What's Stacy Valentine doing these days?

Or Britney Skye. Or, um. Wait. What? We don't know what you're talking about. All we know is it must be a slow news day.

This is fantastic on so, so many levels, but again with the awful lede?

Did Debbie really do Dallas? Oof.

To the mom at the doctor's office

"OPEN THIS! OH-PIN THIIIIS! OPEN THIS OPEN THIS OPEN THIS!!! OHHHH-PIIIIIIN THIIIIS!"

Um. Lady. Please shut your li'l Eight is Enough kid up. Please. Before we punt him across the waiting room. We had sh*t to read. And a li'l peace and quiet is a necessity sometimes.

"I can't hear you," you said.

Um. Lady. Please. For the love of God. Just shut your kid up in public. And not so much with the blowing bubbles inside.

And kid, if you come near us one more time with your wind up Tonka truck, we may just have to step on it.

Shhhhh. Mommy will buy you another one.

Cowboy up

We figure since we'll be trying out for this in a year or so, we might as well practice the ol' bio. This way, we can get the kinks out. Or something. (Photo from *way* back in the day).


Age: 71
Hometown: Jersey
Instruments: Guitar
Dream Duets: Sara Evans, Natalie Maines, Jennifer Nettles, Kelly Clarkson

BIO
Old Man Snap is a self-deprecating former fat kid who decided to, as he likes to say, stop whining and start winning way back in October 2004.

He contacted the Newtown School of Music, where his mother bought her first guitar in the early 1970s, for lessons. He wore band aids on his bitten cuticles and struggled with the G. Joe set him straight. No band aids. Ever. Well, unless they're the Almost Famous kind. Then, well, maybe but not really.

Within six months, OMS was playing guitar and not singing in the Philly jam band Dov’s Our Side Project, D(o)SP. Three months later, the band covered the Counting Crows song ‘Round Here. OMS sang. The band broke for dinner at the bridge.

OMS started performing solo at open mic nights in January 2006. Best. Drug. Ever. He'll spare you the stories of plants and prisons and dead flowers and letting go and champagne highs and baker streets. Please forgive him.

In his spare time, OMS plays the guitar every day and b*tches in his blog. He likes porches. And dames. And Guinness.

FUN FACTS ON OLD MAN SNAP
What celebrity do people say you look like?
The fat kid from Stand By Me. RR calls us Richard Gere. Seriously. We're so BFF.

What's on your playlist?
The iTunes loves to play the Cash and the Yonder and all of these things. We dig us some Band, Blind Melon, Dylan and the Dead. Ben Harper comes on a lot. As does Miranda Lambert and Kathleen Edwards. We love the David Gray and Counting Crows, too.

The craziest or most daring thing I have ever done...
We drank turpentine when we were 4 and lived to tell about it, b*tches.

What three things couldn't you live without?
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. That sh*t's deep, yo.

What is the first album that you ever purchased?
Album? Grand Illusion by Styxx
8-Track? Boston's Boston
Tape? Chunky A
CD? Neil Young Unplugged
iTunes? Love My Way, Psychedelic Furs

Do you have any pets?
We have a plant named Gregg.

Hobbies outside of music?
Blogging. Rowing. Drinking.

What is your favorite TV show? Movie? Book?
TV show: Grey’s Anatomy
Movie: The Last Waltz
Book: There’s a Wocket in My Pocket

What's your favorite board or video game?
Board: Clue. Mr. Body’s body. It’s gone.

What is your astrological sign?
Pisces

***
Currently listening to: Waste.

If you rub it...

He will, well, nevermind.

What's that? You didn't rub it? He did? Oh. And there's no field. Huh. We take it back. No joke here, ya'll. Hit "next blog" or some sh*t because godd*mn we l*st the f*nny this w**k.

Hold up. No no no. That was some funny sh*t. Stop trying to talk us out of things. We stand behind our Costner joke. You. Gets-a-laughin'.

Whew

So we finally hit eight hours last night.

We're not ashamed that we were in bed at 10. We're not ashamed that we were asleep by 10:02. We're certainly not ashamed that we woke up, bright-eyed and, well, you know, at 5:03.

But HAH! We could sleep more!

(And if eight hours means more exclamation points, shoot us. Shoot us, now, please).

So we slept for another hour or so.

Final tally, eight-plus hours, orange juice, Honey Nut Cheerios with a banana, coffee and the boringest postest everest, we know.

Just sharin', ya'll. Just sharin'.

***
Currently listening to: OandA Worst Of on the XM.

Huh. And we just learned something. See, a fine gentleman named Lazlo hosts a short on XM 202 called the Tech Files. We just heard about this. How did we miss this?

How is this even an issue? Sheesh. When we're a big bad rock star with hits like "4 a.m. Friday" and "Plastered," we won't be suing us some Apple.

To the people at the iTunes: you have our blessing to have our music and put that sh*t up there. See? We think everyone should have a bite of the apple. A... bite... of... the... APPLE.

HAH! We'll be here all day but not really.

Good luck, b-b-b-boys

And easy with the yours and the moms and the boxes and all of these things.

The Gift

OMS, in his dream: It's just that, well, you look just like Katie Holmes in The Gift.

Katie Holmes: I am.

OMS: Oh. Well, we think you look hot.

KH: I am.

OMS: Huh. Well, we mean, like, *really* hot.

KH: I'm going to kiss you now...

And PHONE RINGS.

Er, we mean, END SCENE.

And the phone did ring. And we did wake up. Bastards.

***
Currently listening to: Fluffhead.

We like naps, too

(Photo from Getty Images). Um. Well. We'll just let a sleeping ass lie. Or something.

Wild Thing(s)

You make (our) heart sing.

Our other favorite line overheard this week

And ya'll know we kid with the whole OMG BEST EVER bit, right? Right?

Anyway, oh our God the other best line ever overheard this week at the ol' jobby job:

"I spent half an hour in his house stark naked drinking beer."

He said on the other side of the cubicle. You what now and where? With who? That's aiiight, boy. You do your thang.

In the truck with another man (AKA Best overheard conversation in the work kitchen ever)

Lady 1 at lunch table: You know I was watchin' the Sopranos last night, right? 'Member Vito the construction guy?

Lady 2: Who?

Lady 1: Vito. The construction guy. I 'member watchin' last year when he at this construction site and he in the truck with another man.

Lady 2: Another what?

Lady 1: Man. He in there doin' his thang with him. You know, he (demonstrates, quietly, what appears to be the motions one would use if one were to demonstrate what, exactly, Vito was doing in the car with the other man).

Lady 2: For real? On the TV?

Lady 1: Mmmmmhmmmm. Then I saw last night he in da club in the city dancing around and he got his studs on.

And END SCENE.

Yes, we do

From the Inky this morning:

The roars from the crowd started to burn out of control.

"They were very hard balls, but I don't want to make any excuses," said (Bobby) Abreu. "I screwed up there and probably cost us the game."

Asked if the reaction from the crowd, which included derisive cheers and one standing ovation on subsequent Abreu catches, was the worst he'd ever heard or felt, Abreu said, "Could be, could be."

"I'm human," said the longtime Phillies star, who won a National League Gold Glove last year. "I can handle [the fans], but it's a tough city to play in, sometimes. They want me to catch every single ball hit to me in right field."

Here's the thing about Philly: it's become too cool to boo these days.

So the players are up against horrid angst when they play at home. Six losses in their first seven games attest to that. Plus they play 17 out of their next 22 at the Ciggity Biggity (which, we admit, has never really caught on as a nickname, but it still gets our vote).

So players are automatically f*cked as soon as they come home, because the fans, now both disgusted and trying to be cool, boo their li'l hearts out at every turn. It used to be, we think, booing was a sign of respect that a player wasn't playing to his abilities. Now it's so one can be all Phillyboo or whatever.

"DUUUUUUUDE! I totally booed Abreu tonight, man. It was frigging awesome! Now let's gOH hOHme and do stuff!"

From the outside, everyone looks like a dbag, from the fan booing a groundout in the second inning, to the player b*tching that the fan wants him to "catch every single ball."

You, as a professional athlete, get paid to do just that, Bobby. It's the mentality. Yes, go after every ball. You might be surprised at the result. Hustle and talent = fewer and fewer boos.

You, as a beleagured poor-me fan without a championship in 23 years in any of your four major franchises, need to recognize that the boorish booing behavior is starting to really, really, kill these guys. And it's not just the Phillies.

So the next game OMS attends, there will be a change. We will stand and cheer when it is appropriate to stand and cheer. We'll even leave the sarcasm at home. When it's time to boo, we're going to sit on our hands and not yell bad things.

Maybe the sound of crickets will do everyone a li'l good. Sh*t. We could even rename the team. The Fightin' Crickets has a nice ring, right? It sure beats Fightin' Crybabies or Fightin'? Sh*t, We're Just Longing for the Roads or Please Stop, Fans, You Hurt Us Sos.

Last point: the lead item on the Phillies Web site this morning? Burrell goes deep. Nevermind the real story, ya'll. Nevermind, because Hey! Red Means Go, b*tches!

To the hostess

Please don't ever say "Oh, are you hear to meet your mother?" again so loud. We love mother, but we don't have to announce to the world that Old Mama's Boy is in the heezy. Even if it's "cute" that we meet her. Just saying.

To the guy at lunch talking *way* too loud

"I look at us as a resource and not just another customer," said oh he of Dumbo ears. And no offense, what's the deal with talking so, so loud, oh earful wonder? We know us some big ears, mainly because of our big ol' easy-to-redden floppers on our own head. But we also don't scream at lunch while talking quietly to our colleagues.

"We're here to help," Dumbo continued. "We're here to work with you."

Oh with the cliched corporate culture. All he needed was a laser pointer and a bar graph and a couple of clothes pins to pin that sh*t back. We've thought about it, but we like thinking we can fly away from any given awkward situation.

No need to pin our own sh*t back.

***
Currently listening to: Another Lonely Day (Harper).

Why we hate Josh Hartnett. And why we think his movies are sh*t. And he's, like, stupid and stuff.

(Thanks to idontlikeyouinthatway.com for the shot. We'd like to think she's drowning him and looking for an 'ol porch to kick back on, maybe to recite her lines on while we serenade her with Kelly Clarkson covers. Or something).

Stop the presses

What the f*ck?

"The tomkitten has arrived." Nine months and that's the best you got? Are you sh*tting us? *That's* the lede?

Jesus f*cking f*ck f*ck F*CK. This is why people don't read newspapers. Nevermind the obvious questions of whether she really was preggers, or if TomCouch (see? that's a play on words, b*tches) is TomGay.

Tomkitten.

F*ck.

How about some originality? Here, we'll do it:

She had her at silence, because, well, you know how they're scientologists and can't make a peep and what not while giving birth, and, well, you know, Cruise was in that agent football movie and he had her at, well, hello but they can't talk, we mean, they could hold up cue cards but that doesn't count, so she had her at silence. With, actually. She had her with silence.

There. Much better.

Write your own

Oh, Tom.

You stole Joey from us. And you speak gibberish. And, well, we don't really have a question for you. More of a confession, really. We never saw the Mission Impossible. Or the Mission Impossible 2.

We *might* go see the Mission Impossible 3, but only because Felicity and that guy that wanted to kiss Dirk Diggler on the mouth are in it.

We still dig you in A Few Good Men, but only because you said you think better with your bat.

Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Cruise. Like we said, no questions, really. Just, well, just. Shoot. Good luck with that thing that you do. Whatever that's all about.

Days like yesterday

We knew it was going to be a good day when we visited our Pop's grave and the wind actually stopped for a minute. We took this to mean he was listening, so we told him we'd try to find more God or meaning or something and try to live right.

We fist pumped the ground and continued to Gram's.

We were the first to get there. We gave our secret handshake to our uncle, and we hugged Gram. We immediately ate us some cheese and crackers and immediately thought of Pop, since "Cheese and Crackers" was about as close as he got to using cuss words back in the day.

Family arrived one by one, and it was a small gathering, considering two things, the number of relatives we have, and the sheer mass of some of them. But that's another story for another day.

It was just one of those days, though, when things. Just. Feel. Right. We hate saying/writing/thinking this, normally, because the other shoe is forever dangling over our head. But in this case, we think it's OK.

The backyard was clean, and Gram had a new basketball hoop up for our 8-year-old cousin. It was eight feet, which meant Ol' Man Dunk went all kinds of crazy up in that beeyatch.

We played HORSE with Old Man Senior and the li'l sis, and we took great joy in taking the li'l sis out quickly. "HA! You a HO!" never gets old. Nor does, "HA! You a hooah! HAH!"

We weren't thinking about it at the time, this swishing shots back and forth with our old man. He's a lefty and pretty much makes shots whenever he wants. We opted for the unconventional. Nothing says basketball like sitting on top of a parked car and draining a 12-footer.

On an eight-foot rim. We know.

But that's not the point.

The point is yesterday was perfect. From shaking hands post Horse victory, to hugging Gram goodbye, to going back to Pop to place flowers.

Speaking of, Pop said the best prayers before every meal.

This always included the way he pronounced food the old coal region way. Gram saved all his written prayers, and today's talked about remembering where you came from and appreciating where you are so that tomorrow, well, it was something about embracing a golden future.

We were, dare we say it, optimistic for the first time in a long time.

We learned that our 8-year-old cousin only hits the ball when there's a payoff involved ("Five bucks if you hit cousin Old Man Snap"). If that's not a metaphor for today's pro athlete, we don't know what is.

We learned that Gram loves her some old lady jokes, and that one of our uncles is below 300 lbs., and the other is down to 340 (see? massive).

Most of all, we learned that sometimes it's OK to appreciate where you've been in order to really appreciate where you are and where you're going.

We know. Most of you knew all that. But whatever. We're feeling it right now.

***
Currently listening to: I'm Waiting for the Day (Beach Boys).

Pet Sounds

So we have this thing -- we always have, really -- of doing the exact *opposite* of what people want or do or say, if "people" in this sense, are the ones with power, or part of what's hip, or any of these things.

Granted, we still hold the ladder when our ol' man asks ("HOLD IT TIGHT. Nevermind. I can get your mother to do it."), but we're talking more about our reaction when things like the mainstream tell us what to listen to, or, seriously, what the cool lingo is these days.

Get to the point, OMS. We hear you. Point is, Rolling Stone preached a year or so ago that the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds album is *the* record by which all other records need be judged. We immediately started singing Kokomo and called it a night (and yes, we know Brian Wilson had nothing to do with that drivel).

But yes, our point. We're listening to the ol' iPod this morning, and of course it's on random shuffle because we're convinced that God or a higher power speaks to us through the iTunes/Pod random shuffle. Why else would Cash come on so much?

Ahhh, but to the point. The Beach Boys' Let's Go Away for Awhile came on. So we took it off random shuffle and listened, then, to Sloop John B and then God Only Knows. Our point is, those three songs in a row, on an album, could be the best three songs in a row on any album. We don't mean this in an OH MY GOD BEST EVER! way, either. It's just a solid set, is all.

There are others, like Boston's More Than a Feeling, Peace of Mind and Foreplay/Long Time, or DMB's #41 and Say Goodbye (preceded by Too Much and followed by Drive In, Drive Out, but more with those two songs in a row). We'll even throw in Nothin' But a G Thang, Deez Nuts, and Li'l Ghetto Boy off The Chronic, but, well, back to our point.

Let's Go Away for Awhile. Sloop Jon, er, John B. God Only Knows. *Sigh* We shall now resume the weekend.

***
Currently listening to: As I'm Leaving (Gray).

And if a tree doth fall...

So we're taking a couple days off, again, from this'n here blog.

But we leave you with this. Little Feat? Seriously? Had we known, we would've played this every day for the last year or so. Every daggum day.

Kicked by the wind. Robbed by the sleet.

We dig us some Li'l Feat.

Something about swinging an elm tree

Thanks to Matt for this.

Yes. Klosterman is the motherf*cking man.

Please make it stop

Again with the entertainment writers and their catchy, original ledes?

JLo's love doesn't cost a thing? It doesn't? She's from the block, is she? You'd tap the bottle and twist the cap off, would ya?

Ech.

To the Cingular people

Holy sh*t how you piss us off.

First, with the never having godd*mn bars. Ever. Nevermind the big ass billboards with HUGE bars on them. "Hey! Get Cingular Wireless! Yay! Bars!"

No. Bars. Ever. No signal. Ever. That's point one. Which brings us to point two.

Lookee here: we went to buy us one of them new fancy phones with that there new technology there so we can take them fancy pictures with our *phone*. Shoot, sugar. Maybe we want to get us one of them new fandangled *video* phones, too.

(But mainly, we just want a phone that doesn't drop f*cking calls in our *apartment* or in the *big city*, but now we're breaking character). And we digress.

So we went to get us a new phone yesterday, and it went a li'l something like this:

Assistant to the assistant manager, with way too much knowledge about anytime minutes and video sending and blue teeth: Sorry, man. You can't buy a phone here because you bought your old one in a different sector.

OMS: (Sighs). A what now?

Manager: Sir, you can buy this phone in Irvington.

OMS: But. Wha. Wait. I want to buy it here.

Assistant to the assistant manager: Well, you can buy it online, or you can buy it back in sector 38, near Philadelphia.

OMS: I can buy this online?

Assistant to the assistant manager: Ye--

OMS: KBYE.

And END SCENE.

But wa-wa-wait it gets worse...

So we go online tonight to upgrade our phone, but we can't remember our password. And because we've had the same password for everything for pretty much our entire life, this should not be an issue.

But of course it is.

After five log-in attempts, we successfully locked ourselves out. And now we've been on the phone waiting for the nice Cingular computer voice lady to shut the f*ck up so Andrew in India can answer our very simple question: what, dear sir, is our motherf*cking password?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Wait! Wait! The nice Cingular computer voice lady just told us all our trouble will wash away if we manage our account online! Yay! All we have to do now is F*CK we can't do that!

No password b*tches! Wheeeeeeeeee! Cingular sucks our ass!

Godd*mnit.

We're not a piece of meat

We'll have more later, but all we can say to the guy dancing in our direction Saturday night is no, we don't have the gay.

(We were) dreamin' when (we) wrote this...

Yeah. So tonight we're gonna party, well, you know the deal.

Be back later this weekend with a good ol' tale about airports (!) and hoops (!) and driving (!) and more exclamationable endeavors (!) (!) (!).

To the sales guys at the bar

"I can sell anything!" one of you said, excitedly. "I'm a sales maniac!"

Yes, you talked in exclamation points, and yes, you and your friend talked very loudly about the secret deal that SHHHHHHH! don't say anything to Mary because she can't know about this secret deal.

And other guy, wow.

"Don't I know you?" you said to Lita Ford in a business suit when she walked by. "Where are you from? Don't I know you? You look familiar. (Yes, she does. Like Lita Ford, only with brown hair and in a business suit. In other words, just the 1988 hair, really). Don't I know you?"

"No," she said. "You don't."

And END SCENE.

***
Currently listening to: Coolio's Gangsta Paradise. It's been in our head since we woke up. And it's still playing over and over. Who wakes up to "Why are we so blind to see that the ones we hurt are you and (us)?"

We're not touching Katie Couric

Because hasn't the other dude at the CBS been doing a really solid, honest, and humble job with the news? Isn't that impossible these days? Especially on the TV?

"Who knew the old bastard was going to resurrect CBS news?" Imus just said on his morning program. We'll leave it at that. No links on this one, kids. If you don't know what we're talking about, find the information elsewhere. This is all the coverage Ms. Couric gets in these here parts.

However we are touching this and this. With 10-foot poles. Or something.

She's 34? She's so going to jail. He's 55? Does it f*cking matter? Oh with the dumbass. Dumbasses, even.

Ya'll got to get your learn on, people. Bad sh*t happens when you do dumb, bad sh*t.

To the guy at the gym

"I just need to find my locker," you said, to us, in the locker room.

Did we look ready for conversation in a gym locker room with ol' sweaty shirt goggles guy? No. We were changing. Quietly and focused. We were about to have the best stress-free row we've had in months. And there you were.

You just needed to find your locker.

Well. We just needed some peace and quiet and a moment to collect our thoughts and focus. And listen to yet another Li'l Jon motherf*ckin' remix.

What.

PLAY BALL!

Oh (our) goodness, part 1

We love the posts around here that start with, "Seriously?"

It automatically makes us think of the Grey's Anatomy, which automatically makes us think of George and Izzie and Mer and Cristina and all of our fictional friends in Seattle. But that's another story for another day.

Today's is about this.

Seriously?

We're filing this under "We sat in the seats just fine, and we liked us some ice cream back then. And peanut butter. And french fries. And Burger King's bacon double-cheeseburgers."

Yet more proof the world is slowly ending, we guess. And we were just starting to feel happy, too.

But the Yankees weren't playing

Our favorite tidbit from the lost weekend in Philly?

What's with the grown men fighting kids for foul balls? General rule o' thumb for ol' OMS: if we ever catch a foul ball, it goes right to whoever the closest kid is. No need to hold onto the keepsake like a f*cking moron. It's a ball. Get over it.

Here, kid. Dreams do come true. Now take your f*cking hat off during the Anthem.