Meanwhile, I'm utterly devoid of creative energy, thanks in part to the New York Mets, Guinness Extra Stout (which delivers said results), rainy days on the east coast, an exercise routine with as much fruition as Chinese Democracy, the first three seasons of "Taxi" on DVD, the Rugby World Cup on TiVo, a roadie-like regimen of rock and roll shows attended lately, and quite simply, having "the dummies."
Excuses, yes, and bad ones. We'll try to saddle up once again next week after destroying more brain cells this weekend in Williamsburg, VA. In truth, there's no good reason for our lollygagging around the blogosphere. We just need to get back to basics. What do we at G:TB write about? Sports, a lot of the time. Everything from Yankees-Red Sox to Brian Boitano and back. Movies and TV, good and very, very bad. Music, pop culture, news of the weird, politics when necessary, alcohol, drugs, sex, scientology, photosynthesis, Esperanto, Sorrell Brooke, Robert Wuhl, Paul Simonon, William Blake, William Blake?, William 
Blake, Bernie Goetz, Gabriela Sabatini, Jif vs. Skippy, the hanging curveball, high fiber, good scotch, Urkel, Mondale/Ferraro, hamburgers, Hanburger, moustaches, haiku, MRSA, Daisy Fuentes, drinking games, Evel Knievel, the sweet spot, softcore pornography, long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days, and, once a week, O.J. Simpson. The point is, there's never been any rhyme or reason to the body of work we've thrown out there at Gheorghe, so there's no point in poring over the the suitability of anything. Just write it.This is a very simple game, this blogging. You write the post, you post the post, they read the post. Sometimes your jokes hit. Sometimes they miss. Sometimes . . . Blogger eats them.
In lieu of any real commentary today, I'll resort to some gossip-mongering, tattling, and betraying a friend's confidence. A couple of weeks ago I was wolfing down a chiliburger and splitting a few pitchers with one Thomas J. "Teejay" Maloyle -- "drunch," as he semi-cleverly put it. While I was goading him about not having taken in each side-splitting second of Yacht Rock on the interweb, Teej let it slip that he hadn't seen a certain baseball film of some note. For 100 Gheorghe-bucks (redeemable at a Gheorghe-o-mat near you), name the baseball movie TJ has not seen:
Fever Pitch
Mr. 3000
Air Bud - Seventh Inning Fetch
Summer Catch
Major League 3: Back to the Minors
Ed
Mr. Baseball
Shagging Flies: The Horsehide Whore
The Kid from Left Field
Angels in the Outfield
Bull Durham
Okay, I don't know which of the first 10 on there he saw or not; all I know is that
TJ has never seen Bull Durham.
Mon dieu.
It's . . . it's like you know someone, and then you find out that after all these years, there's a deep, dark secret he's been keeping. Tajikhistan, you have some 'splaining to do, my friend. Until you take in one of the greatest movies of all time (according to me), I don't know you.
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