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Coming Soon: A major announcement that you might already know if (a) we're actual or online friends; (b) you follow my Twitter; or (c) you listen to this Jagged Edge classic...

You know how CSI and CSI: Miami will have those occasional crossover episodes to make you tune in to each show to get the entire story, even though don't really need to watch both episodes to get the scoop on everything anyway?  That's kind of what's going on here.  By now I'm sure you've read all about my gloriously entertaining first visit to Sacramento (and shame on you if you haven't), but here are some other highlights from my three-day trip to the Westside (do people still say, "Westside" or am I living in 1996?).

Santa Monica Pier:  I've got a long-running streak that goes back all the way to my summer camp days at the Green Lane "Y" in New Jersey -- I've never gone home empty-handed from a boardwalk basketball hoop.  In fact, I used to be so good at hitting those tricky shots, that other campers would ask me to shoot for them just to get the prize.  You'll be glad to know the streak lives on -- I won a stuffed animal shark for Michelle after eight attempts on my first try, which is now promptly sitting in a box in our storage unit.  Good times.

Someone So Unforgettable:  We were on five flights with three different airlines over the weekend, and despite Virgin Airlines' free in-air TV and WiFi and Jet Blue's timely NFL package, my hands-down favorite was Southwest Airlines.  As we prepared for landing, one of the flight attendants announced that we'd be treated to some entertainment -- Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."  That would've been fine and all, but she then proceed to sing the entire song herself over the PA system.  Look, you just had to be there...it was like being trapped at an "American Idol" audition 10,000 feet up in the air.

Just Win, Baby:  It would've been far too easy had we boarded our flight out of Sacramento early Sunday morning and been back in New York by eight o'clock at night.  But of course, our plane was diverted to Oakland due to heavy fog, so we missed our connecting flight out of Long Beach.  Fortunately, Jet Blue gave us the option of leaving out of Las Vegas, complete with a three-hour layover in Sin City, which no rational person could possibly be mad about or decline.  Things got even more interesting when an earlier flight to Vegas was held up in Long Beach just as we arrived, and the security people inexplicably let us on board without even checking our IDs (gotta love the way they've stepped their game up after those recent scares).

Long story short, we rented a cheap hotel room and spent a solid six hours gambling at the Flamingo and Caesar's Palace .  I wasn't old enough to enter the casinos the last time I was in Vegas on a family vacation in high school (thanks, mom), but I more than compensated this time around.  I won't disclose how much money I lost, but let's just say that it was roughly three times more than what Michelle gambled away.  Note to self:  the roulette tables are not your friends.

By far the greatest moment was when a woman won $1,000 in the "Wheel of Fortune" slot game in front of us, and then told me, "now it's your turn" before walking away.  She left $20 worth of credits in the machine, which I went on to lose in about three minutes, but still, that type of thing just doesn't happen every day.  Or hell, maybe it does in Vegas...I should go back more often.

I was a huge comic book fanatic as a kid.  I'd pick up the latest issues of X-Men and Spiderman every week, read them from cover to cover, and then carefully place them in plastic protectors to keep them in mint condition.  I'd pride myself in knowing every minute detail about Wolverine's past and Cyclops' superpowers, and spent hours drawing my own superheroes and fictional stories.  I dreamed of working for Marvel or DC Comics, and my cousin still tells me I would've made a great animator every time I see her.

My love of comic books slowly started to fade as I became more and more immersed in sports when I reached middle school and started trading basketball cards.  One day, I decided to put my entire comic book collection in the attic, presuming that some time down the line, they'd appreciate in value and pay for my college education (in retrospect, I would've been lucky had they covered half a semester at NYU).  I haven't looked at them since, and can only hope that my parents didn't throw them away after I moved out and shifted my focus towards stalking Candace Parker my financial career.

A couple of months ago, one of my friends, a terrific professional animator who'd previously worked for Nickelodeon, decided to create his own comic book.  He asked if I'd help him with the project, and I was about to tell him that I'd be happy to pitch ideas and could even dig up some of my old drawings.  It turns out, he was looking for something different  -- he wanted me to be the superhero in his story.  I ended up posing for several pictures (not nearly as shady as it sounds, I promise) and he later presented a few comic illustrations to the heads of a well-known studio.

Although most of the details are still under wraps and I'm not allowed to reveal any additional information at this time (the titles have been edited out), I'm proud to present two future comic book covers featuring my likeness.  Keep in mind that he had to, "make [me] look less than flattering given the context of the scene."  I still think I look damn cool, even with a knife pressed up against my throat.  I guess this makes me a hero...

I thought Michael Jackson was a woman the first time I saw him. No, really, I did. I was in third grade when my class watched one of his performances on a big screen in the auditorium, and I saw a white person with long hair and a high-pitched voice, unlike anyone I'd ever encountered.  I should note that I'd only been in United States for a few months, having spent most of my childhood in a poor Russian neigborhood with little access to American music or television. Needless to say, there was no one quite like Wacko Jacko in Russia.

I started getting into Michael Jackson's music when I began listening to more and more hip-hop and R&B in the mid-'90's and recognized the influence he had on my favorite artists. At one point, I played "Man In the Mirror" on a continuous loop in my car, hoping to gather the nerve to ask a girl I liked to the prom (it worked).  And then came "Your Rock My World" during my freshman year of college. The boy bands were desperately trying to hang on to a last shred of relevance, and Jackson blew them out of the water with a classic song that only he could pull off -- I mean, honestly, who says "you rock my world" besides Steve Urkel?  No one could resist getting on the dance floor when it came on during a party, and it still puts me in a really good mood any time I hear it (think D'Angelo "Untitled").

Like every other fan, I'll miss you, Michael.  Anyone who gets down to R. Kelly's "Ignition" gets a pass from me for any of his other troubles. Rest in peace.

What's this, two straight posts of me hanging out with attractive ladies?  I'm as shocked as you are.  I haven't been this cool since...um, ever.  Actually, no, I take that back -- in summer camp, I once played this guy one-on-one for his girlfriend, in front of her and a huge crowd on on-lookers.  I beat him on a lucky fadeaway three and walked off the court with my arm around his girl (the first and only black chick I've dated).  Ah, good times, even if it was like 10 years ago...but I digress.

Last night, I went out for drinks with a few fellow bloggers: Midwest Coast Bias, one of the Michelle's from 2 Michelles and miamidolphins.com, and Kristine, who did video-editing for Fanhouse and now writes hip-hop gossip for a living (I know!).  Anyways, here are some pictures -- the last three are supposed to be of us trying to out-gangsta each other.  Needless to say, I failed.  Oh, and yes, the subject of my second (technically third) Deadspin ban came up, but no, I won't get into that here.  Who needs them?

Since the first go-around in this series was so well received, I figured now would a good time for another episode of people I hate.  I have a lot to say, including a glorious flashback, so let's skip the introduction, and get right to it... 

People who don't flush the toilet:  I can't stand going to a public bathroom -- especially at work -- and seeing piss in the urinals (note:  leaving a mess in the stalls gets a pass from me, as long as you showed an effort to flush, since I've had problems with that myself).   And please don't tell me that you "forgot," because everyone over the game of five is well-versed in the art of pressing down on the damn handle, even if you have to use your elbow because you don't wanna touch it.  So there is no excuse for this -- you're a disgusting human being and I will never ever invite you to my house for dinner.  Now, obviously this only applies to guys, since I don't go into women's bathrooms (that you know of, at least), so maybe some of the female readers can let me know if this happens to you, too.

People with girlfriends:  You know why, obviously, and I hate you even more if you're into any kind of PDA.  It's only a matter of time before I lose it and curse out some teenage couple at Union Square Park.  And you wonder why I don't go out a lot...it's for your safety!

All drivers:  First, a quick story from (cue Power 105 voice) *back in the day.*  I was running somewhere in Chelsea during my junior year of college, and had the green light to cross the street.  Out of nowhere, a cab driver made a sharp turn around the corner, and even though he tried to slow down, he hit me and knocked me to the ground.  I wasn't seriously hurt -- aside from all kinds of cuts and bruises on every (yes, every) apendage that I'd discover later -- so I just got up and continued running.  I could hear the driver yelling after me, and I just waved.  But the best part, which doubles as one of the five greatest moments of my life, was when a black guy who saw the whole thing go down on the street said (and I'll never forget this), "Yo!  That n***a got hit and kept on going, son!"  Classic.  Has this stopped me from crossing a busy intersection at full speed?  I think you know the answer to that.

Anyways, back to the point.  I don't drive in the city because the people are insane and it's impossible to find parking.  I also hate taking cabs because half of the time it ends up taking just as long as the subway or even walking because of all the damn traffic.   So, for all of these reasons, I hate every single New York City driver and await the day when I -- and only I -- can fly like the Jetsons.

And exhale....I think that's enough hate for one day...

Man, how I used to still love this song.  I'd request it at every middle school dance, Bar Mitzvah, and birthday party, and then sing along and step in the name of love like Elaine Benes.  My high school Project Graduation party had some kind of 'make your own music video' station, but unfortunately, they didn't have my song (shocking, since it was five years old at the time).  My friend and I inexplicably settled for the Backstreet Boys' classic, "As Long as You Love Me," which to this day remains one of my worst decisions of all time...right up there with choosing a career in finance.  I'm praying that all copies of that performance have been destroyed, but I'll bet my parents still have a tape laying around somewhere.  Ah, good times...hold on, this will make more sense in a second.

 
Okay, so, I talked about "The Pickup Artist" -- a fantastic VH1 reality competition that tries to turn huge losers into studs -- last year, and I can't believe I didn't know there was a second season (see: it's the return of the mack!).  Don't worry, I'm all caught up now and here to give you the breakdown.  First of all, I can't begin to describe the level of unintentional comedy packed into every episode.  These guys are in their mid- to late-20's, and are bigger dorks than me in the 7th grade.  When you feel down about yourself, just remember that Rian is a 28-year-old virgin who's never kissed a girl and sleeps with stuffed animals, and that Brian, well, here ya go.  Oh, and I can't get over the ridiculousness of the host, Mystery, who looks like he's at least seven feet tall, and dresses -- no, excuse me, "peacocks" -- like a cracked-out Andre 3000.

Keeping that in mind, there are the things I need to know:

1. Mystery is supposedly a 'master pick-up artist' and can get any woman he wants.  Okay, sure...but there's always gonna be some chick that thinks he's creepy and wants nothing to do with him.  So, um, what happens when he tries to impress his students and gets shot down?  It's bound to happen some time, right?  Is there a little behind-the-scenes action?
   
   
2. Sadly, this season is only eight episodes long, and we don't know how much was cut out and how long it actually took to film.  But the guys progress a little too quickly.  How do they go from being too scared to approach a woman, to picking up bikini models with more smooth talk than Hank Moody?  Maybe some of Mystery's tricks work, but I'm just not buying it...
   
   
3. What do the guys do with the numbers they get from girls?  I mean, the point is to actually date them, no?  And do the producers tell the club-goers about the show after they're done shooting, or do the girls not even know until they see themselves on TV?  That would be priceless...
   

I will leave you with the winner's favorite pickup line, which needs to be delivered in a whiny and overly excited tone:  "Girls, what movie is this from?  Nobody puts baby in a corner!"  Good God, if I hear that crap one more time...

With both the Mets and Yankees moving to new stadiums next season, it's a time to reminisce on the good times.  I was never a huge fan of either team -- if you don't know, I despise the Yankees -- but I've had my share of fun experiences in each.  They usually had nothing to do with the games themselves...more about the people and the times....

I'll always remember being chased by four security guards at Yankees Stadium back in summer camp.  My friend Jeremy and I didn't care about a meaningless game against the Texas Rangers, so we found other ways to entertain ourselves.  One of us, probably me, thought it would be a good idea to fill cardboard food trays with ketchup and mustard and then toss them at unsuspecting people by the concession stands.  After about a half hour of unspeakable fun, we saw several cops rushing toward us.  Jeremy and I ran down the stairs and somehow dodged them, but had no idea where to find the rest of our group.  I don't know how we made it back on our bus, covered in red and yellow food stains, but we never told a single person about what really happened.  The whole thing makes me laugh to this day for some reason.

I also recounted an emotional moment at Shea Stadium on Deadspin, where I comment under the genius pseudonym of Candace Parker Secret Lover:

This One Was For All Of Them. I'm not a good enough writer to describe how Mike Piazza's go-ahead home run in the bottom of the eighth inning on September 21, 2001 lifted an entire city. I remember standing up and cheering with my friends, at a time when none of us could imagine ever smiling again. I was a freshman at NYU, and just 10 days prior, the tragic events of 9/11 brought about unspeakable pain and suffering. To many, going to a game during a time of mourning was appalling and heartless, but we needed baseball to remind us that we could get past the tragedy and move forward. After Armando Benitez (who else?) gave up a run in the top of the eighth, putting the Braves ahead 2-1, Shea was eerily quiet and dejected. The good vibes from the touching pre-game tribute were all but gone; I don't think we had the heart to go home with another loss. And that's when it happened. Edgardo Alfonzo reached on a walk and set the stage for Piazza to rescue the Mets, and in many ways, us all from being down. I'm not ashamed to admit that it was the only time I ever cried during a sporting event. We left the stadium in a state that was somewhere between hysteria and disbelief. Whatever that feeling was, I'll never forget it.

Wow, I need a moment y'all, see I almost felt a tear drop....

I caught "American Beauty" on cable the other day, and it got me thinking -- you know how Kevin Spacey's character quits his crappy job and applies at McDonald's just because he feels like it?   Never mind the improbability of his fake sexual harassment claim, which is so ridiculous that it almost ruins the movie.  I just envy him for getting up one day and saying, "screw it, I'm doing whatever the hell I want."  But that's not the only reason why I'm bringing it up now.  You know what it's time for....a classic from the vault.  I'll introduce this in my best Power 105.1 announcer voice:  back in the day....1999....Linens 'N Things in New Jersey.

I remember discussing the premise of American Beauty with my manager, a 30-something, (relatively) attractive Latino woman.  About halfway through our conversation, she chuckled and said, "well, the pie was warm and soft, so it felt just like the real thing, you know what I mean?"  After an awkward pause, I realized that she was referring to "American Pie"...um, yeah, who doesn't get these cinematic masterpieces confused?  I didn't think that was an appropriate comment for her to make to a 16-year-old....but then again, this is the same woman who constantly asked if she could (or more correctly begged to) grab my ass...which would've been troubling if I didn't sort of like it.  And you wonder why I have problems now.  I keep it clean, so I won't divulge any further details here...let's just say that it was an um, interesting work experience.  Oh, and years later, I ran into one of my former LNT store managers, and he told me he married her.  I actually laughed because I thought he was joking...expect he wasn't.  At least five awkward seconds passed before I realized I should tell him congratulations and quickly walk away...ah, memories.

In other news, a subway performer brightened up an otherwise long and boring trip.  Now, if you've ever been on a NYC train, then you've come across beggars, bootleg DVD sellers stuck in a time warp, and all kinds of "musicians."  I hardly ever enjoy any of these spontaneous concerts, and start moving to the back if I hear anything that starts with, "ladies and gentlemen."  The worst part is when I'm forced to look down at the floor when they come around asking for tips.  Look, I'm not a bad person, but I'd rather contribute to an organization so I know where my money's going, you know?  Or maybe I'm just a cheap bastard.  It's one or the other.  Anyways, I almost broke my own rule...all in the interest of unintentional comedy.  An elderly woman sat down in her seat, and started singing one phrase, over and over, without the aid of instrument: "It ain't no joke, I'm broke."  This went on for a solid two minutes, and at the end, almost everyone around me put change in her cup.  I couldn't bring myself to do it, but I came close...I almost reached for the change my pocket.

Some of life's random moments stick with you for no discernible reason.  I remember everything about the night when Mark McGwire hit homerun number 62, from the SAT math problem I was reviewing, down to the striking date of 9/8/98.  I'll never forget when Rex Chapman connected on the greatest shot in NBA Playoff history, and the way my friends and I imitated Kevin Harlan's "for the tie" play-by-play call on the hoop in my driveway.  And of course, I sometimes reminisce about the high school gym class when a brilliant  upperclassman used the Pringles slogan (also see: title) to describe, um, exactly what you're thinking.  It all came back to me when I came across a story of unfathomable horror (or high comedy, depending on who you ask)...   

In case you missed it, a man has officially been crowned the grossest human being alive.  Now, don't get me wrong, I empathize with the woman here -- thankfully I've never awoken to find a man masturbating in my proximity while deeply gazing into my eyes.  Actually...here's a related tangent that I almost wish I didn't remember: one of my college buddies once woke up from a nap and saw his (immidiately former) roommate  pleasuring himself in front of his computer.  Bad times.  Anyways, post traumatic stress disorder and future therapy aside, this poor woman's account is even funnier because it's shockingly graphic.  She ran her fingers through her hair and discovered ?a substantial amount of an extremely sticky substance.?  Gross...but you're sure it wasn't Elmer's glue or something?  But the part that kills me is:

A passenger...comforted her and verified the semen in her hair.

 Okay, do you really need someone to confirm the origin of the mysterious goo in this situation?  And how did the man create this substantial amount -- presumably several loads -- without being caught in the act?  Who the hell is this guy...and more importanly, what's his secret??  Er...kidding, of course.  I don't understand why no one is asking these questions...

Have you ever wanted to find someone attractive?  I mean, you meet a girl you think is maybe kinda cute, but you're not that drawn to her at first.  Only she starts to look a little better each time you see her, and you begin convincing yourself that she's not that bad looking...and then after a few weeks, she's looks like Natalie Portman's second cousin.  My friends and I used to call this the "summer job theory," back in the days when we somehow ended up working at places like Bed Bath & Beyond or Linens 'N Things (linked only because one of the cashiers still gives me an employee discount after like nine years -- good times!).

Actually, working there was less coincidence than design, since you can guess which segment of the population shops at department stores the most.  That's right, middle-aged housewives...er, I mean, college-bound girls who'll do anything for a 20% off coupon...and by anything, I mean let you talk to them for a few minutes without turning away in disgust.  Sorry, I lost my train of thought... Oh, right, the theory -- the real reason we called it that is because there was always some girl that worked in your department that fit the profile perfectly.  By the end of the summer, after spending so many late nights helping her close the store and restock the shelves, she really grew on you.  Why do I mention this now?  Because there are no crazy hot girls on my floor...but there's one that's kinda sorta cute.  I've been working in my new building for about two weeks....so she's now escalated to "borderline sexy" status.  Even though I'm well aware of what's happening, I'm powerless to stop it.  This can only end badly.

The other object of my daily fascination is the work of a profound 12-year-old, who I will refer to as Tonnie.  That's right, it's the Reptile of Trust.  I really wish I could provide a link to the full page version so that you could experience the brilliance in all its glory, but this is the best I can do right now.  Anyways, this masterpiece used to hang outside of my old building, and brought joy to my world, as well that of countless others, on a daily basis.  Unfortunately, it was taken down shortly before I moved to my current office, and all I have left is a black-and-white printout hanging above my desk.   I like to imagine that it somehow protects me from evil...or something like that.

Why do I love it so much, you ask?  I'm not really sure, and I don't want to diminish it by listing pointless reasons.  Plus, my limited vocabulary would not do it justice.  It's simple, and yet unfathomably complex; it's absurd but spectacularly awesome all at once.  I hope to one day understand what went on inside the artist's head during its conception...

Oh, and there's a poem that I inexplicably missed, which brought the R.O.T. to a new level when finally I read it.  I will now recite it by heart (that's a lie, I only know the soon-to-be-historic second line):

Dear Anger:

Sometimes I can control you
but sometimes you are
uncontrollable.
You get on my nerves, but then again, you are
my nerves. 
I try to get rid of you but
you keep coming back. 
I just want you to know
you can't control me
anymore.

Wow.  If you're not moved by this, you're not human.

How can someone half my age be so much deeper and more profound?  I bow to the power of the Reptile of Trust, and Tonnie, the boy/girl genius whose fingertips created magic on a fateful Saturday afternoon.