May 14th, 2009
After a sojourn in Switzerland, where he picked fights with a half-dozen cuckoo clock scions, thus, reversing their neutrality policy, Sandro Colacicco has returned.
Baseball players are historically known as partiers. After all, it’s one of the only sports where you can actually show up to work hung over and do a good job. Baseball is also surrounded with people from all over the country with different criteria for their job—JD Drew apparently never drinks because he thinks Jesus will hate him, and Wade Boggs was rumored to have drank 30 beers on a cross country plane ride. Go figure. Lord only knows how much the middle relief puts down on any given night.
In honor of Mae West, I present a speculative list of whom you want, and don’t want at your fiesta.
“I don’t know a lot about politics, but I can recognize a good party man when I see one.”
~Mae West
Derek Jeter
You honestly want to hate him, but you can’t. Sure, he hits a million ground balls to the shortstop, and doesn’t pick it like he used too, but hey, he did bring over five girls, and a case of champagne. And look at him, everyone likes him…he could sleep with all five of those girls, your girlfriend and every other female in the room, but he won’t…he brought those girls as party favors for the rest of the male crowd. He’s like Vinnie Chase in season 2.5. And, Derek, you shouldn’t have—a Carl Pavano blow up doll for us to kick in the nuts when we’re hammered later.
Manny Ramirez
Someone has to bring the chronic.
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April 7th, 2009
Fun Fact: Sandro Colacicco and I played on the same college baseball team. The experience was a cross between “The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training” and “Major League.” The morale of the story is never steal Sandro or Jobu’s rum. It’s very bad. It’s very bad.
Baseball has always been therapeutic for me: getting home from work, turning on the television, and watching the Mets bullpen blow a game is practically the only thing you can count during these strange days. Maybe this year will be different, maybe the Mets won’t choke away the 9th inning, and the Cubs will finally win the World Series. Yeah, I wouldn’t count on it, but I can guarantee that any “new” player who has a big season will be accused of using steroids and the new Yankee Stadium will look like a bizarro Wrigley field in the amount of tourists it attracts .
I miss the good old days, when you could sit in the bleachers with a flask of Jack and a joint in your mouth and the only thing you would hear from security was, “you going to pass that?” Now, it’ll be hedge funders with their families and their Lolita wives saying, “Look at A-Rod, I saw his layout in Details magazine, is he really dating Madonna?” Despite these setbacks, the game will move on, with or without integrity, with or without my Jack flask, and with or without Alex Rodriguez’s uber-gay photo shoots. (Yes, I was looking for an excuse to post this picture.)
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March 18th, 2009
Sandro Colacicco also takes fantasy football tips from a taxi driver named Federico.
Everyone loves this time of year: the days get longer, the weather gets nicer, girls start wearing tank tops and miniskirts, and you get to gamble at the wee hours of the morning and it’s almost socially acceptable. Yes, I will be in Vegas sipping on a bloody mary in a couple days, crying in the corner of the sportsbook about how I just lost all my beer money on North Dakota St—ohh, what was I thinking? I thought those farm boys could shoot. Could UNC, Louisville, or, dare I say it, Washington or Gonzaga go all the way? The debate rages on.
Starting Points:
The last two years have gone pretty much according to plan. In other words, most high seeds defeated their feeble lower seeded opponents and naturally, a favorite went on to win the tourney. Therefore, I believe this year will be slightly crazier with a few more upsets in the works if for anything else than the fact that we are “due.”
You might be saying, but where do I go crazy on my bracket Sandro? How do I win my office pool? Well, I have no fucking clue, I only pretend to know. But what I can say is that March madness is labeled as “madness” because of is unpredictability (words of wisdom, I know). Hence, I can guarantee you that the winner of your pool will probably be an asshole who picked Utah St to make it to the elite 8 and had Illinois going all the way. For instance, my secret weapon is a dishwasher named Julio who just arrived to this country last week and doesn’t speak a lick of English. Though I’m pretty sure he thought we were asking him about the Mexican D-League, he gave astute predictions (by pointing at the New York Post that we shoved in his face) to the Big East tournament, having West Virginia make it to the semis and for Syracuse to beat UCONN. Yes, Julio knows the value of underdogs.
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February 25th, 2009
Sandro Colacicco smokes dro, chops O’s, rides dirty, and his candy paint looks purty.
I’ve been doing some strange stuff recently–reading Lolita at odd hours of the night in seedy diners, cooking ethnic food in grotesque quantities, and perusing vintage porn (don’t check out the porn re-enactment of Hair). I also grew a goatee and bought black-rimmed reading glasses. Then I stared at myself in the mirror and realized that I looked like I had just attended a Vampire Weekend festival in a Columbia dorm room. Something was wrong…very, very wrong.
Then it hit me–sports! Deprived of football and baseball, my brain and soul have no direction. February college basketball hardly gets my blood pumping. The NBA? Give me a break, the playoffs don’t start for another two months. I stripped off my Verizon Wireless-annoying-guy-from-the-commercial-look-alike shades and stared at the stars: “Jesus, Buddha, even you, Muhammad, please send me guidance in my search for limitless entertainment in these desperate times.”
These are the unfortunate results:
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