Gheorghe Takes a Time Machine

One score and two years ago, many of us as pre-fathers gathered on the field of battle to uphold the time-honored values of competition, cheap domestic beer, and brutal self-mocking. As I was wandering down memory lane in my emails this weekend, I came across this remembrance of 12 Angry Men and One Married Guy, legends of recreational softball, at least in our own minds. In honor of the technology of the time, this one was unspoiled by modern imagery... until Clarence dug up one gem of a picture.

An Angry Tradition 
Est. 1994 
by Les Coole 
3/14/00  

Spring, 1994. Arlington, Virginia. Thirteen men comprising a veritable softball who's who of Cliff Krug's Rolodex came together to form the newest, loudest, and - in many of their own minds, best - entrant in the Arlington Men's Softball League. Many of the necessary preparatory tasks had been fulfilled. The team jerseys would be navy blue with gold lettering, Chris Marston would wear the number 0, and John "Goofy" Fischel would be the only member of the team who wouldn't get a brand new nickname. But naming the squad was proving to be a daunting chore, for it was suspected even then that whatever tag they chose would be a moniker that would stick for years to come. Just when it looked like they would be settling for "Regency Moving & Storage," "Lumpless Gravy," or "Another Reason to Drink," a night out on the town rendered the label that would indeed stick: 12 Angry Men & a Married Guy.

The only photographic evidence of Angry Ball (1995)

Jason "Married Guy" Elliott, the lone member of the group who had tendered his resignation to bachelorhood, became the first "Married Guy" of many to come. He and the 12 Angry Men, or "Angries," as supporters took to calling them, were a rough assortment of college friends, hometown buddies, colleagues, and relatives. No by-laws or ground rules were ever written for 12 Angry Men & a Married Guy, but anyone who observed them in action could notice that they all seemed to adhere to a list of priorities that looked something like this: (1) Gather once a week to play softball with men; (2) When at all possible, consume beer before, after, or preferably during the games; (3) Heckle opponents if situations allow or call for it, but heckle teammates at all costs; (4) Try to win. Certain members of the club had their own additional demands, of course, such as Rob "Muggsy" Russell's "Jersey gets dirty by end of inning #1," or Curt "Hunter" Moore's "Decoy baserunners from the outfield every time, then gun them out or throw the ball over the backstop," or maybe even Jay "Milky" Saunders' "Round the base, then assess the situation." But no individual agendas ever superceded the team goals as listed above.

The first pair of games not only opened the season but also opened a few eyes among the Angries. Of obvious note was Whitney "Wild Thing" Lester living up to his nickname. Lester issued 41 free passes in his first 33 innings and soon gave up life on the hill for the greener pastures of left field. A more pleasant surprise was infielder/outfielder-turned-every-pitch shortstop Matt "Lefty" Weirich, who stunned his peers both by being capable of sheer wizardry with the leather and also by batting left-handed, which matched his randomly applied handle. A final eyebrow-raiser came in the form of outfielder Doug "Dog" Erney, whose lax demeanor and unkempt appearance belied a swing that prompted the use of countless back-up balls.

Such surprises complemented a stable of already familiar performers. Founding father Cliff "Fast Eddie" Krug led off the potent Angry lineup and proved to be the most versatile fielder, excelling as an infielder, then an outfielder, then a pitcher. Second baseman Russell reached base and tough grounders alike with solid consistency; speedster Tim "Lupus" Sampson turned base hits into routine outs in the outfield and routine outs into base hits on the basepaths; "Buck" Marston's lanky frame meant line drives at the plate and a huge target for infield throws. The group was rounded out by Fischel, a good hitter who turned the position of catcher into "fetcher," Mike "Flash" Pittsman, the clutch-hitting outfielder, and Cliff's older brother Scott Krug, who manned the hot corner and was soon called "Hoover."

12 Angry Men & a Married Guy, upon first glance, appeared a rag-tag bunch of would-be athletes. With all the joking and jocularity in the dugout before a game, opponents couldn't help but notice an apparent lack of concern. Of course, sometime in between the weekly umpire utterance of "Play ball!" and the premier eephus from the home team's hurler, all attentions instantly went from such game-day focus points as the post-game drinking venue (Lester), the young girls walking adjacent to the field (S. Krug), or the latest redneck joke (Moore) to all things softball. And as soon as that play ended, there would be an echo of "Nice play" or "Nice hit" hollers from the Angry Men, whether it would be sincere congratulations or facetious needling. More idle conversation and disregard for the situation at hand would ensue until the next pitch was aloft.

This effortless manner and lack of solid concentration had no real bearing on the level of Angry play. The proximity of most of the guys to their college years kept them resembling athletes and maintaining tolerances. So they were winning - much to the chagrin of the competition, who were burned by this seemingly half-hearted baker's dozen of ballplayers. The first handful of games proved only mildly successful for the club, as they jogged out of the gate to a 5-3-1 record. At that point, however, the ever-bonding team chemistry - along with the decision to let "Wild Thing" roam left field rather than spray the batter's boxes with balls - had them rolling over opponents every week. Nine straight wins closed out the season and had the Angries poised for a tournament run. At 14-3-1 with all aspects clicking, good money was on an Angry sweep. But what happened during that tournament forever changed the future of 12 Angry Men & a Married Guy.

In a display of preparation for the tourney that was fitting for the Men & Guy, all thoughts were on the scheduling conflict that had the final round intersecting with a Jimmy Buffett concert that weekend. Bribery, tournament sabotage and prayers for rain were being discussed over pitchers before the mid-week opening round games. What the fellows didn't know, though, was that there would be plenty of time for Buffett after they dropped two quick ones that night and were bounced out on their backsides. Double-elimination was disastrous, but the losses were made exponentially more painful by the sea of ineptitude that filled the executioners' rosters. With such a strong regular season record, 12 Angry Men & a Married Guy were matched up against the dregs of the league, squads who looked like dental hygienist office teams or the debate team's off-season endeavor. One of the two opposing teams, the Acid Rangers, featured a collection of middle-aged never-weres whom the Angries had handily routed twice during the regular season. The playoff game against the Acid Rangers saw more happy-birthday catches than a Chuck E. Cheese's balloon toss, more closed-eye snatches than when the lights come on at Camelot. And yet all the luck in the world couldn't explain away the two losses. What the Angry Men had been doing to other clubs all year had been done to them. They underestimated the competition and found themselves done for the season. This self-destruction in the playoffs prefaced, if not produced, a string of postseason debacles wherein the Angries have never again played a playoff game, a drought owing to Buffett shows, fishing trips, 75-degree and sunny rain-outs, and, of course, bad play.

The Angry contingent returned in the fall angrier than ever, having been unceremoniously bumped from the playoffs. But the fire, along with "Dog" Erney, among others, was missing. The club finished a mediocre 8-8 and didn't realize until the final week that there were no playoffs for Fall Ball. The season would have been void of excitement at all were it not for the managerial tactic created in the last game of the season. Having notched at least a .500 record in Game 1 of the doubleheader, and having discovered the no-postseason situation, Managers Lester and Krug decided to enact the style of positioning that would come to be known by many names: The Scramble, The Chinese Fire Drill, The One Where Every Inning the Positions Are Determined By Who Runs Out There First. This was a strategy that sometimes amused, sometimes offended, and always confused opponents.

The next spring found the team renamed as 11 Angry Men & 2 Married Guys. The 11 & 2 would become 10 & 3, then 9 & 4, and so on in future years. More of the Angry became Married every year, and more of the original 13 left the fray with each season. Relocations, job constraints, marriages, children, and general apathy all contributed to the deterioration of the once mighty Angries. The highlights still appeared, like "Fe" Lester's 75-game Iron Man Streak and "Atty" Sampson's amazing catch behind Charlie "Fungo" Carter's miscalculated charge, but they were all too few and far between.

A number of new faces did prove to be worthy additions: power-swinging 1B Chris "Twinkle Toes" Prophett, tomahawking 3B Johnny "Smokin'" Grant, jack beast OF Andy "Babe" Ruckman, and 3' or 300' C Robert "Tiny" Tinsley brought a deep threat to the Angry lineup, though all but Grant have since moved on. OF Kevin "Dirt" Lynch added hustle, a quick bat, and a huge mouth for several seasons. 1B-OF Daren "G-Love" Gutschow's and C-2B Mike "Pee Wee" Faraci provided hit after hit at the plate while IF?-OF?-DH T.J. Doyle provided laugh after laugh in the field. But the wins stopped coming for the Angry Men, and then the players stopped coming. Forfeits, which had only been feared as something the opposition might experience, had become a weekly threat by 1998. Playing with eight players, more than a slight handicap, became a regular sight at Angry games. A pair of ass-whippings but a pretty decent post-game bitch session over beers was the norm for summer Wednesdays in Arlington and Fairfax Counties. Despite the fall-off in performance, however, the attitudes on the field remained spirited, and the quick-witted barbs kept the troops coming out.

The Angry franchise hit a new low in November of 1999 when Fairfax County Adult Softball League informed them, just as Arlington had done a year earlier, that the Angries would no longer be welcome in their organization. 4 Angry Men and 9 Married Guys or any reconfiguration thereof, along with owner E. Clifford Krug, Jr. and manager Robert L. "Nap" Russell, were banned from the league for one year. Forfeits had taken their toll, though scheduling nightmares orchestrated by other members of the league had contributed to their plight this time around.

Just when the Angries had decided to rebound from what was perceived as the worst moment in team history, the club received a dose of sad reality when true disaster struck. Pitcher Chad "Hack" Price, a mainstay on the squad for several seasons, was killed in an automobile accident in March of 2000. Such a tragedy greatly overshadowed any of the Angries' other mild misfortunes. The team, shaken by his passing, dedicated the 2000 season to Chad by agreeing to don black uniforms with his initials on the sleeve. Though the Angry Men and Married Guys cannot participate as such, the entity now called the Team Formerly Known As Angry Men, or T.F.K.A.A.M. in the league ledger, will carry on the Angry tradition in 2000. Team owners in the interim will be Michael "Tricky Dick" Faraci and John "Milli" Grant, and a new dugout manager will appear in the form of Edward C. "Charlie Hustle" Krug, Jr. Whitney "Rocker" Lester will attempt to return to form after undergoing wrist surgery last season, and Rob "Napoleon" Russell will experience his first Opening Day as a Married Guy. They are all a long way from their exciting beginnings in the spring of 1994 in Arlington, Virginia. Still, whether you call them T.F.K.A.A.M., 3 Angry Men and 10 Married Guys, or simply the Angries, you'll find a renewed commitment among apathetic men, a youthful exuberance among aging bodies, and a twelve-pack of cheap suds among many, many signs clearly stating park regulations outlawing the consumption of alcohol. That same Angry spirit still flows at the ballpark, and it probably will for years and years to come.

 -------------- Freelance writer Les Coole has been following the Angries since their origin in 1994.

Tiger & I. Me. Us.

Tiger attended a Grand Opening event at Bluejack National Golf Club this past week outside of Houston. You're roving golf reporter was also present along with five or six hundred others, mainly prospective members. It was a chance to be in the presence of greatness, past greatness but greatness nonetheless. Mark O'Meara and David Feherty were also present. O'Meara is the club Ambassador - one of the principals is an old friend and past instructor for the 2-time Major winner. Feherty was brought in to make it a fun event. O'Meara and Tiger don't do fun so a good move on the club's part.
And who would've thought it would make Sports Center? It never crossed my mind until a pal of mine texted me these 2 pics...

Recognize anyone? Considering several of us have never met I'd guess the answer is no, other than Feherty. The big egg-shaped bald head is mine.

It was all-in-all an excellent event, having been to a few in my day. The event got going with Tiger & Mark O'Meara, or "Mo" to Tiger, hitting balls on the practice range, mic'd up, with each telling stories and Feherty inserting his color. Let me rephrase that - O'Meara and Feherty told stories, Tiger spoke very few syllables, and when he did it was simply to confirm something that was said, like a "yeah, that was in 1999," or a brief explanation of his current driver situation. It dawned on me later on that Bluejack couldn't just have Tiger, alone, getting through this himself. No, that would have been a snoozer. It's on the long side but here's a pretty good sample.

It's weird watching Tiger close up, thinking about what he was compared to what he is now. Watching him hit balls, sensing his discomfort with you knowing many a detail about his life while he knows nothing about you - it's an odd feeling. Despite his epically bad decision making, I feel for him.

From the video you can see that Tiger's swing looks "fine", but what the hell do we know? He was weak on his wedges and improved as he moved up in clubs. When he and O'Meara began going for the bull's eye, Tiger dialed it in. The range dips, the bull's eye sits about 20 feet off the ground, at or slightly above eye level from the range. To give yourself a good chance of hitting it you need to hit a low screamer right at it. This was fun to watch. Tiger missed by what seemed like inches on almost each attempt. He did get one hit just below the circle on the pole, dead center, just a little low. In his day, he'd hit it 3 out every 4? Certainly 1 out of every 2.

He then moved to his woods/driver - he absolutely pummeled a few, well over 300 yards even with his 3-wood. But he had his share of snipe hooks too. If any Joe Schmo had put on the demo Tiger did, you'd think, "That guy has some serious potential."

When the group headed out to play a few holes, I went to the bar. It was hot out and I was wearing dress shoes not conducive for walking great distances. So I caught up to them on their 3rd hole. There was a gallery of about 100 or so following. They were all still mic'd up. Now, the custom is for the "designer", Tiger in this case, to talk about the...design. On each tee he should give a little spiel about what he was thinking when he designed the hole, even though we know he wasn't thinking anything because he didn't really do the design but an underling on his design team did (Beau Welling). There was none of that. O'Meara's caddie even tried to tee Tiger up to talk about the par-3, 12th hole (O'Meara's caddie is one of the principals I spoke of earlier), and Tiger didn't bite. He simply responded, "great hole." period.

I stood right next to Tiger as he addressed his ball about 40 yards from a green with a good lie in the pine straw. He skulled it over the green. I was totally embarrassed for him. It was the shot a 15+ handicapper makes. On his course play, O'Meara was no less than up 3 holes and probably 4-5 strokes after the 5 holes. Tiger's got a long way go to go. I hope he gets there but I don't see it happening.

Nadir

I can't believe you people have reduced me to sourcing content from my children to satiate your need for filler and lack of initiative in posting your own. All of you should start podcasting immediately, in order to give us a more regular content stream.

One More Thing to Listen To . . .

So when you're done listening to all Rob's recommendations (I liked The Weeds) then check out the newest episode of The Test. It's short and sweet, and I guarantee you'll go through some mental gymnastics to pass.

Stacey describes some things . . . little things . . . things that you're familiar with and know how to use -- but do you know what these things are called? Can you name them?

Cunningham and I get a few, but in the end, the Voice of God has to descend from his ethereal realm and clarify a couple of things.

We also learn that jokes are funnier when you're holding a puppy.

Check it out and see how you fare.

What (One) Gheorgh(i)e Is Listening To

Generally, when we regale our reading public with the sonic salve we find ourselves jamming on repeat, we're talking about tunes. But lately, this ear has been drawn more to the talkers than the players.

I'm a sports radio commuter, and ESPN Radio is my general go-to. But lately, SiriusXM's 'The Football Show' has been making a run for my morning loyalty. It features a somewhat-rotating cast of characters, but former New York Metrostars general manager and soccer raconteur Charlie Stillitano gets a lot of run, as does veteran broadcaster Phil Schoen and former Chelsea voice Neil Barnett.

But it's the singular voice of Ray Hudson that keeps me tuned in. The former Newcastle man also played in the NASL with Fort Lauderdale and Tampa Bay, and coached the Miami Fusion and DC United of MLS, but he was made to talk about soccer. He's by turns erudite and lunatic in his evocative use of the language and his unbridled passion for the game. He's also got one of U.S. sports' most distinctive accent, his Wearside brogue a lilting, careening thing.

Check out this compilation of his greatest broadcasting hits from 2007. I can't think of an equivalent in American sports, unless you gave Gus Johnson a thesaurus, the compiled works of the greatest English authors, a Geordi lilt, and an eight-ball of coke.



If Hudson gets me to work, then I'm happy to have Bomani Jones to take me home. His voice is distinctive both in the way it sounds and the things it says. In a sports radio landscape long dominated  by polished, stentorian, mostly white voices, Jones' patois is sui generis, an artifact of his Atlanta/Houston upbringing.

He's also smart as hell, with masters degrees in economics from both Claremont and North Carolina. A former music critic, he seamlessly mixes sports with politics, race, and popular culture in a style that's unlike anything else on the radio. There aren't many people in sports radio that teach me things on a regular basis, but Bomani Jones is one of them. And I'm not learning something, I'm at least thinking about things in a different way - Jones' comparison of Allen Iverson to Tupac Shakur drew on literary, cultural, and sporting allusions in framing both men in ways totally new to me.

He called into his own show from a vacation in France to talk about Prince's passing, and wrote an insightful remembrance on Playboy.com. He's a renaissance man in a Victorian era.



Dumb racists hate him, too, as is in frequent evidence on his Twitter feed, which is a one-man trolling session for people who aren't smart enough to realize that they're being manipulated like puppets.

Lots of people listen to music when they run, but I find myself needing something upon which I can concentrate, rather than background and beats. Men in Blazers has been my go to for some time, but recently I've taken a wonky turn.

Vox.com's The Weeds podcast is, admittedly, a nerd-fest, a political, legislative and public policy deep dive leavened with the occasional f-bomb and self-mockery from co-hosts Matthew Yglesias and Ezra Klein. But on a weekly basis, it digs way deeper than the usual media fare on a one or two subjects. Dave would be interested in the March 25 episode, which tunnels into public education policy. That is, if Dave has any time left over after 24/7 recordings of his own podcast.

It's not all been radio and podcasts, for sure. Since my kids don't suffer my interest in sports radio, I have a chance to catch up on the pop music. Aside from the new, dark, and predictably great (his first-ever Billboard number one, even if that's only in the vinyl listings) Bob Mould record, SiriusXM has been playing live and recorded sets from Coachella 2016 and earlier festivals. Gheorghies will dig hard on the Run the Jewels set from last weekend, but The Arcs, Foals, and CHVRCHES also delivered. None moreso than Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats, though. Those dudes are for real as a live act.

What am I missing out on, people of Gheorghe?

Rest in Purple

I'm not remotely qualified to write about Prince. His musical and cultural impact is difficult to overstate. I remember exactly where I was when I heard that Michael Jackson had died. I'd argue that Prince's musical legacy is greater.

It's hard to put into words how revolutionary Purple Rain sounded when it dropped. To this then-14 year-old, it was a complete revelation, from the sprint start of 'Let's Go Crazy' to the lovesick pop of 'Take Me With U', the blush-inducing (for a way too innocent suburban kid) 'Darlin Nikki' all the way through the sublime 'I Would Die 4 U' to the transcendent title track. That shit opened my eyes in ways music really hadn't before.



The little purple dude's Super Bowl halftime show set the standard by which those things should be judged, and his musical influence impacts us today in ways we don't even know. He put out a critically acclaimed record just last year - there's no telling how much great music we'll never hear now. He was, to use a cliche, a force of nature.

My favorite Prince track isn't one of the big ones, at least by his standards, but I've always loved it:


Prince  Seven by jeetprince7

Game over, Blouses.

Pearl

When I think of the golden age of the Big East, I don't think of Hoya Paranoia, or the Chris Mullin St. John's teams. I think of Pearl Washington.

The Pearl passed today after battling a brain tumor since last year. RIP to one of the giants of the college game.

Now go do...that voodoo...that YOU do...SO WELL...

The Bat Filler Signal was sent out this morning by our diminutive dictator...and hours later I am answering the call. With the only filler I am ever capable of posting.

That's right, folks...the internet just keeps churning out these Muppets Mashups, and I keep posting 'em.

The Test 45: Borderline Insanity

I had an insanely productive Sunday today, and I'd like to commemorate it here at G:TB. In no particular order, I accomplished these tasks:

1) switched the laundry
2) purchased fifteen bags of black mulch (on sale) at Home Depot
3) did the dishes and cleaned the sink
4) swept and vacuumed
5) hung two hooks (for hats)
6) went for a forty-five minute run (with the dog)
7) coached a soccer game
8) watched my other son play in a soccer game (two victories!)
9) gave the dog a bath
10) helped my wife carry in the groceries
11) edited the newest episode of The Test

While I am very proud of all the tasks I accomplished on this beautiful and sunny Sunday, the only one you need to concern yourself with is the newest episode of The Test. I'm rarely this straightforward but:

YOU MUST LISTEN TO THIS EPISODE!

I introduce the topic with a musical riddle, and Stacey and Cunningham give it the old college try, but things go down a dark road fairly quickly. There's depression, disgust, self-reflection, and plenty of geography. If you haven't listened yet, this is the one to start with. If you're a fan, you'll love it.

So give it a shot . . . what's the worst thing that could happen? The only thing on the line is your self-esteem.

We Have to Play Football

(This is another in a seemingly endless string of mini-posts by your local mini-blogger. Working on my stamina.)

FIFA, as you may have heard, is a giant cesspool of a clusterfuck. Or was, in the hopes of soccer fans the world over after the U.S. Department of Justice catalyzed a long overdue purging of the governing body's senior leadership. U.S. Attorney General Loretta Lynch's probe into FIFA's corruption not only shook up the organization's calcified management, it ushered in a new era of governance and transparency*.

* for now

Whether or not that asterisk remains is largely dependent upon whether new FIFA boss Gianni Infantino is being honest about his intent and is capable of seeing through the significant changes he's already put into motion. In a terrific interview with Sports Illustrated's Grant Wahl this week, the Swiss native held forth on his plans.

We are playing football!

"It’s not anymore the executive committee—or the FIFA Council, as it will be called—taking the shots on the commercial contracts and on the distribution of revenues for the contracts," said Infantino, with delightful syntax. "The administration for the distribution will be a specific committee that will be independent members in the development committee, in the finance committee. These are all things which in 111 years in the history of FIFA have never happened."

In response to Wahl's question about how he would restore FIFA's image in the eyes of the growing American fan base, Infantino said:

"By showing with facts rather than with words that I am a true football fan, to start with, that I’m genuinely interested in running this organization in a transparent way, a modern way, a professional way. That I’m genuinely interested in bringing people to speak about football when they speak about FIFA. This has to go through the whole reform process that we are implementing now in terms of transparency and good governance. But these are things which go without saying. We have to show with facts that we are doing it. And once we are doing it, and we have started now, we can again focus on speaking about football. When people start again associating FIFA with football, then we’ve won the trust of the people back. I expect people to judge me and my actions with the results of what I’m doing—and not with any other happenings that other people did maybe misusing FIFA’s name in the past."

The former second chair at UEFA also held forth on the growth of the women's game, his support of more use of replay technology in soccer, and the expansion of the World Cup. But what won my support were two things more prosaic and telling about the man's priorities. Wahl's introduction to the piece found Infantino at a bar in Manhattan, where he went by himself to watch the UEFA Champions League quarterfinals. Then, in the interview, Infantino describes one of his first acts as FIFA President:

"The things I’m most happy about is I said I wanted to bring football back to FIFA and FIFA back to football. So the first thing that I organized on a Monday—and it was bloody cold!—was a football match. But it was great fun. And to have so many of these star players come, I wouldn’t have dreamed about it. I remember the Friday night after the election, I said I wanted to do this on my first day in office. So I was asking my colleagues: Bring your shoes on Monday, we have to play football. Then on Saturday I called a couple, and they called each other, and on Sunday about 20 top players, men and women, came and it was great."

Can you imagine Roger Goodell calling his colleagues and saying, "We have to play football"?

Viva Infantino.

Kobe is a George

Kobe Bryant is undeniably one of the greatest players in NBA history, and one of the most electric athletes American sports has ever seen. I've never been a huge fan, but it's impossible not to respect his achievements, and his will to win.

He's being lauded today at the end of his career, after closing the book on that amazing run with a 60-point effort against the Utah Jazz. Sixty points is an incredible tally. 

Equally incredible is the 50 shots he required to reach it. Since 1983, only one player has taken 50 or more shots in a game. Even I can do that math.

Kobe, meet George. (Not Gheorghe.) George, Kobe.

I think I found the right 911

A few weeks ago I asserted that I will someday own a Porsche 911 but that I wasn't sure which one. I think I found the right one.

There's a British guy named Rob Dickinson who lives in LA and owns a company called Singer Vehicle Design. I'd say that Singer modifies 911s, but that's kind of like saying Michaelangelo painted ceilings. Singer turns old 911s into rolling art. Specifically, 911s made between 1989 and 1994. These are known as 964s and they occupy a special place in Porschephiles' hearts. They have the traditional air-cooled (as opposed to the heretical water-cooled) flat six engine and rear trailing arm suspension, and they were the first 911 to feature a coil-sprung suspension and a speed-activated rear wing. The headlights and windshield are also much more upright than newer models. All this means that they are a sweet blend of classic 911 characteristics with a few modern nods.

Singer then tears them apart and replaces the body with carbon fiber pieces that evoke 911 styling cues from the late 60s and early 70s. Every detail is compulsively scrutinized and perfected. The interior is sublime. Even the oil and fuel caps are beautiful. They also put in a new engine. You have three options, all air-cooled flat sixes, making 270, 350, or 390 horsepower. Expect to spend about $390,000 for the big bronski. Not a typo.

It's probably worth it. Here's the interior of a RHD Singer sold to someone in Manchester.

That houndstooth pattern is not fabric. It's strips of woven leather. Here's a closer look.

Note that the tachometer goes up to 11 because ... Spinal Tap.

They all look perfect no matter the color. Here's one in pistachio green and it's spectacular.



That said, if you're going to get one of these you really need to get some funky 70s color. Black or silver or white are colors for a Honda Odyssey, and these Singers deserve better. The Manchester car's interior is the best in their online gallery and the exterior color is beyond reproach. I'm not even sure if it's yellow or green or some other previously unseen hue. I want it in my life. And yes, it has Fuchs wheels.

This racing blue Singer sold to someone in Dubai has minimal interior carpeting, flaunting the zippy paint all over the interior.

And if you really want to see (and hear) the goods, fast forward to the 2:55 mark in this video.



I unfortunately do not foresee having the wherewithal to buy a $390,000 car so I'll have to get by with salivating over the Singer website. Unless we can figure out a way to make some money off of this whole blogging thing ...

Dig This

I've got a new boss. He's farther up my ass than my proctologist. Life, professionally anyway, kinda sucks for a minute. Life, as it does, will get better. I'm blessed in too many ways to count, so I'm not here to complain. But my blogging productivity factor (blopf) is far lower than usual, for which I apologize.

To make it up to you, enjoy this shit from Wild Belle. It's got some Janis Jopin, Edward Sharpe, hipster/beatnik weirdness going on, and I like it.

Who Will Speak For the Trees? Dave Will Speak for the Trees . . .

On this week's episode of The Test, not only do I speak for the trees, but I also speak for the birds and the salmon and the people who don't like to get their hands damp so they can't do the dishes. In other words, I read seven excerpts from famous literary works about nature, and-- despite their initial complaints-- the ladies do fairly well identifying what's what.

Not only that, but Stacey invents a new slogan for Trump, and Norman is fondly remembered.

Give it a shot and see how you fare.

Tell your mother tell your father send a telegram, Phife Dawg left us with one more bangin jam

As you may have read previously, Phife was working on a new album at the time of his death. I don't know if it will ever be released in its entirety, but the single "Nutshell" appeared on the internet yesterday. It features a beat by J Dilla, who died over 10 years ago. That my favorite hiphop song of 2016 features the work of two dead artists probably says something about the evolution (or lack of evolution) of my musical tastes. I think the brief interviews framing the song were recorded at a memorial event, while the "thank you" notes at the end were written by Phife. Here it is.

Daughters of Anarchy

We welcome back our favorite purveyor of footie features, Fat Guy in a Speedo, who eschews the incredible story playing out at the top of the Premier League for major news closer to home. We find ourselves agreeing in full with the move recently made by the best national side in the US of A.

This week four highly respected players of the U.S. Women’s National Team and Hope Solo filed a wage discrimination lawsuit against U.S. Soccer, the governing body in ‘M(m?)erica. The women argue that while representing the country on the pitch they earn roughly 40% of what the men garner despite the fact they are vastly more successful. U.S. Soccer argues that the men generate more revenue though attendance and TV rights and testicular acreage (Ed Note: U.S. Soccer may argue this, but they've got a bigger issue here. The governing body's own data suggests that the distaff Nats will actually generate more profit over the next two years than their counterparts with external genitalia). Two plausibly reasonable arguments that might result in a bit of a shitstorm given the way the payscales of the two teams are vastly different. 

In addition to qualifiers, both teams are obligated to play 20 exhibition “friendlies” per year for which the women are paid a base of $72,000 and a $1,350 bonus if they win. The men are guaranteed $5,000 and bonuses up to $8,000 for a win depending on the rank of their opponents. If the men beat Spain or Germany they make $18,156 while the women would make $4,950 for a similar victory. In other words, if the women win all 20 international friendlies they take home $99,000, if the men lose all 20 they take home $100,000. The women argue similar disparities in pay for competition play and even note a per diem discrepancy for national  ($50 women/$62.50 men) and international duties ($60w/75m). 

U.S. Soccer contends that the women collectively bargained for and approved this payout scale. The suit stems from the fact that this agreement expired in 2012 and U.S. Soccer contends a 2013 MOU extended it to which the union disagrees. I’m not a lawyer although I play one on two of my resumes and this case raises a number of financial, social and ethical questions. A few that come to mind:

Why would U.S. Soccer structure such disparate payscales for each team?

Is it true that the per diem discrepancy is because the men need to eat more food?

Do the U.S. Paralympic soccer teams have even lower per diems since they ostensibly require even less nutrition than the USMNT and USWNT?

Who are Rory and Joey Feek and why is my news feed continually spammed since one of them died?

Given that soccer is the only major sport in the U.S. where the men and women’s team each has a dedicated fan base (USWNT averages 12K attendees per game versus men’s 28K) does U.S. Soccer have any obligation to structure pay equality based on performance? Women’s soccer is relatively new with fewer teams, since it’s inception in 1991 the U.S. women have won three World Cups. The men are average at best and never will win the big Cup (Ed Note: Never is a long time. We made the quarters as recently as X years ago. I bet we win one in the lifetime of at least one of us.). As a biased fan of the women’s team I say, “give ‘em hell girls!” But seriously, some of the top sports headlines of 2015 included the USWNT, Serena Williams and Ronda Rousey. Equal pay for equal work and play might make us look a tad less troglodytic to future generations.

In case my wife stumbles upon this blog I think a handy is in order by someone other than yours truly.

Fuck Right Off