Impromptu Movie Review: Sugar

I'd been meaning to see Sugar for a long time. I don't usually go to movies in theaters but I had heard good things about this one via Rob Neyer and others, so it piqued my interest. I was still living on the Upper West Side at the time and on my walk home from work I noticed the title listed on the black and white board outside of the Lincoln Plaza Theaters (not the huge Lincoln Center complex with the IMAX a few blocks north, the one that shows more independent stuff closer to Columbus Circle). After a few more nights, I convinced a girl I was dating to go see it with me. We walked by to see what time it was playing, but it wasn't up on the board as we approached. When we asked the woman at the box office, it turned out they pulled it the night before.

Just before Christmas, I was browsing for gifts on Amazon and the movie showed up in my recommended items. I saw there was a used copy for about $5 and figured it was well worth that plus shipping. But I ended up buying the presents elsewhere and it sat in my cart for a couple of weeks before I thought of it again. By the time I checked back, the only used copies were fairly expensive and I lost the ambition to make the purchase.

Then, two weeks ago, Bryan Smith put up a post on FanGraphs about the movie and I made it a point to go back to Amazon to get a copy. With shipping it was something like $13. Over the weekend, I finally got around to watching it.

My favorite thing about Sugar is that it vividly captures a reality in baseball that we don't think of of willfully choose to disregard. We see someone like Robinson Cano arrive in the Bronx with the ability to play in the Majors, but take for granted that he had to come up through the minors and learn countless lessons in order to pick up on the nuances of American culture. What we almost never consider at all are the prospects from other countries that never pan out and what happens to them after they've given up their dream to make it to the Majors.

The main character, Miguel "Sugar" Santos, starts in the fictional Kansas City Knights training camp in the Domincan Republic, where players not only improve their skills but learn simple baseball terms like "I got it" and "fly ball" in English. When he gets invited to come to the States and begin his ascent through the minors, he's throw into a completely unfamiliar situation.

While playing baseball in the United States does represent a great opportunity for the lucky prospects that make it here, coming from the Dominican Republic (or Venezuela, or Mexico, or especially Cuba) being thrust into America has to be extremely disorienting.

One of the best scenes of the movie comes in a restaurant when he first comes to Spring Training. One of the Dominicans, Jorge, had been in camp before and takes a few of the new recruits out to a diner. With their eyes glazing over looking at the unfamiliar menu, Jorge orders French toast. Reluctant to try pick or pronounce any of the foreign items on the menu, they all get French toast.

Sugar continues with his routine until one night, sitting in the booth alone, he works up the courage to order eggs. The waitress asks how he'd like them, and unable to to understand what "scrambled" or "over easy" means, he reverts to French toast once again. The waitress brings him what he ordered, but in addition, drops off a plate with three different kinds off eggs for him to try and explains which is which.

Sugar gets called up to Kansas City's minor league team in Bridgeport, Iowa and is given a host family. They seem to be genuinely kind and generous, but their Spanish is just as bad as his English. During a tour of the house, the mother uses the Spanish word for "soup" when referring to "soap".

Unlike so many baseball movies, Sugar is subtle and understated. Sure, for baseball geeks like us, some of the technical baseball stuff seems a bit hokey, but the movie isn't as much about baseball as it is experiencing America from the outside with the game serving as a conduit.

In stark contrast to films like The Natural, the Major League series, and Rookie of the Year, Sugar doesn't require you to suspend disbelief in order to enjoy it. As opposed to Mr. Baseball, it doesn't need a superstar to drive it's plot. Unlike Field of Dreams, it didn't even require a trained actor to play the lead role.

It's hard to make a good baseball movie. Take a look through this list and that fact will become even more apparent. Directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck struck a perfect balance between being over the top and being boring which, given the history of the genre, is extremely hard to do. Highly recommended.

Amsterdam Ale House

Formerly Westside Brewing Co, seeing the sign for Amsterdam Ale House made my day. And it was only 9:30.

Guess that guy on the Beer Advocate message board was right...

One More

Doris Sighting!!!!!!!

Yup. That's her. Swear on my life. I obviously couldn't get a pic of her face because that would put me in her peripheral vision and that was a confrontation I was not at all interested in. That, and also I drew the line (for once). If I'm not going to put my face on this blog, I really shouldn't put hers, I don't think.

I really didn't know how this day could get any better. There are some things in the works that I don't want to mention for non-jinxing purposes, and the snow, and the shrimp fritters, and my new headphones...

I actually went back to Whole Foods to pick up some more those fritters, along with a sirloin for the grill tonight. I asked the guy at the meat counter for a steak that was about a pound and three quarters. He put it on the scale: 1.75lbs. Bang. I mean, who cares? But that was pretty cool.

That beer is the Dogfish Head Olde School Barleywine. It's 15% ABV.

I needed to stop by Pioneer on my way back to grab some more brews and walking in, I spotted the mythical beast known to you Fackers only as "Doris". I very nearly soiled myself.

I didn't observe her eating habits like Sampson did, but this is kind of similar as she was in hunter/gatherer mode. It's not everyday she leaves the apartment. Actually, this may have been the first time in 46 years.

We left Pioneer at about the same time, and I skittered back over the icy sidewalks, hid out in my entrance way and nabbed this shot.

Look familiar? It's blurry and everything, just like the original! There was a girl right there walking her dog who saw me do it and gave me this look. I shrugged my shoulders and went "It's a long story..." and scampered upstairs to write this post.

This was one of the best snow days ever.

Sean Daley from Atmosphere, would you do the honors?



-----

We should be back in sports mode tomorrow. Hopefully you enjoy the non-sports stuff too, because it's really fun to write. I don't really know where to even send these links, but if you read other blogs with similar content like Schiff's, feel free to point me in their direction or vice versa.

Requiem For A Restaurant

The absolute best part of living in Manhattan is the preponderance of awesome things within walking distance from your apartment. I have accounts with two different banks, both of whom have a location within two blocks from my place. We have two grocery stores within the same distance. I can walk to work in just about the time it takes to listen to Shine On You Crazy Diamond Parts I & II, and Central Park is under 5 minutes away. I've mentioned the Beacon and Fairway, both of which I wouldn't swap for another theater/grocery store.

Another thing that makes the location of our apartment so perfect is (was) Westside Brewing Co. When we first moved down here, we used to go there every Sunday night in addition to the impromptu visits during the week. If I had anyone came into town, it was the first place I thought to bring them.

I would place their wings in my top five of all time, with some serious consideration for the #1 spot. I'm probably biased, but trust me, these were not your ordinary orangey, fake-looking, limp dick wings you get at TGIFriday's. The sauce wasn't sweet like a BBQ and didn't really have a buffalo twang. They never detailed any of the ingredients on the menu, and I'm not much of a gourmand, so if you've never had the pleasure, you are going to have to use your imagination a little bit. They were a deep maroon color, subtly smoky, hot, but not lingering, and... did I mention they were fucking amazing?

Westside stopped brewing their own beer long before I moved down to the city, but they kept a rotating selection of ten taps to make up for that fact. They centered on local brews like Captain Lawrence, Chelsea and Blue Point, but also drew from across and the country and world. Last time I was there, they had Green Flash Le Freak on tap and around Easter-time last year they had an incredible Rauchbier (smoked beer) from Germany.

The had a pretty fervent staff turnover, but managed to keep a cute girl hostessing with remarkable consistency. One time Sampson and I walked in, and were making some offhand comment about work, and the cutest of the hostesses smiles and says "Are you guys in the movie industry?" Sampson immediately goes "Yeah, I'm a director and he is a producer". Her eyes light right up, so we had to let her down gently. She's was like, "Oh, it seems like everyone is in the movie business around here". After we sat down, I went to Sampson, "They aren't really in the movie business sweetie, they just want to have sex with you".

The place wasn't without it's faults. For one, it was closed for strange reasons way too often. Too many times someone came into town and wanted a fairly cheap, relaxed meal, I couldn't wait to take them to WSBC. I would hype up the wings and promise I could pick them out a great beer, only to roll up to the place and see a note scrawled on the door explaining some strange circumstance which precluding them from being open.

About a year and a half ago construction began on The Harrison, which took up most of the block between 76th and 77th & Amsterdam and Broadway. It was well boarded off, but through the slats, you could catch a glimpse of the cavernous void that claimed Amsterdam Billiards.

One night I walked in to the bathroom and in the corner underneath the urinal there was a gigantic hole, looking right down into a 25 foot deep rubble-filled pit. That must have violated the health code, because two nights later they embarked a a little hiatus for a month or two.

In the three years we've been going there, they never changed their menu. It's not like it diverted us from stopping by, but as a place that had a pretty large regular customer base, you'd think they'd have wanted to switch it up a little bit.

It is also extremely close to The Beacon and it gets a lot of spillover, which can be annoying if you want to get a seat at the bar. They occasionally even play the music of the act that is on that night. One night Kelly Clarkston was in town and we got sat down right next to a table full of pre-teen girls who knew the words to every single song, and weren't afraid to sing along at full roar.

Sometime last year, our friend Ian was around and we popped into Westside to grab some food. We got the wings (as always) I ordered a Hawaiian pizza, Sampson got a burger and Ian got the tuna melt. The pizza always takes longer to begin with, but at one point I glanced over my shoulder and happen to spot the our waitress and my pizza in mid-air headed towards an inevitable demise.

She didn't think we saw it happen and about two minutes later, after the mess had been cleaned up, she came over and said "Sorry guys, your food will be up in like 5 minutes. Want another beer?" We didn't feel like correcting her just yet, and let it slide.

She eventually brought us over the food and as she's sliding the pizza in front of me, I go, "Round two on this one, huh?" She stopped for a second and goes, "Yeah, I was kinda hoping you guys didn't see that". She was cute and we laughed it off. When Ian got terrible food poisoning an hour later, he wasn't laughing. There's not way of telling, but I'm pretty sure the 20 minutes that tuna melt spent under the lamps didn't help. That didn't stop us from going back either.

The allure was obviously the beers, for me personally. It was always crowded, so I don't think I'm alone in that respect. They absolutely always had a high quality Double IPA on tap, whose hoppy character was an unlikely match for the wings. Ten beers every week allows for some pretty serious breadth and they did a pretty good job of managing the selection.

I really don't go out to dinner than much because we have a grill and SeamlessWeb (and I have no money), so I'm probably the last person who is going to get sentimental about an eatery closing it's doors. Evelyn Lounge... now that was a tragedy. But wow, this sucks a fucking lot. I was moving my car the other night, saw the papered up windows and went out of my typical loop so I could email Sampson a picture with the caption "RIP Westside Brew Co." from my iPhone.

It's not all doom and gloom though. I was trawling the message boards over at Beer Advocate and found this little gem:

I have an infallible source telling me this place will be re-opened under new management in a few weeks. And by new management, I mean guys who know how to run an outstanding beer bar. UWSers should be psyched. More to follow.

It's a message board, so I'm not going to get my hopes up, but please, please, please almighty Beer Gods, get something in there soon. It's not fair. I'm dying inside.


----

I just went out to take the daytime pictures above and as I was standing there, a guy with one of those chest baby pouch/carriers and his wife walk up. The dude was probably in his 30's and with a forlorn look on his face he said "It's like, closed, man."

Nothing Like Home

It took 11 hours, four separate car rides, and the combined efforts of five friends/family members, but I finally made it back to NYC last night. I've got some pictures documenting the journey back which may or may not make their way up on the site after work.

The mythical music post obviously didn't make it up this weekend due to the unforseen circumstances discussed above and Brendan still has to weigh in with his Extreme Beer Fest recap, so the non-sports content is going to bleed into the week a little bit. Hope y'all folks don't mind.

Live From Red Sox Nation

I didn't want to blow my cover by announcing this beforehand, but I have successfully infiltrated a dwelling inhabited by one or more Red Sox fans in Brighton, Massachusetts. Before I leave, I promise to steal something, or at least leave an upper-decker.

The one confirmed Sawx sympathizer is none other than Fack Youk contributor and resident Boston correspondent, Brendan. We are teaming up this weekend to bring you, loyal readers, tipsy dispatches from Extreme Beer Fest.

Getting here wasn't easy. In fact, it was one of the most hazardous, and dangerous, and greatest adventures, on which man has ever embarked.

If I were to tell you that I got pulled over driving from the Upper West Side of Manhattan to Brighton, where would you guess this happened?

1. On I-95 between NYC and New Haven (You have to speed to make up for the time you lost on the Cross Bronx Expressway!)
   
2. On I-91 between New Haven and Hartford (I didn't know there were cops in Connecticut...)
3. On I-84 between Hartford and Sturbridge (See above)
   
4. On the Mass Pike between Sturbridge and Natick (Got a little impatient, could see the light at the end of the tunnel)
   
5. Or on the Pike between exits 15 & 17 (Speed limit is 55, Officer? I'm sorry I thought it was still 65!)

If you said any of those, you would be wrong, because I got pulled over for not wearing my seatbelt in New York-fucking-City. I was crossing Broadway on 79th St., eating an oatmeal raisin cookie and scrolling through my iPod when the lights kicked on behind me. Sheeeeeiiiiiiitttttt...

The cop pulled me over at a bus stop, and two seconds later, a double length MTA bus pulls up right alongside and lets a good 15-20 people off right in front of me, each of whom steals a guilty glance at the asshole who just got pulled over in Manhattan.

He comes up to the to car and goes "Ipulledyouoverforfailuretowearyourseatbelt,canIhaveyourdriver'slicense,sir?" I kind of half-laughed and turned it over. While he was in his car, I fired off this picture over my shoulder to document the special moment.


It may have been the most efficient traffic stop ever. The copper came back to the car in under three minutes and goes "Sir,I'veissuedyouacitationforfailuretowearaseatbeltwhileoperatingamotorvehicle, itcarriesnopointsandtherearetwowaysyoucanrespondtoit...DriveSafely"

Odd choice of words there, my severely underpaid compatriot. I was driving safely until you pulled me over for something that has absolutely nothing to do with the well-being of the other drivers on the road. I would have put the damn thing on after I was done with my cookie, dick.

I would have more of right to be angry if it was the first seatbelt ticket I got in Manhattan...


Anyway, after that auspicious beginning, the drive didn't get a whole lot better. Did you know that the Cross-Bronx Expressway is the worst stretch of highway ever to have been covered in asphalt? It's true!

From the time I entered Connecticut until I got to Boston, it snowed.

And snowed.

What's that you say? Its dangerous to be taking pictures while operating a motor vehicle in a driving snow storm? Nonsense. I made it here unharmed, unlike some asshole in an Accord behind me who fishtailed into the median... shows what you know.

-----

Well folks, not sure about the amount of sports content today or the rest of this weekend, but we are going to Night of the Barrels tonight and Session One tomorrow, so you can expect at least one but probably two beer-geeky recaps complete with pictures and snarky comments. I'm also going to try to put up a music post with a New York-Boston connection that ties in the JFK quote above, before the weekend is over.

If you are going to be at Extreme Beer Fest, look out for Brendan and I. He'll be the tall guy and I'll be the one with the beard. You won't be able to miss us.

"Let's Call It Even" [Creep Of The Week]

It was a close call between Doris and the asshat who decided to disallow bringing your own alcohol to the Preakness, but I think the biggest creep ultimately won.

Since it was 55 degrees out, John and I spent the day kicking it on the terrace drinking some Leffe, Southampton Abbot 12 and jamming out to Songlines.

As expected, when Doris threw our original sign back, she included the remnants of the pumpkin in the delivery.


Since we hadn't heard anything back since out last communication, and the pumpkin was still strewn across the terrace, we decided to reach across the aisle.

Well, sort of...

It reads:
[DORIS -

Let's call it even. You haven't offered an alternative explanation as to how our pumpkin was executed, so we must assume you did the deed. If you throw this bag out (or use it in one of your famous pumpkin, pigeon feather and dead cat pies) we'll forget this ever happened.
With love, 115 <3]

However, we also added some additional favors to our return package:

I wonder if it is still where we left it...


BTW: If you have an Aunt who is a former caterer who makes a mean corn relish, and a friend to isn't afraid to murder innocent animals, I highly recommend a venison sausage, corn relish and mustard sandwich.

And for good measure, here is a plug for North Coast Brewery which makes and Old Stock Ale (11.7% ABV), Blue Star (the best session beer possible) and a beautiful Belgian-stlye brew, Brother Thelonious:

Doris, Part III [Non-Sports]

[Here are parts I and II, in case you missed them]

Thanks to everyone who participated in the Delusional Doris Sign Sweepstakes earlier today! Mostly due to the length of the entries, there was no winner from the comment section. However, I did draw some inspiration from them and made two additions to our sign.

The top line now reads: "Did you write that letter w/your teeth?" (h/t: FY contributor Matt)

And the last two sentences read: "The difference is that when you did it, we laughed it off, and when we did, you called the cops. (and the new one) I bet they had a nice laugh when you hung up.
<3 115 xoxo"

I go to put it up, and to my horror, her door is open.


She wasn't outside, but just when you thought this woman couldn't be any creepier, she props her door open with a garbage can lid and a splintering 2x4. I don't know how that doorway connects to her apartment, but I can only assume the staircase is lined with with old newspapers, bird feathers she has collected from the roof, pre-1963 Playbills, and dead cats.

It's really awkward to ZipTie the signs on her side, from ours. I have to lean over the planter (which is right next to the railing) and around the chimney with both hands free to connect the tie. It makes it a whole lot more difficult when you have to keep an eye on that open door to make sure your crazy neighbor doesn't come flying out on her broomstick, causing you to lose your footing and fall 6 floors to your death.

If you look closely, you can see the two ties from the last sign, cinched much tighter than when I put them up. I can only assume that she had never seen a ZipTie before, and tried to remove them by yanking on the long end, only antagonizing her further.

This has been fun, but I really didn't think last night's post was going to be the 5th most popular post in the (somewhat brief) history of this blog. I'm not sure what that says about our sports commentary or more importantly, you sick puppies, but thanks for stopping by.

Whether she responds to this sign or not, rest assured there will be another Doris post at some point.

Doris Follow-Up [Non-Sports]

[Here is part I in case you missed it]

It was a beautiful snowy day here in the city, and when I got home, I immediately checked to see if there had been recent activity on the terrace. I didn't see anything at first, then just barely caught a glimpse of the corner of our sign sticking out from the edge of the deck, under about two inches of fresh powder. I walked out, picked it up and saw that it had been ripped in half. Fair enough. But, if the snow melts and the pumpkin is back on our side, we've got problems.

She also tied a plastic bag with a letter inside to the a hook on our chimney. Here it goes.

The Envelope:"To: The guys who are no longer with their parents - or - at the Frat house. But Hey, guess what - In The Real World - with - Surprise of Surprises - OTHER RE(down arrow)AL PEOPLE!!!"

This took me a good 10 minutes to decode. Her lower case "t" looks like an "e" with a line above it which I thought was an accent or a tilde or something. (See the word "at" on the fourth line down, first in from the left). I was thinking to myself, "What the fuck is a froe house"?

Just a tip, when you're literally writing out an attempt at making fun of someone, you don't want to awkwardly try to insert another word into your punchline. You either leave it as is or get a new envelope.

Yes, we no longer live with our parents. Is that supposed to be an insult? Nice try, but neither of us ever lived in a frat house. "The Real World", huh? That's pretty rich coming from a fucking agoraphobic. Your "Real World" consists of 800 square feet. And of course, that last "sentence" contains four dashes and zero coherent thoughts.

And now the letter. You'd think by the envelope that it would be in pen in cursive or something. Not so much:

Front Side:

"TO: THE ANGRY GUY AT 115 w.74 - (NOT THE NICE SIDE-KICK)"

You love the dash, don't you Doris? I wonder who she thinks is the "side-kick"... Check out the comments on the last post, Doris, neither of us are nice. We are angry because you smashed our pumpkin on our terrace for no fucking reason.

"I DID NOT TOUCH YOUR BOXES"

Yes. Yes you did. You put some old grayed-out boards on there and moved our "Golf Carts" sign just this past week. You put a strange bamboo arch in there at some point over the summer and planted other odd looking plants without asking us.

There is no other explanation as to how that pumpkin ended up on our side. It did not commit suicide by jumping from the planter. The cat that stops by occasionally didn't roll it over the edge. Several pigeons did not combine forces and drop it there.

Perhaps there were some other hooligans on your roof who did it. But you blamed us for everything that happened on your terrace, period. Not sure if you've peered out through that giant pile of plastic bags you have in your apartment recently, but we aren't your only neighbors.

"WE AWOKE THE OTHER DAY AFTER SUPER BOWL SUNDAY..."

Being that today is Tuesday, I'm guessing you are referring to yesterday?

"...TO FIND A PUMPKIN SMASHED AGAINST OUR BUILDING W/SUCH FORCE IT WAS ALL OVER THE WALLS + ROOF!! WE THOUGHT YOU OR A DRUNKEN FRIEND DID IT SO WE RETURNED THE FAVOR + NOTIFIED THE POLICE + TOOK PIX -->"

/Shakes in shoes.

Not all that scary, considering you just confessed to "RETURN[ing] THE FAVOR" in the same fucking sentence.

We took pictures too, except we didn't show them to the police. We posted them on a semi-vulgarly named sports blog and told a bunch of people on the intertubes about how crazy you are.

Back Side:
"YOU HAVE HAD A PROBLEM STAYING WITHIN YOUR BOUNDS IN THE PAST. -"

Sweet, a stray dash!

What she is referring to here is that fact that our neighbors who have two dachshunds were over here literally two and a half years ago and despite our best efforts the pups occasionally ventured onto her side of the terrace, maybe three times.

"YOU ALSO - OR ONE OF YOU AT LEAST - HAS A REAL ANGER CONTROL/SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT PROBLEM"

Angry because we wrote a sign with the F-word or have you been reading the blog? Entitlement because we don't think people should smash a rotting member of the squash family on our terrace? You want to try that one again?

"YOU ALSO - OR ONE OF YOU AT LEAST - HAS A REAL DRINKING PROBLEM"

There you go.

"- YOU'RE NEVER TOO YOUNG TO BEGIN SHAPING UP AND BEHAVING LIKE A MAN!! (MEN)"

Stray dash, volume 2. Thanks for the advice, Grandma. "NEVER TOO YOUNG". Going all Benjamin Button on us, I see.

"YOUR NEIGHBOR -
@117
DORIS "THE MAD WOMAN"

You said it.

As you may or may not be able to see, there were two different markers and even a pen used in this masterpiece. It contains sixteen dashes.


I just wish it wasn't snowing so I could hang up the new sign...
(sorry for the partial joke recycling)

"Doris -
You never touched our boxes? Who put those old boards across them last week? Fairies? What about the bamboo arch? Pigeons? The pumpkin was sitting in the box on Saturday, and on Sunday, it was smashed on our terrace. Were we supposed to assume the black cat did it? You are the one who used to sweep up every single thing on your shitty tar-pit and fling it all on our side. The difference is that when you did it, we laughed it off, and when we did, you called the cops."

As you can see, there is still enough room for about two lines. In 12 words or less, what should I close with? Leave your best shot in the comments, and your zinger just might meet Doris' crazy eyes tomorrow night.

[Update 2/5: Part III of this saga has now been written]

Welcome To The Internets, Doris [Non-Sports]

Everyone has had a crazy neighbor. We knew she was a little strange when we first spotted the yellowed newspapers she had stuffed in the top corner of one of her (broken) windows visible from our apartment. Occasionally she would blast classical music out of her AM/FM-Radio/Tape Deck combo right on the window sill, which you could hear even if both of our windows were closed.

When my buddy Sampson and I were looking for a place down here, we wanted outside space. Non-negotiable. It is an incredibly valuable commodity in Manhattan and it allows us to grill year round, which is obviously essential. We pay through the nose for it, but it's honestly worth it, especially during the summer.

When we first moved in, it was July and the terrace was a death trap of silver tar. On the hottest days, you could leave footprints just by walking on it, and the railings oozed black tar that ruined more than a few articles of clothing.

Neither of us had a "job" at that point, so we spent about three days and three trips to the Home Depot in Secaucus transforming a worthless space into the selling point of our apartment.

We didn't go in blind. My Dad used to wake me up at 7:00AM on weekends when I was 8 years old to help him with carpentry projects around our house. Sampson and I both worked for my cousin in Lake George over summer breaks in high school building custom lake houses in Cleverdale.

Sampson came up with the design, and I took care of most of the logistics. We carried every board, nail, bucket of stain, and FastenMaster Screw up six flights of stairs and I don't regret a second of it.

The fact that we had people over somewhat frequently didn't sit well with most of our neighbors. The people who lived here before us were apparently never around, which was a stark contrast to two 22 year olds with no jobs and a propensity for late nights and generous pours of Johnny Walker Red.

Doris' terrace borders on ours, not shown to the left in that picture.

The first run-in we had with her was when she called the fire department on us and had them confiscate our propane tank. Common sense would dictate that like a mother bear and her cub, you don't come between a man and his grill. We still don't know what exactly precipitated this most despicable act, but despite our initial outrage, we never said anything to her or retaliated in any way. We just bought a charcoal grill and used the extra 15 minutes it took to sear a couple of sirloins to drink another beer.

Doris used to just assume that everything that ended up on her terrace was a direct result of us, so she would sweep it up and throw it over on our side. It could have been a dead pigeon and she probably still would have tossed it over. Newsflash: There are numerous explanations for why something ends up on your terrace. We don't just throw shit over there for fun.

She also thought it would be a good idea to create a barrier between our spaces using an upside down ceramic planter, a wicker basket and some lattice, all strung together with twine. One day, I actually saw her during the daylight, and sarcastically complimented her on her work. She went "Oh, I just work with what I have, like Caldas, down in Brazil there". Riiiiiiight.

We actually have had some decent conversations with her, but her weird side inevitably came out. One night, Sampson passed out on the terrace and woke up to her throwing bird seed on him at 4:00AM.

We eventually built some spruce boxes where her odd "artwork" used to be, and planted some Aborvitaes for noise cancellation and privacy purposes. Doris was thrilled that we did it and we even planted some flowers on her side.

We had a truce for quite some time... until this weekend.

Earlier in the Fall, we nabbed a pumpkin on a golf trip to Jersey. It sat on our picnic table until it collapsed in on itself in late December. We threw it in one of the boxes to compost and it lay decaying peacefully there, ready to fertilize our Myrtle.

On Sunday, we went out to grill some chicken skewers for the Super Bowl and the rotting pumpkin was smashed on our AstroTurf. We had some ladies over at the time, so we laughed it off, and gave them the background on how crazy she was.

That lasted for about .10 of BAC. Around midnight we went back upstairs and took the remnants of the pumpkin and threw it all back on her side.

Why? Cause fuck her, that's why. There was no reason at all for her to take OUR pumpkin from OUR box and throw that shit on OUR terrace.

Well, today, I got home from work and decided to survey the terrace situation. She returned every chunk and every seed of the pumpkin back on our side. HA. Fuuuuuck that.

I had some leftover posterboard from the "Look At It, Dave" experiment, and decided it was a good time to use it. I made the following sign and Zip Tied it to one of the haphazardly arranged Time Warner cables on her side of the terrace, above the pile of pumpkin remains I threw back on her side.

[It reads:]

HEY DORIS!
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?

I think we already know the answer to that question... There is absolutely no reason for you to throw a composting pumpkin onto our terrace, which explains why we threw it back. You really shouldn't be touching the boxes we built or anything in them. We haven't bothered you for a long time, so...

STAY OUT OF OUR SHIT!

Cordially,
The 115 guys

Inspire The Ire: Eagles Enmity [Part I]

[For much of the 2009 season, the Eagles have been an afterthought to the Giants and their fanbase. After the Week 10 victory, the Giants were 8-1 and on the fast track to the #1 seed in the NFC, while the Eagles were 5-4 and trying to collect themselves for a second half run.

When they met in Week 13, the Giants clinched the NFC East despite a 20-14 loss. Maybe the Super Bowl victory took some of the edge off of our antipathy towards the team that traditionally takes top billing as the most hated divisional rival. Maybe it's because the Cowboys with all their "superstars" and drama became the primary targets of Giants' fan disdain.

As a result, we have decided to provide some kindling for the hot coals of contempt for the Eagles that smolder deep within each Giants fan with a special several-part Fack Youk presentation: Inspire The Ire: Eagles Enmity]

[Part I - By: Jay]

If you've gone out drinking on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, there's a chance you've been to Bourbon Street. If you've ever gone out drinking anywhere, you've almost definitely been to a place just like it.

It's your prototypical dive bar, with ladies undergarments stapled to the ceiling and kitchy signs and antiquey-looking trash hung on the wall like its some sort of R-Rated Applebee's. The playlist every Friday and Saturday night consists of the same cliched 80's songs like "Livin' On a Prayer", "Jessie's Girl" and "I Love Rock and Roll". In fact, they even do a cut rate Coyote Ugly imitation to "Pour Some Sugar On Me", where the female bartenders pour shots of some brightly colored vodka combination down patrons' gullets at a specific time every weekend night (I couldn't tell you exactly what time, for a variety of reasons).

I may or may not have stumbled out of there few years ago on New Years Day at about 9AM. It's the rare kind of place in NYC that actually has good specials like 50 cent (12 oz.) Bud drafts every Thursday and Friday from 9 to 11. The place does have some uses.

One of those uses is for watching football. They have a ton of TVs, and if you get there fairly early on a Sunday, you can grab a stool at the bar or a seat at a table with a perfect view of a TV with your team's game on it. They don't make their own food, so they allow you to bring your own in, and the Bud Lights are $3. If you want to watch some football at a bar and not spend a ton of money, it's a excellent option.

During Week 11, Sampson and I journeyed up to 79th & Amsterdam to catch the Giants play the Ravens. We got there sufficiently early and grabbed a high top table underneath a few TVs and across from the biggest screen the Giants game was being shown on. As it turns out, the Eagles game was on one of the TVs above our heads.

If you'll recall, in Week 11, the Eagles played the Bengals. As the Giants were running over the Ravens, the Eagles game got off to a slow start, and the Philly fans clustered around the TV were pretty quiet. After a scoreless first quarter, a wiry guy with long-ish hair wearing a Brian Westbrook jersey and a winter hat sauntered in. He looked like a pretty chill guy, like someone who might listen to Phish while driving around in his 1992 Jeep Cherokee Laredo.

Not so much. This dude was one of the biggest assholes I have ever viewed a sporting event at a bar in the presence of. As soon as he got there, he was screaming at the TV, calling out individual defensive backs like, "What the FUCK, Lito Sheppard?!?". He coined an amazingly uncreative nickname for Donovan McNabb, "Donovan McShit". He wouldn't fucking stop. Every play was "What a FUCKING terrible play call Mornhinweg!", or "Andy Reid, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!?!" He was knowledgeable, I suppose...

If you want to yell at the TV in the comfort of your own home, in the company of friends, by all means, go to town. If you are the angry type of fan who thinks they should be calling the plays, and you are smarter than everyone in the organization, let it out. Maybe if Andy Reid was my coach and Donovan McNabb my QB, I might be the same way. But Jesus-fucking-Christ, how little dignity must you have, to yell this shit at the top of your lungs in a bar in a city which your team is not even based?

Anyway, after the Giants game was over, the Eagles and Bengals were just heading into overtime, and the bartender switched the TV we were watching over to the Eagles game. Honestly, watching McNabb spike screen passes at Westbrook's feet and get called for a delay of game in OT, I thought, "Maybe this asshole has a point".

In an ending that I couldn't have scripted better myself, the game concluded in an orgasmically (for me) anticlimactic tie and Angry Winter Hat Dude stomped out of the bar and shot Sampson and I a sneer as we laughed out loud.

Guess where we are watching the game on Sunday. I really hope he's there.

Fuck the Philly, the Eagles, their fans, their damaged landmarks, their disgusting "cheese" "steaks" and everything about that godforsaken city except Ben Franklin, Cliff and Always Sunny.