You Miss a Day

Jesus.  You miss a day and your blog hits go to shit.  Sorry, people.  I was...not feeling well.  And we had our home inspection to do.  Kids are a little germ factories, petri dishes, my allergies were a bitch, and it was a cold, gray, rainy Monday.  Plus, I pulled my fucking hamstrings, like, totally blasting my legs yesterday, and, well, I didn't get the chance to post anything.

I suppose I should thank my fans for missing me.  And by "fans," I mean, in no particular order, Sean, Esther, Shawn, Jimmy, and Justine.  I always thought having a blog was stupid, and I still think it is stupid, but it's nice to know someone gives a shit about what I am writing (even if one of them has to because she is the mother of my kid and will forever pay for calling one of my novels "formulaic.")

On to today's musings, observations, etc.

• I plan on devoting an entire post to this at a later date when I can finish the fucking thing, but let me go on record as saying, thus far (and thus alienating at least half my fans), that Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is immensely overrated.  And by using the adjective "immensely," I am woefully understating.  I get that Eggers is an indie darling, I know we all loved the book Where the Wild Things Are as kids, and that hipsters like to assign weight to Away We Go that doesn't exist.  But Eggers' screenplay treatment of Wild Things is eminently unwatchable, and Away We Go is trite, even if that guy from The Office has a beard.  I'm not saying Eggers sucks or is completely undeserving (i.e., Junot Diaz), just to bastardize a quote from Harvey Keitel's Mr. Wolf, "Let's not starting sucking Eggers' dick just yet."  He wrote a sprawling, though decent, autobiography that should've been edited down to half its size.  And he's done two crappy movies.  Which puts him somewhere between M. Night Shamalayn and that Shamwow Guy in terms of promoting our cultural enlightenment.

• In other news...  Yeah, it's buried here, but I am buying a house.  My first house.  I am forty.  I inherited a condo when my mom died, which I shared with my brother and sister, but this house is all mine, my money, my loan.  It is pretty exciting.  And I am grateful...to God.  For keeping me alive long enough to have a son, and for helping me see that he's taken care of.  Nothing particularly clever here.  I just love that kid like nothing else, and I am indebted to the Big Man for giving me the tools and shit to give that kid a good chance to succeed.  More on my return to having a polite dinner with my ex (God) at a later date.  (There's your daily gratitude list, Petersen.)

• Spring training has started, which would be cause for celebration, except my team sucks.  Justine told me nobody would want to read about my love of sports on my blog, which means I now have to write something about my love of sports on my blog.  Football season is over, which means my fantasy team, Chicks with Dicks, is on hiatus for the next six months.  Which should free me to follow my Yankees.  Except that thinning-haired douchebag, glorified intern GM, fucked up my team. How the fuck do you have a $200 million payroll and fail to secure a front-of-the-line starter?  Yeah, Cliff Lee turned them down.  But there have been over eight "aces" moved in the last few years, none of whom have landed in the Yankees' lap.  You want to protect a farm?  Fine. But that takes "patience," and ain't nobody paying $3,500 a seat to watch patience.  Fix the problem, Cashman, or go back to filling coffee orders and reading manuscripts, or whatever interns at the Yankees do.