Why Is Bruce the Only Singer That Is Aware of the Planet Around Him?

Bruce Springsteen on CNN, 6/23/06

Awesome short interview with Bruce; some concert footage mixed in with him bitch-slapping Ann Coulter and Dubya. As usual, all he does is make sense. Saturday's show in Jersey (thanks Lisk!) was 10x better than the Garden one, I know Bruce always turns it up a notch for his hometown crowd. Also my Godson's first Bruce show!! :) beat me by 30 years. Show was amazing, songs were incredible and his voice is better than it's ever been, though I'm bothered by the obvious tanning bed sessions :) Also started thinking why is it only Bruce who's doing topical protest (and don't forget last year's "Devils & Dust") music instead of younger bands, people of my generation? I know I'm a bit out of the loop, but we've been in an illegal war for over 3 years, we lost a whole American city while the president was on vacation (surprise!), yet black people are still singing about ho's and bling and white dudes are singing about why the pretty girls don't talk to them even tho they have the first Cat Power single on vinyl. Bruce is 56 years old and has more money than God, yet he is moved and angry enough as a person and an artist to say somethinig about it; where are all the other bands' protests, where is their outrage? What the fuck.

bruce springsteen my love will not let you down

Today's XMASTIME is dedicated to my boy Op, who took me to see Bruce last night. At the Garden! And...I MIGHT be still drunk. thanks buddy!

ONE MORE Reason that Soccer is a Pussy Sport that We Will Never Care About

The Italians.

Thanks to my friends over at Football Fans for Truth. And my apologies to RRTHUR, Essex High's greatest "football" star of the early 80s.

For those who missed my thoughts on the subject, go here

100

To celebrate this being the 100th Xmastime post, I will now list things I have googled in the last 30 days.

Anna Benson
Burger Chef
Dina Lohan
DT & the Shakes
elder people medicines
funny dogs
‘Hoosiers’
Isiah Thomas kissing Magic Johnson
Jeff Lamp
Katharine Harris
Kevin Federline’s album
Kino, VA
landing a plane
list of Muslim actors
Mylanta
Rasputin’s penis
sitz bath
The Driftwood Restaurant
The Twin Kiss
titties
US Navy
Willie McCovey’s 500th home run

A Walk With Xmastime as a Young Buck

My brother’s 4th birthday, I’m 2 ½ years old. This is the debut of one of my all-time moves: “Hey, look over there!” as my little mitts work their way to the big fat cake. Even at 4, my brother’s “smile” face is apparently the same as his “I’m gonna beat the fuck out of Xmastime” face. Interesting.



















….as this little photo shoot has passed the 90-second mark I am now about to eat my plate. And I have no idea who the fuck these people are behind us, or how that little kid popped in since the first one was taken. Asshole.




















This is where our gang would hang out, the stairs. We’d smoke Camels and make fun of Puerto Ricans passing by. Every once in a while I’d take my girl Marlo in the red jumper up to “the top of the stairs,” if you know what I mean. Then I’d come down and let the other fellas smell my arm. We were a tough gang. But then, you’d hafta be with those fucking outfits, even in 1974. Fore!



















Here’s me on the kitchen counter. Apprently I’ve stumbled upon a jar that has a human brain in it. Nice. You people freakin out over something in this one? Maybe something in this photo that seems a bit familiar to you? Anything? …..you are correct, that is the very same jacket I wear to this day. Guess they made clothes tuffer in the 70s.

Ps – before you get too far into how cute I look in this one, you should know that inside the jacket is a Playboy my dad stole from Safeway and jammed in there. My first ever job: porn mule. Great.
















Here’s my brother about to stab me in the chest because he hated how the breeze sailed through my golden, curly locks on a windy day. This was a game my mother would have us play, called “Go Stand in the Dirt Field in the Baking Heat with No Shoes on for 8 Hours Until Your Father and I Come Home from Work.” Ahhhhh….great times. Also, if you zoom in you can see my fly is open; must’ve been the early stages of me developing my “Elephant” skit (pull out pants pockets for the ears, let the mouse outta the house for the trunk, hilarity ensues.) I’m choking up!!!!
















“Boy! Get that shirt off, this strange old man wants to take a picture with you boys!!! Smile!”

I have no idea who this person is. I hope it at least seemed normal at the time. Having a strange old man come over and be your kids’ “boyfriend”, I mean. Hmm.
















“Alllllllright boys, party’s over….into the woods now. Camon, let’s go.”


















Ah yes. Kindergarten!!!! Fresh-faced!! Whole world ahead of me!!!!















29 years later. Wow. Is this even human? Good lord. My belated apologies to Anna on the right for what Im sure was a less than spectacular lovemaking session that followed. Well, I'm assumed that's what we did afterwards. After being baked to a crisp in the broiling sun and pounding about 8 containers of Bud I'm usually "frisky." Ugh.

Things are Good, Part XVI

1) Big Ben’s big accident yesterday reminded me that a few weeks ago Dubya met with the Steelers at the White House to congratulate them on the Super Bowl victory. Dumbass couldn’t even make it through this little playful ceremony without saying something completely inane:

About halfway through the season, some people were counting the Steelers out, Bush said.
"They said you didn't have a chance," Bush deadpanned. "I kind of know the feeling."

Cause yeah, if you’re born into an amazingly rich and powerful family, get into Yale even though you MIGHT be retarded, get handed a Major League Baseball team, have the keys to the White House while your dad is vice-president/president for 12 years, and then get handed the presidency even though you might not have actually won, I guess it’s natural to feel like the deck’s stacked against you. Poor guy.


2) I think a good barometer of how much money we misspend in this country is the fact that toilet paper has different colors and patterns. What is this for? You know there’s some companies whose sole job is to spend millions on figuring out the market etc “people like blue”. What the fuck. I mean, is there anything else we have ever created that has a more ignominious ending as a piece of toilet paper? You spend your life in the dark, rolled up tight with the other guys, and then the second you finally see the light of day BAM!!! You’re being scraped against someone’s asshole having shit smeared on you. The bottom line is always the same, yet for some reason we’re compelled to have different colors/patterns etc. “I’ll spend the extra 20 cents a roll if there’s sailboats on my tp.” Camon.

3) If you’re one of those people in a public place who starts waving his or her cellphone in the air looking for a signal, you’re an idiot. How do you not feel retarded? “Look at me, I’m waving a lit phone around! Look at me!” My only hope is that a plane mistakes you for his crew chief and lands on top of you. Asshole.

4) Why is every postman I see in my neighborhood horribly obese? Don’t these guys walk like 6-8 hours a day? Christ, 4 years ago I walked ONE hour a day, ate like a lunatic and lost 75 pounds. What the fuck are they feeding these people at the Post Office; are they hooked up to éclair IVs?

5) Seriously, the toilet paper thing is killing me. And why are these sheets perforated? Has anyone in the history of earth had trouble tearing off some toilet paper from the roll? Even 2-ply? This isn’t even Bounty Towels, which if I remember the commercials correctly you could get soaking wet and still hold a bus without tearing. Well, or a postman. I’d like to meet the person sittin on the bowl that notices that the roll of toilet paper isn’t perforated and thinks “ohoh…I’m in trouble.”

6) Can we please make phone chargers that can work with more than one fucking phone? Jesus christ. I have 3 different cell phones from throughout the years and each of the phones can ONLY work with the charger it came with. And they’re all from the same company!!!! What the fuck. Just saying.

7) Group sues KFC to stop use of unhealthy fat

"Trans fat is almost everywhere on this menu. By frying in such a dangerous oil, KFC is making its unsuspecting consumers' arteries Extra Crispy," he said, referring to a version of fried chicken sold by KFC.

Unsuspecting? REally? First of all, the term “fried” didn’t tip you off, didn’t make you think “maybe this is NOT gonna be a piece of lettuce wrapped around a honeydew melon”? Plus camon, you walk in the door you’re covered in grease. This is 2006, I just wish these places would finally post a sign at the door ‘IF YOU EAT THIS YOU WILL DIE’; I bet sales fall by MAYBE 5% and we wouldn’t have to hear these type of idiot lawsuits every three months. Some things if you’re over the age of 4 you should fucking know: eating a ton of fried food is NOT good for you, you gotta pay extra if you want the girl to take it up the ass, and eating fried food WHILE shitboxing is the COOLEST!

Kudos to the guy tho for actually using the phrase Extra Crispy, though. And when is KFC gonna start selling sides of fried chicken skin only? If they start doing that Xmastime better get a fucking cut!!!!!!!

8) Now that the World Cup has started, we gotta start our every-four-years-like-clockwork bullshit about “Soccer is gonna catch on like crazy in America!!” Great. We never learn; soccer will never, ever ever be one of the major sports in the country, for several reasons.

a. When I was in high school, soccer was played by the impish, white skate-rats who wore Vans and listened to Agent Orange and NOT by the real athletes of the school. If you were a real athlete, you played football. If my football Coach was walking by and happened to notice a real athlete playing soccer, he’d simply yell at him to get his ass over to the football field and “quit being a faggot.” So it’s not like any real athletes were being groomed to dominate the game and then go on to college and play before joining the Olympic team.

b. Also, these kids were always the rich/borderline rich kids. It’s tough to become a powerhouse when your base of athletes are rich, kinda spoiled kids. That’s the same reason lacrosse will never get huge; nobody’s interested in rooting for a bunch of future doctors and lawyers running around in their $190 shorts flinging a ball around. We wanna see some poor, tough farmboy who’s hanging onto the team by a thread (thanks to taking shop 3 periods a day) out there cracking skulls in a blind fury. Like, ironically enough, Liza Minelli. Go figure.

c. Which is, ta-da, apparently the total opposite of every other country in the world. In other countries they have kids living in dirt and filth and crafting a ball out of kurds and whey and spittle busting their asses; in America we have the “Soccer Mom.” The Soccer Mom is the housewife who carts her kid back and forth to practice in their 4-miles-to-the-gallon SUV while he and his buddies scream at her to stop at TCBY. You don’t hear about a lot of Soccer Moms in Africa. I’d wager there are more soccer moms chained to my radiator at home right now than there are in all of Kenya. Just a hunch.

d. Hey, I’m only saying, this is why we’ll always suck at soccer: our players are soft. If you spend hours in the weight room or doing plyometrics, you’re gonna play football, basketball or baseball. If you like the way your hair flops up and down while running up and down a field, soccer’s your game. Some of my best friends in high school played soccer. Not once do I recall “oh shit, here comes our star midfielder… please don’t stuff me in a locker please don’t stuff me in a locker please don’t stuff me in a locker please don’t stuff me in a locker please don’t stuff me in a locker…”

e. Of course the real problem is that throughout the 90 minutes of a “match” NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENS. Once every 15 minutes someone will break out of the pack with the ball and you do get a little excited “oh shit, he’s gonna score…” there’s nothing between him and the goal for 35 yards, he’s running and…whoops. Dribbled the ball off his leg. Wheeeeeeeeee, great. Hell, in basketball a shot HAS to be taken within 24 seconds of every possession and we bitch about that being too slow. And yes Professor, before you write in with your comments, I know that if I dedicate the next 20 years of my life to studying the game and its many machinations I would have a new respect for what’s going on on the field, but right now all I see is “dude’s at midfield standing there with the ball while the other guys get tanner.” Hey, I’m sure I could spend 20 years studying the intricacies and beauty of sucking a dick, but guess what, it ain’t happening.

f. Finally, what really drives me bananas is that there’s no scoreboard with the time, only the ref knows how much time is left in the game. What the fuck is this? Hey soccer, lemme tell you, having some dude in tight white shorts running around a field of dudes cooing “ooooooooh, I’ve got a secret!” is not helping out your “straight” case, if you know what I mean. Christ.

Sorry, but soccer will never break through the Big Three of football, basketball and giving other dudes titty twisters. Just how it is.

'FOOTBALL AMERICAIN"


















'FOOTBALL'

Life Lessons for My Guys, Part 1

As I find myself newly surrounded by little fellers (Paddy Mac, Luke, Jack, the future Rrthur Jr), my thoughts have turned to what I can teach these boys. I wanna take things one step at a time and obviously the first thing these guys will ever do that matters, other than cut my grass, is Little League, so I thought I’d pass on some advice. From the ages of 8-12, this should be their life.


1) First and foremost – don’t eat the coach’s chewing tobacco. I know you think it’s cool – not only does Coach do it, but real ballplayers do too, right?

No. How can it be cool if some dipshit who is spending his weekends slapping little kids’ asses and treating them to McDonald’s is doing it? (And yes, I know the correct repsonse here would be to drop in a “what are they, priests?” joke. Yes, you’re a genius, please move on to your next Michael Jackson joke.) Your coach will prolly be some dud insurance salesman who never got to play when HE was in Little League, and coaching affords him the luxury of bossing kids around, feeling important, and getting out of the house and away from his nagging wife who has not slept with him in 7 years. Take one look at his too-tight coach’s shorts, the whistle around his neck and his station wagon with the “WWJD?” bumper sticker and think to yourself “Maybe this isn’t the cat I need to be emulating.” Who do you need to be copying? Well, obviously Kelly Leak. Driving a moterbike and smoking on the field while telling the coach to go fuck himself is the Hat Trick of LL bad-asses. Of course, it helps if you’re the greatest LL ever on earth, as Kelly leak was, but hey. And don’t think for a minute about Coach’s platitudes about treating everyone the same and that the star of the team can’t get away with that stuff. Please. I promise you, if you’re the best player on the team, you can smoke Newports at short while telling the coach to shut the fuck up and if you’re cranking out 3 dingers a game he’ll be buying you the latest Xbox while bribing his teenage daughters to come on to you to keep you happy. Sure, you’re only ten years old so all you know about girls is teasing them and pulling their hair, but by midseason you’ll have figured it out and will be stuffing her from behind while making her eat a live mouse like an old pro.

2) Also, since you’re the stud of the team you’ll surely wanna pitch, so don’t panic on that first day of practice when the Coach tries to insert his goofball kid as the pitcher. Just wait it out; within 20 minutes he’ll be reduced to a shivering puddle of boy-piss as he tries to endure his dad screaming at him to get the ball to the plate while everyone on the team is laughing at him, therefore setting himself up for a high school career of having no friends, having boy-boobs and getting caught jerking off in the locker room bathroom at least once. Yes, he will probably go on to reinvent Microsoft and marry one of the Olsen twins, but he will never ever forget those 20 minutes – the shame of his inadequecy forcing his dad’s neck to bulge with veins as he screams at Skippy to “throw it over the plate goddammit son!!!!!!!” while the fellas are behind him, lolling on the grass and calling him a pussy “like his pussy fucking dad.” HELLO future dalliance into homosexuality!! So don’t worry, after they drag this kid whose life is over off the mound you can coolly stroll up and start throwing darts past kids. You’ll be the star of the team and the Coach will fawn over you as he spends the next four years feeding hot dogs to Skippy on the bench while you’re carried off the field on the teams shoulders. Such is life.

3) Another thing you need to do is make sure your star status is shrouded in some mystique. You’re the star, you don’t need to be hangin out with all the other guys all summer. Don’t go to the fucking Dairy Queen and play grab-ass with these chuckleheads – why would they be scared of you on the field? We had a guy in the league when I played, his name was Peterbuck. This guy was a legend wrapped in a myth wrapped in a blue Indians jersey. I never saw Peterbuck in school. I have no idea where Peterbuck lived – insert the “I thought they just flew you in for games” line from Fast Times at Ridgemont High here. He threw a fastball that would top out at, say, 185mph and by the age of 10 he threw a curve that rolled off the table, got the morning paper, did the Jumble! and then would knock you on your ass. And when he wasn’t mowing us down he was clubbing dingers to depths of the outfied none of us even realized existed. Our moms would drive us to the games and work the concessions stand during the games; Peterbuck would roll up to the dugout shaving in the rear-view mirror as he parked. I don’t ever remember Peterbuck speaking to any of us. After the game had ended and we’d have to line up to slap hands with the other team “goodgamegoodgamegoodgamegamegamegamegame…” there’d be no Peterbuck in line. Already gone. But I think my FAVORITE part of the whole Peterbuck myth looking back is not the actual games themselves, not his actual playing, but the hysteria that would be created like clockwork the week before we were to face him. We played the Indians twice a year for each of my four Little League seasons, and EVERY FUCKING TIME LIKE CLOCKWORK a rumor would spread about 4 days before the game: Peterbuck had thrown out his arm throwing a rubber ball and can’t pitch!!! Every single time, we fell for this fucking story. Somehow, “somebody” would learnt his tidbit and the story would work itself throughout the county…which, looking back is also fairly incredible since we all live 20 miles from each other and I don’t remember once calling another Tiger on the phone…but by gameday we’d all be worked up in a lather – the unbeatable Peterbuck had totally trashed his arm by throwing a rubber ball against a wall for hours and would only be able to watch helpless as we Tigers rounded the bases all day, FINALLY beatng the hated Indians!!!!

Then he’d take the mound. Ha! We’d all laugh, incredulous that they’d even let him try to pitch. “This is gonna be funny!” Then he’d start warming up. Strange, we’d look at each other nervously, he seems to be…throwing pretty hard…..really hard…oh, God, no…

Next thing you know he’s throwing darts past us as we all bail outta the batter’s box like a blind date. But we fell for it EVERY time, and THAT, little ones, is myth-making. That’s how you need to be – it’s not enough to be the best; you have to put the fear of Harry Potter into these kids, they shouldn’t even think of you as human, much less a class-mate.

4) If you find yourself playing the outfield you need to quit, cause that means you suck and all you’re doing is embarrassing me. I don’t really know why if you play like a schoolgirl goof who’s blind in LL they stick you in the outfield, whereas the first they do starting in high school if you can hit the shit outta the ball and have a cannon for an arm is put you in the outfield. Oh well. But yeah, if Coach ever tells you to go to the outfield, tell him to go fuck himself and light up a Lucky Strike before walking outta the dugout and I’ll take ya for your first beer. Yes, I know you’re only eight years old, quit being a pussy. And you’ll hafta drive. burp.

5) Another thing I liked to do during a game is “position the outfield.” This means that during important, tense situations in the game I’d turn to the outfield and start waving, directing them to go left or right. “Go back…now over….over…no no, back…over…right there!!!” People watching in the stands will think “hey, that kid knows what he’s doing, he’s a leader, he’s The Man!” Of course none of the outfielders have moved an inch since they a) are retarded b) have no idea what you’re trying to say anyway c) are too busy pissing themselves and praying to God the ball doesn’t get hit to them, so they’re a little too busy to react to your machinations. But you’ll look impressive doing it!

And a bonus:

Chicks aren’t watching, so don’t bother thinking you’ll impress some skirt you’re into. You can go 4 for 4, pitch a no-hitter, she won’t know any different than if you had just played the worst game in the history of Little League. You know what WILL impress her and get you in them Care Bear shorts? Flingin a beer bottle outta Uncle Xmastime’s Festiva as you catch rubber peelin outta the parkin lot after telling the Coach to go fuck himself amid a cloud of Lucky Strikes. Now play ball, fuckface!!!