September 22, 2006
Places We Don't Need Assistance For $200, Alex
I was remarking to my friend Jennifer at an event last night that I've kind of been losing my curmudgeonly persona lately... with everything going so well in both my professional life and my personal life these days, 2006 is actually shaping up to be my Best Year Ever -- and it's pretty hard to be grouchy at the world when you're on top of it.
Thankfully, not 10 minutes later, I found something to rant about. We were at a work event at an upscale restaurant in Manhattan, one that -- while fabulous in every other respect -- fell victim to the New York restaurant curse.
Restroom attendants.
It's not just the upscale places that have restroom attendants these days... just about every place you go has them. And I hate them. Oh, I'm sure they're nice people, and that their mothers love them very much. I'm sure that they go home at night and pet their kittens and walk their puppies and take leftover food to orphanages. But I don't need them, and I have no place for them in the world.
Even in good times... do we really need someone to turn on the faucet for us? Do they believe that running water is such a novelty to us that we're not able to handle turning it on? I'm reminded of the old Phil Hartman character on SNL, the Defrosted Caveman Lawyer: "Your world frightens and confuses me." Apparently, this is the esteem in which restauranteurs have for their guests. And do we really need people to apply two squirts of soap to our hands for us? What if I wanted more? What if I am Howard Hughes-like in my aversion to germs and feel the need to overindulge in soap? Or is this all a cost-cutting measure designed to save on soap supplies -- because you haven't got enough money in the place after having charged me $12.50 for an appetizer?
And that's on good days. It's on bad days that the restroom attendee phenomenon becomes particularly galling and embarrassing. What if you're not feeling well? Do you really need someone in the room who saw you come in just fifteen minutes before (and he couldn't have missed you, because he gave you two squirts of soap when you were there), making him think that either you have a queasy stomach or you're doing lines of cocaine? Do we really need someone in there to overhear your lactose intolerant system dealing with the effects of the banana milkshake you unwisely selected while having a late lunch with Beav before a work meeting earlier that afternoon?
I'm just saying.
Posted by Christopher at 07:34 AM | Comments (5)June 01, 2006
Home
I finally was able to cut the cord on the old apartment yesterday, when -- on the last possible day -- I had a couple of kids (read: in their mid-twenties) who have their own salvage business come over to pick up the stuff I opted not to take with me to the new place. That was it; the old place was empty, there was nothing left, and my footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as there was nothing left to absorb their sound.
Ordinarily I am a pretty sentimental guy; my natural inclination would have been to linger for a moment to consider the memories left in the place or the pieces of my life that occurred within those walls. But there was no such emotion yesterday. I looked around, uttered a phrase that sounded a lot like "fork this place," only a bit more coarse, and headed down the stairs and out. As I drove away, I realized that my lack of attachment to that apartment reflected that for me, despite having kept that place for five years, I had never considered it "home;" it was just a place to sleep and keep my stuff while I went about my life -- in whatever state I happened to be in -- and waited for something else. I had no connection to it, emotional, physical or otherwise. It was not "home."
After I left, I headed immediately to LaGuardia; I had business in DC yesterday and had a flight to catch (was only there for a few hours yesterday). And when I got off the plane at National (it will never be "Reagan" to me, I refuse to call it that), I was struck by how immediately at ease and "home" I felt (despite it being about 90 damn degrees and more humid than Florida in August). Whether in the cab to K Street, or in Alexandria having dinner with my brother, or traversing in between, I just had the sense of being home -- which is odd, since I lived in the DC area for only three years a decade ago now, while I've been based in New York for seven years (whether I spent the majority of my time here or not, it's been home base since 1999).
On the plane ride back, I was pondering how it is that a place I spent only three years in and left in 1997 could feel more like home than an area I have been in for going on a decade. And I realized that, just like that apartment, I have never considered New York "home;" it's just a place to sleep and keep my stuff while I've gone about my life -- in whatever state I happened to be in -- and waited for something else. I'm not connected to it.
This isn't a slag on New York; every area has its plusses and pros and cons, and some people are going to take to one area more readilly than others, is all. And I do have amazing friends up here... so I am not about to turn this into a "New York sucks" whine. It's just an observation.
December 20, 2005
Strike One
Blar de blar de blar... yeah, there was some kinda transit thing happening in the city today. New York got to be all over the news -- first for the monumental disruption the strike caused (and it did really impact the city, the coverage hasn't been exaggerating it), then later for the self-loving, slobbering sex act kind of stories that New York loves to tell about itself, about how New Yorkers came together and rose above, everybody bonded, there were no riots, they helped each other out, aren't New Yorkers special, yada yada. (For the record, New York, this whole 'everybody helps each other out and deals with each other in times of crisis' thing happens everywhere else in the country too. It's just that no other city or state feels quite so self-congratulatory about it, nor feels such an acute need to tell the world how special it is. But I digress...)
My cynical response to the New York media's self-coverage aside, today was a highly disrupted day. No question. Even out in the burbs, where the Metro North folks hadn't yet decided to honor the strike, you could feel the messed-up-ness of it. It didn't impact me personally; actually, I spent much of the day in the Bronx being stabbed by needles... no, I wasn't at Hunt's Point with the junkies, I was hanging out at Montefiore Medical Center. (I'm fine... they're just running some blood tests to figure out why I'm so damn talented. They think it might be a genetic mutation. Seriously, I should be fine... not entirely "routine" stuff, but certainly nothing to worry about.) But the point is, I didn't get personally impacted by the strike. You can drive from Westchester to the Bronx without crossing a river, so I didn't have to deal with the HOV restrictions.
What do I think of the whole thing? In general, my sympathies almost always lie with unions in things like this; I grew up in a blue collar/union kind of area, and I cut my teeth in my first career as a political campaigner dude helping arrange for union endorsements and dealing with the union guys for my candidates. Generally, I like union guys, and I share their mistrust of management (even though I am now management... what an identity crisis it is when you don't trust yourself to do the right thing for yourself!). And when the MTA has a billion dollar surplus, it would seem to me that two things in order would be to a) reduce prices or give some of it back to commuters; and b) give some to the workers who help make it possible. But...
First of all, this strike's illegal. Even the TWU's parent union concedes that, and wants the local to go back to work. Bigger than that, though, I guess I have a real problem with the union's demands and the reason they went out on strike in the first place. First of all, they're all pissy because they're being asked to pick up some of their health care costs? What the hell? I don't know when the last time was that any of the heads of the transit workers union looked at anyone else's jobs... but just about everyone in America lucky enough to have health benefits has to pay some amount of co-pay or payroll deduction as part of the deal. The whole "entitled to free health care" attitude being displayed by the TWU isn't just arrogant, it's short-sighted -- go ahead guys, force MTA to keep up with skyrocketing costs and paying 100% of your health care... how long you figure that can last before they gotta start cutting jobs to recoup costs?
Worse still to me is the union's infuriating demand for an 8% raise annually. 8%? Guaranteed? Every year? No matter what your job performance or what economic conditions are? What the hell kind of reality are these guys living in? I'd love to get an 8% raise annually. Hell, I'd like to have any raise at all guaranteed to me. But that's not reality -- not in my job, and not in any other job I know. Demanding an 8% raise annually is almost like asking for bon-bons to be placed in every break room, and a day spa massage (happy ending optional) for every employee daily... anywhere else in reality, a guaranteed 8% raise annually would be an unbelievable luxury, yet our transit guys feel they're entitled to it? Boys, you're just not that special.
Finally, there's the matter of the economic impact on the city that this strike is taking. I don't mean the big businesses or the tourist industry or the fat cats; they'll survive just fine. But there were thousands of small businesses that couldn't open today because their workers couldn't get to work. There were hundreds of thousands of people who don't have the luxury of being on salary... if they don't get to work, they don't get paid -- and if they don't get paid, they can't take care of their families. The folks who get hurt with stuff like this aren't fat cats like me who can always just work from home or even miss a day or three and still get paid; it's the little guys who get hit hardest -- the very blue collar, working class folks that the TWU claims they are, and is trying to get sympathy from. The concept of trying to win sympathy from people by givin' them the old Zed from Pulp Fiction treatment is about as tactically sound as French defense tactics in any war since 1800.
Not to mention that today it was cold as Ann Coulter's, um, boob out today... making millions of people walk miles in below freezing weather is just an assholish thing to do. (And yes, my Minnesota friends, 20something IS cold out. We're near the ocean here, which means the air is more humid, which means it sinks into your bones faster and feels a hell of a lot colder a hell of a lot faster than lower temps do in the comparitively drier midwestern air. Given a choice between 20 degrees here or 2 degrees back in Minnesota, I'll start saying "you betcha" again and extending my Oooooos when I talk. 20 degrees in NYC is butt-ugly COLD.)
So... here I am, a labor guy at heart, a guy whose natural sympathies lie with unions and their members... and I'm finding myself solidly in the pro-MTA, anti-TWU court. While I try to figure out how that happened, you should try and count the number of slobbery self-loving stories the New York media produces until the strike ends.
Posted by Christopher at 09:57 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBackOctober 23, 2005
It Wasn't Me, Parts I and II
Okay, yeah... I live in New York. Fine. But contary to what you may have thought, and no matter how much these stories might sound like they could be me, I'm denying 'em. It wasn't me. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
1. Guy rings up a $241,000 bill at Manhattan "Gentleman's Club." This isn't an accumulated bill, by the way. It's from one night.
We've all had those evenings out on the town where the fun and the drinks are flowing, the tab is running, and at the end of the night when you see the bill, it's a lot higher than you thought. (Hell, a bunch of us just had one of those at karaoke night three weeks ago.) But to rack up a $241,000 bill in one night -- even at Manhattan's priciest and most "highbrow" adult entertainment palace -- reveals a Bacchanalian appetite beyond even my fertile imagination. Yet, that's apparently what Missouri business executive Robert McCormick managed to pull off (no pun intended).
I've never been to Scores (honest!), so I have no idea what their prices are. But I can't imagine that this dude simply paid for three $75,000 lap dances and a few drinks. He had to have at least some sense that the price of his evening might be, uh, inching up.
In the mirrored room, popular with high rollers and celebrities, the stripper enthusiast demanded 10 dancers lavish him with attention at the eye-popping cost of $4,000 an hour. When their time was up, McCormick insisted club managers bring more girls - and keep them coming. "I need 10 more," he would say after the hour's entertainment was over, waving his arms like he was motioning a jumbo jet in for a landing, according to the source.
Of course now, McCormick doesn't want to pay his bill; he's pulling the old "one of the dancers stole/misused my credit card" routine. Amex isn't buying it, and they're suing McCormick and the company he is the CEO of to recoup the quarter million dollar charge. And OJ is out there right now, searching for the real killer.
2. Fat guys fill up Madison Square Garden. First of all, I don't own one of those combination jock-strap/diaper contraptions. (I read now in the article that they are called "mawashi." For the love of god, I hope they wash their washi.) Secondly, I was nowhere near Madison Square Garden on Saturday. But 8,000 people were in Madison Square Garden to watch the first World Sumo Challenge -- complete with sumo wrestlers from Norway, Hungary and Bulgaria. (As if the image of cellulite-encased Japanese asses wasn't bad enough, now we have to think about cellulite-encased pasty white Scandanavian asses.)
"It's been my life's dream to see live sumo," said Laurie Huenteo, 43, with a straight face.
Wow. Now there's someone who dared to dream big.
Posted by Christopher at 08:03 AM | Comments (0)October 19, 2005
A Wise Man Explains Dating in New York...
One of the things I enjoy most about the gig I am in right now at my company is that in the new role, I am working directly now with colleagues who also happened to be my friends before I started the new job. Makes the day go faster to be doing conference calls with people you have beers with, you know? One of those folks is also on my blogroll off to the right side of the page -- my friend Ethan. In his most recent entry, Ethan summarized a frustration that I share about life in New York -- but that I have never articulated quite so clearly or effectively. He has a friend in town from Europe, and the friend asked him about what it's like to deal with the dating scene in New York. His response was pure brilliance.
Imagine, if you will, an economy that suddenly has unlimited currency and you'll have an idea of what it's like to date in NYC. Suddenly, all the value is gone and the currency is cheapened and buying anything is out of whack. Look at me: great career, going to school for an interesting degree, musically inclined, I have hair and teeth, not a sociopath yadda yadda. But right next to me is a guy with all that and 10% more. And next to him is another guy likewise endowed, but he's taller, or more handsome, or funnier or whatever. And the same goes for the ladies.
He's right. It's an incredibly daunting scene here, because of the way New York is. Too many perfect people come here -- because we've all been raised on the idea that this place is the pinnacle (you know, the whole "if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere" thing), so everyone here was a big fish in their own small pond somewhere. It's like living in a city full of homecoming kings/queens and Big Men/Women On Campus. And so no matter how good looking, how funny, how charming, how successful, how kind, how nice you are... you will never be the best looking, the funniest, the most charming, the most successful, the kindest, the nicest, the most anything fish in the sea -- there is always someone more so. Odds are, a lot more. So no matter how much of a catch you would be anywhere else, here you're just one of the crowd; the competition is that fierce, and so you have to come up with other ways to try and stand out. Which can be damned frustrating. The scary thing for me is that a younger, hipper, good-looking guy like Ethan feels that same kind of pressure. I'm older, wider, much more suburban/less cool, and have less hair (not to mention that what I have is largely dependent on Clairol Men's Choice for its brown-ness)... I do okay, but it's still a daunting task. I'd feel better thinking I was just neurotic, and that no one else had observed the same thing.
Ethan also puts his finger on the other half of the unique NYC dynamics...
What's more, everyone who has come to NYC has come here to pursue a dream - or most of the people anyway. And in all likelihood, that dream is not "get married and have kids before I'm 30." But at the same time, we're all on the same mortal timeline as the rest of the world. Our hair and teeth and ovaries are failing at the same rate. So at some point we have to give in to that pressure (desire?) to have children - and have them somewhere clean and nice. And so, Philippe, it's complex. Dating in New York has given rise to all kinds of new definitions and substrata of relationships. Are we friends? Are we lovers? Are we friends with benefits? Are we f*ck buddies? Are we a one night stand? And it's all terra infirma until there's a ring or a lease or a marriage certificate involved. But I hear even then it's not so unambiguous!
Yeah, I know, dating is tough all over. But I've dated in five other states plus the District of Columbia, and I'll swear to you that the dynamics are more confusing and complicated here than anywhere else. Like Ethan says, this place is full of extraordinarily ambitious people (hell, I'm among them) who have their plan all mapped out, and those plans rarely involve anyone who could slow their progress toward ruling the world. But no one's immune to the pressures of aging -- and so you end up with a whole bunch of people (women and men) who will swear on the graves of their ancestors that all they want is the occasional human contact and need-meeting (you know what that means).
So we develop a set of progressively casual relationships that remain wholly undefined because no one wants to define them, except for when somebody does, though the one who may want it doesn't even admit as much to themselves, much less to the other person... see, that's the part that makes it different here. The same confusions and complexities that make relationships a universal challenge are exacerbated here, because everyone here isn't just trying to figure out the other person, they're fighting their own battle between their id and their ego, and the behavior they want from you changes with whichever one is winning that day. And conversely, the behavior you want from them changes depending on whether your id or ego is winning that day. So that's why those strata that Ethan mentioned begin to evolve.
This is the only place I've ever been where "friends with benefits" is different than f*ck buddies. Both of which are different than dating, by the way, which implies something more, but isn't as serious as lovers. Not that either of you want that -- nothing involved that would complicate your plan to be king of the mountain is allowed. Except when it is. Does your head hurt yet? And all this confusion is there even assuming that neither one has baggage from a previous situation. Get a divorce or a messed up past situation into the picture, and then there's virtually no way to maintain sanity.
I have no idea what the point of this post was.
Posted by Christopher at 08:35 PM | Comments (6)August 12, 2005
Guess I'm A Real New Yorker Now
Because of my new job (I guess after 11 weeks I should stop calling it new, right?), I have been spending a lot of time in our Manhattan offices instead of up in Stepford. I've had a lot of meetings down there lately, so I've been in "the city" between a third and half of the time over the last couple of weeks.
By and large, this isn't a bad thing; for one, the Manhattan office is much more casual and hipster, so I don't need to wear suits (hell, I look overdressed and stuffy when I show up in khakis and a button down shirt). Also, it's given me the chance to get out in the city and hang out with friends I don't see very often, like Ethan (Friday night was a blast, bro - who'd've thunk there were still places in NY where you could get two beers for $5 during happy hour?). And, I have to say this even though it makes me a piggish male... the talent on the streets of Manhattan during the summer is positively astounding. I may despise their attitudes, but New York women are delightful to observe.
And I even actually live as close to Manhattan as I do to the suburban offices, so the commute's no longer than usual... in fact, there's a Metro North station about a six minute walk from my co-op, so getting there's a breeze. But it's at this point in the story that things take a bad twist. It's at this point in the story where I seem to have become a typical New Yorker.
The normal routine is simple: take Metro North to Grand Central Station, then go to wait in the taxicab queue outside the 42nd Street entrance to the terminal. It usually takes about three minutes to get through the line, after which I take the cab to our offices downtown.
The other day, I was standing in the queue, waiting for a cab and getting ready for an early afternoon meeting. It was already a hot and humid day (those of you from Houston might not have thought so, but for us, 94 degrees is hot, and 60% humidity is pretty damn wet), even at noon; by the time I got to the front of the taxi line, I was already dripping sweat from my brow. At the back of the line, I saw a tiny, five foot grandmotherly type, pretty obviously a tourist, lugging a suitcase that was almost bigger than her. As she walked toward the taxi stand, the line was long enough that she had to stand behind where the velvet ropes end (they're about ten people long, so if you're 11th in line or beyond you have nothing between you and the street).
As a cab pulled into the line, I was relieved to be able to get out of the heat, and prepared to ask my cabbie to crank the A/C all the way up to 11. Suddenly, I saw something... the touristy grandmother was stepping into the street, tugging her giant suitcase behind her and trying to wrestle it toward the approaching cab. My cab. The one I'd waited five stifling minutes for.
Now, the ex-Minnesotan in me (who still comes out more often than I'd like... get raised in a place and you pick up its habits, even if that does mean I still have a damnable streak of midwestern "Minnesota Nice" in my blood even out here in cut-throat, take no prisoners, show-even-a-sliver-of-weakness-and-we'll-eat-your-young New York) thought to himself, "Well, okay... she's stealing your cab. But she's obviously a tourist and doesn't know the rules or protocols of hailing taxis at Grand Central. And besides, she's like 70something, Chris! She's probably scared half out of her nut being here and just wants to get to wherever she's going. And in this heat, if this old lady stands out in line for five more minutes, who knows what'd happen? Let her go; there'll be another cab in a minute or two."
But of course, I've been away from the midwest for going on eleven years now. And the northeasterner in me had an entirely different take on the situation. Guess which "me" won?
As grandma stepped into the street, without even thinking about it, my subconscious New Yorker asserted himself. "Hey, lady! You're cuttin' in the line there." Everyone else looked at her; she seemed oblivious. "Hey! You're cuttin' in line here! Whaddayou think you're doin'?" Now the rest of the line was looking at her, and the New York chorus began.
"What, lady - you don't have to wait in line like the rest of us?"
"Yo, grandma - the line's back here!"
"Oh, no you dih-int even just cut in front of me!"
The porter even got into the act, walking up and admonishing her that you can't just grab a cab from the back of the line. Meanwhile, as grandma looked up in either bewilderment or embarrassment, I stepped in to take my rightful place aside the now-stopped cab. She looked at me furtively... but before she could even spit out her excuse, I just glared at her and growled as I opened the door, "You were gonna cut in line in front of me?" She didn't say anything as I slammed the door shut and asked Habib the cabbie to crank the air up all the way and told him where I was going.
Yes, kids: I muscled an old lady out of a taxi cab.
I could tell you it was because I was hot and sweating like a mule, and thus my patience was thin. I could tell you it was because I needed to get to my meeting. I could even tell you that it was because I'd been having a really bad week and this poor lady just happened to be the trigger that set me off. But I think I'd be lying to you if I did.
I think it's just that after having this area as my home base for the bulk of the last seven years, my resistance has worn down and I have become what I have forsworn.
God help me, I think I'm a New Yorker.
Posted by Christopher at 09:16 PM | Comments (7)July 23, 2005
Telltale Signs
Knotting up in the back and shoulders? Check.
Stomach getting unsettled? Check.
Headache that won't go away despite an unearthly amount of Advil? Check.
Noticeable decline in mood? Check.
That generally sick, dreadful feeling taking over? Check.
Yep, the signs are clear and unmistakable; I'm going back to New York soon. God, I have to get out of that place.
Posted by Christopher at 08:09 AM | Comments (0)June 30, 2005
Apres Moi, Le Deluge
We had a little excitement around here yesterday that you don't usually see in a suburban/urban area... a monsoon-like rainstorm hit, dropping nearly three inches of rain on Westchester County and causing some flash flooding.
This is not the weather you want hitting on the first day you're driving your new car. However, our office parking lot is on elevated enough ground that we didn't appear to have any problems... by the time I drove home, I had little trouble with water and more trouble with backed up traffic. However, the photo below was taken just a mile or two from my co-op. I think I'm glad I was working and not driving during the worst of it.
Posted by Christopher at 11:38 PM | Comments (0)
June 22, 2005
The Greatest Story In The History Of Anything
There's nothing better than a story that's half surreal, half idiotic marketing people.
Tonight... a publicity stunt goes horrifically wrong... pedestrians, bike messengers and hapless flacks run for cover ... WHEN POPSICLES ATTACK!
No, you're not watching a scene from Jackass; it's not an out-take from Ghostbusters 2 either. What you're seeing here, kids, is a giant melting Snapple popsicle, sliming the streets of Manhattan.
Seems Snapple has a new frozen icy pop treat. And some genius in their PR department thought, "we could get great publicity for the new product if we made the world's biggest frozen treat and set it up in the middle of Union Square!" Of course, it never occured to them that if they did it on June 21 -- the FIRST DAY OF FREAKING SUMMER -- the stupid thing might melt before it got upright. (Don't you hate when that happens? But you know what, baby... it happens to every frozen treat company. Nothing to be ashamed of.)
The result of this pea-brained scheme was an ejaculation of sticky pink melted Snapple Pops all over Union Square. A woman pedestrian sprained her ankle. Bike messengers skidded and wiped out. The FDNY had to be called in to hose the streets down. Apparently, the ingredients for these pops include ginseng and zinc.
"What was unsettling was that the fluid just kept coming," Stuart Claxton of the Guinness Book of World Records told the Daily News. "It was quite a lot of fluid."
Must... bite... lip... can't... make... easy... joke!
I kept looking for Venkman, Egon, Ray , Sigourney Weaver, and Vigo. Next thing you know, they were going to walk the Statue Of Liberty across the harbor to dance in this sludge. Video of this ridiculous episode of "When Brainless Marketing People Attack" is available here.
Posted by Christopher at 11:10 PM | Comments (2)May 17, 2005
Yet Another Reason To Hate New York
I have said many times before that New York is the most hubristic, arrogant place I've ever experienced; Parisians seem humble by comparison. The sense of sports entitlement here -- that New York is, by its very existence, entitled to have winning teams -- is but one manifestation of this hubris. Yes, I rail often at George Steinbrenner's willingness to spend more than the entire AL Central's combined payroll in order to purchase a World Series. But not even George has had the out and out gall and shamelessness to do what William C. Rhoden, a sports columnist for the New York Times, suggested in a column yesterday.
Rhoden wants the NBA to rig the league so that New York and Los Angeles always have good teams.
And no, he wasn't joking, wasn't being sarcastic, and wasn't writing a parody. This arrogant jerk was dead serious.
I was spoiled with Los Angeles perennially in the N.B.A. playoffs. The glamour of the Kobe-Shaq Lakers was a continuation of the Showtime Lakers, and it was glamour that competed with that of the Bird Celtics before giving way to the dominance of the Jordan Bulls. This was the "image always" N.B.A. at its best: big market teams, great players. The league had better find a way to rediscover that formula...Next month marks the 20th anniversary of the "Frozen Envelope" conspiracy. Patrick Ewing was the best college player coming into the N.B.A., and the league supposedly wanted Ewing in New York, a marquee city with an underachieving franchise. The story - subsequently laughed off by the N.B.A. - goes that someone froze the envelope with the Knicks' logo in it so the cold envelope could be easily plucked out when the drawing was made for the first pick.
The system is out of whack. I don't have a solution, but the league has to do something about its system of talent distribution... In the N.B.A.'s ideal world, the best players will find their way to the best markets.
[Detroit GM Joe] Dumars isn't buying. "When you create a system where LeBron, Kobe and Shaq always end up in New York or L.A., then you're asking everyone else to be the Washington Generals," he said.
That may be. But the N.B.A. has to find a way to get its big market teams back on track. Pass the (frozen) envelope, please.
A so-called "respected" journalist actually wrote a column calling on the league to fix the draft so that New York and L.A. get the best players. This makes him an arrogant, narcissistic moron.
Memo to William C. Rhoden: there are 280 million people in the United States. New York's metro population is about 20 million, L.A.'s about 17 million. That means that approximately 87.5% of the country does not live in one of these areas, and would have no interest in the NBA or any other sport that chooses to pre-arrange drafts to stack the deck in favor of two teams. This mypoic, self-centered, asinine thinking is emblematic of why the rest of the country hates New York. And you're not a journalist; you're nothing more than a freaking homer shill.
Posted by Christopher at 09:24 PM | Comments (5)
