense to shut up and disappear — for 17 years! — when they’re done doing their thing.
So maybe A-Rod and Weiner should make like cicadas and go underground for a while. A long while.
Off the Foul Pole 