Friday, April 30, 2010

I'm Back, DUDES!

What's up everyone, it's A-Rod! Welcome to my A-Blog!!!

I stopped blogging for a while after my horrible time in Japan back in '08. Sorry for that. Bet you guys were wondering what the hell I'd been up to! But I'm back now, and it's going to be pretty sweet.

To start with, I put up all the old posts. You can read those by clicking or just scrolling. My buddy Gourou, who advises me on this blog and who saved me from pirates in Japan, also taught me how to post pictures now. Check it!

That was supposed to be a running puppy. Hopefully it worked. All it shows here is a lot of computer code. But Gourou says that's how it works. I trust him, because when I first tried to post it, I got tape and glue all over my screen and had to buy a new monitor. This new one is sweet, though. Totally glare free, so my eyes stay strong for hitting.

I'll be back next week to start posting some sweet stories and ideas. The year has been awesome so far, especially because Melky Cabrera is traded. Having him out of town has made life a lot better. I'm even getting pretty close with a new Yankee, Randy Winn. We're almost best friends. But don't tell him that, because whenever I tell people they're my best friend, it jinxes it.

Talk to you guys later.

Back From Japan and Confused


I don’t have to say anything. I’m furious. You probably know from my last post that Melky tricked me. I flew to Japan because he told me we were opening our season in Tokyo. I stayed there for five days waiting for the rest of the Yankees. They didn’t come. I got back yesterday morning and found out that there were games in Japan, but it was between Boston and the green team from the western conference.

You got me, Melky, but now it’s my turn, and you don’t even want to imagine what’s in store. It might involve fire, or horses, or just hitting some of your things with a bat until they break.

I flew into LaGuardia, and when I finally stepped out to try to find a cab, my phone told me I had 87 voicemails and 94 text messages since leaving for Japan. Most of them were angry messages from Joe Girardi or other Yankee people to the effect of “where are you, the season’s about to start?!”

When I got home, I looked on the internet and was relieved to find out I hadn’t missed any games, but that we had our first that afternoon (at home, thank God) against Canada. I took a nap and woke up at 2, way late for our 1pm start, and rushed to the stadium to find it empty.

I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore. Was that another prank? If yes, how did Melky get to list our game? Am I even on the Yankees anymore?

I felt pretty sad, so instead of going home I just went out on the field and sat in a puddle by third base. I made up some rhymes about girls I used to know in the Dominican Republic to pass the time, and before long the sky was getting dark and I was completely soaked. This morning I feel flu-ish.

I’ll have to make some calls. I wonder if maybe I’m kicked off the team because of the steroids stuff? Jose Canseco told the story about how I asked him where to find steroids, and now people are crazy upset. The truth is, everyone else was using them in Seattle, but I didn’t even know what steroids were. I still don’t, actually. Is it at all like Red Bull? I asked Canseco because I wanted to be part of the gang. He gave me some names, but instead of contacting anyone, I just bought a few needles and injected myself with sugar solution in front of the other guys. It ended up backfiring because a couple times I accidentally made the fat part of my butt bleed pretty bad with some needle mishaps.

Japan is Effin' Nuts!


Hey everyone, Happy New Year! I know it’s pretty late to say that kind of thing, but it’s my first post of 2008, so what the heck?

The new season’s about to start, and as most of you probably know, the Yankees are opening our season here in Japan. Last year ended pretty badly, and a lot of tough things were said about me, but I spent the whole winter getting in shape and making myself mentally tough by playing games like Truth or Dare and Bingo. I’m ready to rock.

But enough about baseball. Let’s talk about this crazy island. Man, growing up and living in New York, I thought I’d experienced the fastest place on Earth. But I was dead wrong! Japan is like some kind of high-speed factory where every part has to keep moving or else it will get bumped by the part behind it. Except the “parts” are scurrying little people, and they shout in the way that birds talk.

But Japan also has an awesome history. Did you know that Japan defeated the Mongols by having a strong wind attack their sailboats? That’s where we get the word “kamikaze.” Later, in different wars when there was no wind, the Japanese had to crash into boats with planes. One way or another, if your country is at war with Japan, you want to stay out of boats. My tour guide Gorou tells me all this when we go around seeing the sites. I found him at the piers on Tokyo Bay when I accidentally wandered too far my first night. Some men offered me a ride on a water taxi, but he spoke a little English and told me they were the wrong kind of people. Now I pay him 800 dollars per day to keep me safe.

Before I go, I have an embarrassing thing to admit. Can you believe that up until last week, I didn’t realize we were playing a game in Japan? I guess I hadn’t been paying attention in meetings. Luckily, Melky let me know a couple days ago, and even chartered a private jet in my name. After all that, I managed to get here first! Phew.

The rest of the team will probably show up later today. Get ready for game 1, Yankee fans! It’s A-Bomb time!

I Am Furious at Paul Newman


I trusted Paul Newman. I trusted him because of his movies, and because of his salad dressings, which are all awesome. Everyone knows that. So I thought it would be fine, as I walked through the Tampa Bay supermarket yesterday (we have baseball games here now), to try the new line of “Paul Newman Pickles.” It came in a sensible jar with his face on the front, just like the salad dressing. I love dill pickles, so I couldn’t wait to have a taste.

The minute I left the store, I opened the jar. The pickles were small. I chomped into one, and the taste just about made me die.

It was a sweet pickle. FOR PETE’S SAKE! I didn’t even know these existed. What kind of irresponsible son of a bitch would sweeten a pickle?! Pardon my language, but this really rattles my cage. Only an asshole would love a sweet pickle. An asshole or a con man.

In a blind rage, I dumped the rest of the pickles on the ground and hurled the glass jar across the street. I should have looked first, because it hit a parked police car and shattered the windshield. No cops were inside, though, so I sprinted away.

Back in the hotel room, I decided to contact Paul Newman. For someone to betray my trust that way, the least he could do was answer in person. I got on the lobby computers and went to I typed in “Paul Newman’s address” and my current town, “Tampa Bay,” because google works better if you type in your location (this is especially good for finding florists).

Believe it or not, google returned Paul Newman’s exact address, and it was in Tampa Bay! I wrote it down and caught a cab. In about fifteen minutes, after another stop at the grocery store, we arrived, and I stormed up the cement walkway, pounded on the door, and began cursing. Nobody answered, so I took out the ten jars of real dill pickles I’d just bought, and hurled them through the window. “That’s a real pickle, you arrogant Hollywood fucker!” I shouted. “Those are real pickles!” Still, nobody came, so I took an autographed picture of myself from my wallet and left it among the shards of glass on the windowsill.

I’m not going to go into the aftermath. There have been a lot of phone calls. Joe Torre is trying to help. All I can say is that apparently Paul Newman has a double, and I was fooled. I went after the wrong one. The real Paul Newman lives in California somewhere. There may be a lawsuit — the tenth filed against me.

I myself have filed seventeen against other parties.

I'm Owning the Cubs Soon


I just googled myself and saw this story about how I might own the Cubs! Wow!

Nobody told me about this, but it’s hella exciting. I guess my agent, Scott Boras, is finishing the deal. I don’t really know the details. Scott takes care of me pretty well, and he gets angry when I ask about specific things. Last time I had a salary negotiation, for example, I planned to sit in on the talks. After about a day, he screamed at me for demanding a few things I didn’t totally need, like a coin fountain. The next morning, though, we made up. He bought me a plane ticket to Phoenix (roller blade paradise!) and a week’s stay at the Royal Palms Hotel and Spa.

I’ve been trying to call him for a whole day, but his secretary Amelia (a rotten-hearted female who I will never ask out again) says he’s busy.

Now I just keep daydreaming about what I’ll do when I own the Cubs. The first thing, probably, is that I’ll move them to Miami. It’s a much better town without all the wind and cold weather. Second, I’d make all the seats in the stadium bean bags. Imagine that! Businessmen in bean bags! What an experience!

Third, I’d hire Melky Cabrera and make him pitch on the regular rotation. It would humiliate him and teach him an important lesson about being a bastard. Yesterday, after the post-game showers, he put a live frog in my locker. It was absolutely terrifying. I tripped over a bench as I was backing way, and everyone laughed. (My towel came off and I think some of them saw my penis)

In order to prove that I was still top dog, I had to do a pretty sad thing. I rose up, steeled my nerve, grabbed the frog, and hurled it hard against the wall. Derek Jeter was like “what the fuck, man?” and everyone else sort of stopped laughing and turned away shaking their heads.

They may not have liked what I did, but you know what? They respect me.

I’d also train the Cubs players to do incredible dances between innings.

Melky, You About to Get GOT!


Last night, in the dug-out during our game against the Orioles, I made a comment about one of my favorite bands, Death Cab For Cutie. Melky overheard me and started laughing. When I asked what was so funny, he said I was “whiter than a Dear Abby column in a Vancouver paper.” A few people laughed, and I was humiliated!

ALRIGHT, MELK-MELK! You didn’t think I could sling some turkey talk? Well prep yo’self for some fo’real jiggety jive, sandpaper! You ‘bouts to get nine kinds ‘a serviced, and a ignorant fool best not worry on no gratuitah!

Ain’t you heard how long I been steppin’ slick? Straight conceived in the ‘Heights, bet yo ass momma don’ raise no friv’luss chile! Work my whole dam life, all de wile dat man be chippin’ at my self-esteems wid rock-hammas and shout-callin’! Corncobs and birch bark stingin’ mah ass if daddy stumble ‘troo da thresh-hole cross an’ liqueured!

Melk-Melk, when y’all was swaddlin’ round some ole playpen, I’se roundin’ up goofballs in da ‘hood, gamblin’ we ain’t gon’ find no preacher speachin’ from ole Vicar Jones, cuz Lord knows dat man be invokin’ apostles and communitah suhvice!

And dinna be turnin’ yer mouth whip-like with me, ya clype wanker! Ya airn’t a wee bairn, for feck’s sake, so dinna act like wan! A’dinnieken wherebouts ye fond yer clishmaclaiver, but I’m onta tinkin’ you’se tha kind o’skanker wid drink a red johnny’s piss onna cloot! Fie on yer slechered glazzies, and may Saint Peter curse yer clan!

Holy wow. I don’t know what just happened. I sort of went blank-minded while I wrote. I’m not going to read it over, though, because speaking jive is about obeying what comes from the heart. Congratulations on being schooled, Melky. I’ll expect your apology tonight.

I Had a Craving for Oreos


Don’t ask me to explain it. It was there when I woke up yesterday. I went to Topps, and they only had the Chocolate frosting kind (four stacks of those, and no regular!). I thought ‘what the hell’ and decided to go for an adventure.

I took the subway up to the Bronx, past the stadium, and stayed on until the last stop. I found myself in a neighborhood I didn’t know, so I wandered around and eventually came to Woodlawn Cemetery. Normally I’m pretty scared of graveyards, but Woodlawn had some white marble mausoleums and huge oak trees. I couldn’t help my curiosity.

At the visitor’s building, an old nice woman named Doris gave me a pamphlet that showed how to take a self-guided tour. I tipped her one hundred dollars.

I walked the paths all day. At first I was nervous about ghosts and everything, but it was daylight and pretty soon I calmed down. I traced the names on the grave stones. I brushed the leaves off if any had fallen on top. All in all, it was probably the best day I’ve ever had, except for some times when I wished there was a girl to be there with me. At those moments I felt sad, the kind of sad you only feel in the fall.

I would have stayed all night, but at five I got a call from Joe Torre reminding me of the baseball game. I said goodbye to Doris, told her she could have tickets any time she wanted, and got back on the train.

Oh, and I didn’t get Oreos. To be honest, I forgot all about them.

I Hate the Playoffs


The next month or so will be nonsense. Blech.

We’ve almost arrived at the post-season, which is easily my least favorite time of year. For a time, it looked like we wouldn’t make the playoffs, which was great. But now we keep winning, more and more media and fans are showing up for the games, and it’s just one long headache.

The last few seasons, the only redeeming factor is that the playoffs have been short. Hopefully this pattern continues, and we lose quickly to LA or whoever and have some time to enjoy autumn before winter starts. It’s the prettiest time of the year in New York, and it kills me to have to spend it in Cleveland’s laughable version of a luxury hotel.

Most people can’t understand why I hate the playoffs. Well, picture a stadium full of loud savages screaming and cheering and booing, flash bulbs going off like crazy, television crews following you twenty-four hours a day, and nervous tension in the locker room. Newspapers print headlines with hateful puns on your name, commentators question your mental fortitude, and even the most hideous groupies act like you’ve let them down. Yet despite the chaos and confusion, despite not knowing where you are half the time, despite spending weeks on the verge of a breakdown, everyone still expect you to hit a baseball!

No. Absolutely not. I’m sorry, but I won’t do it. Boo me if you will, New York, but I won’t be held to unreasonable expectations. Let Derek the Great shoulder all your little hopes. Starting today, I’m done. Sure, I’ll go through the motions, but don’t expect me to legitimize the inane hysteria by fretting over the results. I’m not your monkey, and this isn’t a sauna.

In other news, I had Earl Grey tea for the first time yesterday. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.

It's 9/11 Again


God, another September 11th. What a world.

I’m pretty excited, because my annual tribute is set to be bigger than ever. Every year since 2001, I’ve staged a small re-enactment to honor the victims. It’s been especially poignant since I arrived in New York, and if the media gave the ceremony more attention, it could really endear me to the locals. But, as everyone knows, the media are slobs and cowards.

You might ask if a re-enactment is appropriate. That’s a good, honest question. The answer is yes. It’s one thing to sing songs and wave flags and erect monuments. That’s half the battle, sure. But what stirs the memory, what really brings tears to people’s eyes, is the event itself. You need to actually see some kind of flying projectile crash into two tower-like structures, and that’s where I come in.

The next common question is “how did you come up with this, A-Rod?” Well, I got the idea at a Golden Corral in Tampa shortly after the tragedy, when I was goofing around with a knife and two pepper shakers. When I realized what I’d just conceived, I stood up and made the inspiration known to all the diners. I even pretended to be a newscaster, shocked at the events. Some folks nearly cried. Only the idiotic manager missed the point, and that fat imbecile had the nerve to kick me out. (I still have a wrongful treatment lawsuit pending against the entire Golden Corral franchise.)

This year’s re-enactment has to take place in Canada, because we’re in Toronto for a game with the blue team. But I haven’t let that deter me; in the dugout, I’ve rigged an ingenious tribute. Picture this: on top of a water cooler, two stacks of styrofoam cups are staggered, resembling the towers. Parallel wires are strung from just above the cooler to the opposite end of the dugout. Two catcher’s mitt attached by hooks swoop from that side, traversing the whole bench before toppling the cups. Once they fall, I tug a string which pulls the top off the cooler. Hanging from the lid’s underside, in plain sight as it rises, is a picture of Phil Rizzuto, the Yankee shortstop who died this year. The photo says “The ‘Skipper’: A Friend that Died.” My boombox plays “Everything’s Not Lost” by Coldplay, and I wave a sparkler under the photo.

If your eyes don’t mist up after seeing that, you are heartless or foreign.

Now I just have to make sure the tv cameras are on when it starts, and ask Toronto to lend me the PA mic so I can emcee the ceremony.

I Might Start a Foundation

You guys have probably heard that Jorge Posada has a non-profit organization dedicated to raising money for craniosyntosis. I think that’s really admirable, and his example has inspired me to consider starting my own.

I don’t know which cause to choose. I’ve been reading a lot of internet articles about World War Two lately, so maybe something to do with Nazis. Like helping people who got hurt by the Nazis, or people who are still getting hurt by Nazis. It could be called the ANA: Anti-Nazi Association.

If people confuse that with the AMA, so much the better. There is no love in my heart for the AMA. In 2005, I contacted them on numerous occasions attempting to purchase an honorary PhD. They stonewalled me at every turn. I dealt with several rude men and women, and, despite making it clear that I had no desire to start an actual medical practice (at least in the United States), I left empty-handed. They snubbed me with the practiced, careless arrogance of the medical elite.

Actually, now that I think about it, I should just start a charity called AMA. But what could it stand for? Answer: American Militia Association. (Side note- because my therapist encourages me to be always honest, I will tell you truthfully that it took me four hours to come up with that name) Perfect. It can tie right into the Nazi idea.

The American Militia Association: private citizens dedicated to eradicating Nazis in the United States. The AMA.

This is going to be huge. I’m going to bring the other AMA to its knees. Before all is said and done, I will be a doctor.

Hammer Toes Make Me Sick!


Hey everyone. Sorry I haven’t updated in some time. I’ve had psoriasis.

Last night I set a world record in baseball by hitting two homers in a single inning. That has never been done before, except in the Negro Leagues. But they played seven outs per inning, so it’s not the same.

After the game, I rode the 4-train from Yankee Stadium into Manhattan so I could be around my people. Everyone seemed a little confused about why I was there, but after a while the guys slapped me on the back and said nice things and it was cool. Finally, around 59th street, enough fans left and I found a seat. A beautiful woman sat down next to me. She smiled in a very meaningful way, and pretty soon we were holding hands. It was AWESOME, but I had no idea how bad things were about to get.

The nightmare started when my waist bag fell to the floor. I bent down, and happened to see my new girlfriend’s feet, clad in sandals.

She had a hammer toe. She had a disgusting hammer toe. I tried to keep my cool, but I kept seeing the deformed monstrosity in my head, and pretty soon I panicked and shouted “hammer toe!” I jumped up, lost my balance, tripped over a baby carriage, stumbled, and finally found the nearest emergency button. Some old lady was parked in front of it, sipping a thermos of milk, and I slapped it right out of her hands. Milk went everywhere, but I was focused on the button. I punched it down and screamed into the intercom:

“This is A-ROD! Medical emergency! Stop the train! Medical emergency! Hammer toe!”

The conductor didn’t hear what I said, so he stopped the train to be safe. By the time I finished hyperventilating, I had to talk to the police for an hour. They dredged up some pretty rotten memories about hammer toes, and the evening was ruined.

Oh, and get this: the hammer toe woman? A prostitute!

I have Conceived of a Business Idea!


Yesterday afternoon, on our way to sweeping the Boston Red Sox, I had an excellent business idea.

In the 6th inning, walking to the plate, my entrance music came on. I change the song a lot, but yesterday it was “Mambo Number Five” by Lou Bega. All the sudden, I was really hungry. I’d forgotten to eat lunch! I got nervous. I got really nervous because what if by the time I got food after the game, it didn’t go well with the music? A lot of dark things might happen. You never think about that, but I bet a bunch of unhappiness is caused by people eating things that are totally inappropriate for whatever music is playing. I couldn’t shake the fear, and after two pitches I flew out weakly to right.

After, in the dug-out, I had an awesome business idea. What if musicians suggested an appropriate food pairing for each of their songs? It would solve a huge problem. They could include the suggestions in the CD liner notes for every album, along with a picture of the food.

I need to talk to my agent, pronto. I need to get a patent, a trademark and several copyrights. If you read this, do not tell Mike Mussina. He’s known for stealing good ideas. He always tries to read my pocket inventor’s diary.

I wonder what food Lou Bega would choose for “Mambo Number Five?” Probably combos. Although I should point out right now, before things go any further, that the food and song do NOT have to rhyme. That would be juvenile.

Meanwhile, I have a terrible rash on my groin. Help, science!

Pick-Up Lines to Use on Gorgeous Babes


Whenever I have a really good game, I spend the next day trying to land some gorgeous babes. Not only because I’m fresh in their minds from the morning paper, but also because I feel confident and manly from walloping a baseball.

Last night I hit the winning homer against the Red Sox, so today I bring my “A-game” (I came up with that one on a tour bus to Six Flags) with the ladies. Before I tell you my pick-up lines, though, I want to ask a question. Why do they call it a “game-winning home run”? It didn’t win the game! I hit it in the seventh, and we still had to play like four more innings before they’d let us go home! The media always tries to explain this to me, but I still don’t understand. If you know what’s going on, leave a comment.

Okay. I thought up my first new pick-up line in L.A. a few days ago. Here’s how it works: I walk up to a pretty girl, smiling all sly, and say, “you look as beautiful as the first day I met you.” She acts surprised, and then I go “oh, maybe because it is the first day I met you!” I wait a second for her to get the joke. Right as she stops blushing and giggling like crazy, I step in close and whisper in her ear. “The name’s A-Rod, and I think I love you.” Then I kiss her on the hair.

For the next pick-up line, I saunter up and say, “hey, want to see my A-Rod?” I start undoing my belt buckle, so the girl thinks I’m about to show her my penis. But all the sudden I reach into my pants and pull out a dollar bill. I hand it to her and say “Before you spend it, make sure to check the serial numbers. It could be counterfeit.” The girl leaves, puzzled, but later that day she checks the dollar, and written in black ink are the words “Alex Rodriguez, ballplayer.” Then it has my cell phone number, and, below that, in red ink, it says, “P.S. – this bill is not counterfeit. And neither am I.” That night, we’re necking in my car.

Crap! I just looked on ESPN, and we have an afternoon game today. That is annoying to the extreme. I wonder if Joe will let me skip.

Trouble with the FBI



Apparently, while I was in a blind panic rollerblading from Detroit to Toledo, Ohio, I accidentally crossed over into Ontario.

Ontario is part of Canada.

Somehow nobody caught me, because I snuck in behind an RV, but a security camera has footage of me in both countries. I was in Canada for a total of fifteen minutes, only lingering by the border, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I got a letter from the FBI saying the incident comprises two separate illegal border crossings, first into Canada and then back to the United States. The penalty for illegal entry into Canada is up to two years’ imprisonment; for illegal entry into the States, a further one year. I could be spending the next three years in jail.

Then, just when it seemed like things couldn’t get worse, the tape showed me on the side of the road in Canada, less than fifty feet from the border, tugging at the leaves of a nearby tree. For whatever reason, I started ripping a bunch off and jamming them into my waist-bag. Doesn’t seem like a big deal, right?

Well, it was a Red Mulberry, which is the most endangered tree in Ontario. Now the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Constabulary is trying to prosecute me for “damage to an at-risk species.” And because the leaves can be used for medicinal purposes, and I still had some in my waist-bag when I came back to America, I’m being charged with drug smuggling by Michigan authorities.

Things are getting really bad for me, and now the Yankees have to play Boston, who are like ten times better than us.

In better news, I might learn how to play the bagpipes.

Melky, You Could Have Gotten Me Killed!


You are seriously not funny, Melky. You are seriously a jerk, and now you’re my enemy. If you expect me to ever hit you home again, you better get a life!

This is going to be a hard story to tell. You all remember my last entry when Melky accused me of trying to have sex with a urinal simply because I was leaning close for sanitary reasons. Well, he approached me to apologize on Saturday. As a “peace offering,” he told me about an area of Detroit with a great rollerblading scene. It was on the east side, he said, in a neighborhood called Conant Gardens.

I love ‘blading, and I didn’t think I’d have the chance to roll in Detroit. I forgave him immediately, went on to get a hit, score a run, and lead us to an easy 7-2 win. Everyone was really nice to me after the game. It was strange but great. By the time I showered and strapped on the blades, Robbie Cano had already hailed me a cab. The driver seemed surprised when I told him I was headed for Conant Gardens, but I was too excited to really notice.

When we arrived, the cabbie left right away, like he was scared. It was almost six and starting to get dark. Long stretches of condemned buildings lined both sides of the street, and I didn’t see gardens anywhere. Nobody was ‘blading, either, but I thought I could scare up some action easily enough, especially if this was as big a rollers’ neighborhood as Melky claimed.

But when I started rocking down the street, executing some pretty flawless spins and jumps, the people just laughed. A few women dressed like prostitutes tried to approach, and I had to veer away. A younger boy with large jeans and a sideways Tigers baseball cap started riding his bike around me in slow, ominous circles.

Soon a flurry of homophobic epithets came from the stoops, and for a while I took the insults without comment. I thought the local rollers club would have my back soon enough. Finally, though, I heard one particularly rude catcall and retorted, “takes one to know one!”

That didn’t go over well. A heated exchange followed, and soon I was being chased on foot. It became a sort of mob scene, and as I fled I kept screaming out my name: “I’m A-Rod the baseball player!” It had no effect, except to make them angrier. Still ‘blading at top speed, I took my wallet from my waist-bag and tossed some bills to the side, hoping to distract them the way you might distract a mean dog by throwing cheeseburgers (if you happen to have a bag full of cheeseburgers). Finally I just threw the whole wallet, filled with about four thousand dollars cash, and sped down a side road. Which reminds me that I need to start a checking account somewhere.

After a few minutes I guess they stopped the chase, but I had blacked out and couldn’t stop ‘blading. I don’t remember anything from that moment until the next morning, just after six, when a couple cops found me passed out in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I was clammy, starving, and close to exhaustion. The Wal-Mart was in Toledo, Ohio.

Today I went 0-for-4 with 2 strikeouts. So thanks, Melky. You’re about as cool as the Conant Gardens rollerblading scene.

I Wasn't Having Sex with the Urinal, Melky!


God, who would have thought a group of professional athletes could be so immature?

We’re in Detroit today for a series with the Tigers, and this morning we hit the field for an informal workout. It’s a laid-back routine. We just field a few grounders, take some swings in the cage, and shake off the cobwebs from the travel day.

When we finished, I was using the visitor’s bathroom when Melky Cabrera walked in. He started snickering right away, and rushed back to the locker room yelling “Yo, A’s bangin’ the urinal!”

Then everybody laughed and I had to finish quick before they rushed in to see.

I wasn’t having sex with the urinal, Melky. I just know that if you stand too far away, the urine can splash and create a mess for everybody.

Leaning in close is a good way to be sanitary. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. God, I’ve got such a bad sodium headache right now. I might ask to only play 3 innings tonight.

I wonder if I can sue Melky for slander. If any lawyers read this please leave a comment.

Girls are the Worst!


Last night was a big downer. I went 0-for-2 and just didn’t feel like playing. Coach Torre had to basically plead with me to take the field from the sixth inning on. The reason? A girl, as usual.

I’m going to make this story quick, because we’re staying in L.A. for the off day, and I really want to get some rollerblading in before we fly out to Detroit tonight. The Cali rollerblading scene is just so much more legit than New York, you know? People actually take it serious here. Back home, you’ve got to deal with skateboarders throwing soda cans and Italians with ugly accents calling you derogatory names for gay people.

Anyway, I hit the boardwalk at Venice Beach yesterday afternoon and ‘bladed like a fiend until about three, then found an empty bench where I could eyeball Cali’s many fine ladies. I took a book from my waist-bag (and no, it’s not a fanny-pack … they look similar, but are entirely different products).

The book was this dictionary I always carry around. It helps me pick up girls, because when they ask what you’re reading, it’s such an awesome line to go “this is the dictionary. I’ve always had a passion for words. I bet there’s even one in here for you.” Then you have to find a word that basically means beautiful.

A few minutes passed, and finally this slim brunette with cute glasses sat at the other end of the bench. She wasn’t a ‘blader, but that didn’t worry me — she seemed smart, and I knew she’d appreciate the dictionary routine. At first she didn’t look over, so I flipped the pages really loudly and kept going “hmmmm,” like I was reading something real interesting. Finally she took notice, but still wouldn’t start a conversation. I had to man up.

“This is a dictionary,” I said, pointing gravely at the book like a professor probably does. “I’ve always had a passion for words. I bet there’s even one in here for you.” Then I blanked for a while, but finally came up with “handsome.”

“I bet there’s a word in there for you, too,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” I asked, my interest piqued.

“Solipsistic.” Then she smiled and left.

Wow. A-Rod was on cloud nine. I flipped through to check out the definition, but my dictionary is a Thorndike-Barnhart Junior, the kind with huge print, and it didn’t have that word. I ‘bladed like a madman back to the hotel so I could look it up online on the lobby computers.

Let me just say this, mystery girl: ha fucking ha. Maybe you should get into comedy, Carrot Head.

But you know what? The joke’s on you. You just hurt a dude so bad that he played like an idiot for the world’s most important team, and because of that they lost a crucial game.*

Don’t bother leaving a comment if you read this. You’ve already done enough.

*Editor’s Note: The Yankees won last night’s game against the Angels by a score of 8-2.

Razzing Mussina


Hey everybody, I’m up early this morning on the west coast. I can’t stop thinking about the two A-bombs I hit last night. What a great game! That’s 42 on the year for me, which leads the league, and I’m also leading the league in RBIs, I think. Not to get ahead of myself, but if this keeps up I’ll probably make the All-Star game.

Of course, all the media can talk about is Garret Anderson’s 10 RBIs. Sure, it’s a nice round number, but keep in mind that he got them off a pitcher who’s about a hundred years old and some crappy bullpen guys. In the same situation, think how many RBIs I’d get!

Actually, let’s figure it out mathematically. Garret has 50 RBI on the season, and I have 121. So if he got 10 off Mussina, and we do proportions, the numbers tell us I would’ve gotten about 46. In a single game.

Now you can be impressed.

You might be thinking that was a mean thing to say about Mike Mussina, my teammate, but he and I are always joking around. That’s our relationship. Which reminds me of a good story. At one practice I was ragging Mike about his age, calling him “Old Gray” and other funny nicknames, and the whole team could barely pretend not to find it hilarious. I kept it up afterward in the locker room, and finally Mike snapped and said “if I’m so old, get in the fucking box against me!”

That did it. We went back to the field, which looked pretty cool in the dim lights, and everyone came to watch. Most of the guys cheered for Mike. I guess it’s because we had an understanding; I knew I had their silent support, and that freed them to be pretty vocal on Mike’s behalf.

I could’ve used a cheer or two, but I stayed cool because that’s what being a captain is all about (I’m pretty sure I’ll get to be captain soon). Anyway, I dug in and Mike started throwing his fastball, which tops out at about 82, and I was just smacking it all over the park. Finally he tried a curve, but it hung, and I drove it into the left-field bleachers. I decided to razz on Mike some more.

“Why don’t you go buy some lady’s diapers, Mother Theresa?” I yelled. I can’t remember why I used that joke.

“Get back in the box,” he said, doing his typical narrow-eyed scowling face.

Then he hit me in the back with a fastball. It hurt a lot, and it hurt more that some of the guys laughed. But I controlled my tears, stood up, dusted myself off, and trotted to first base, where I sat down and crossed my arms. Everyone else hit the showers, and Mike tried to apologize, but I just sat on first base and didn’t say a word. I stayed there until morning.

The New York Yankees learned something about dignity that night.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Grocery Nightmare!


Yesterday sucked! We got beat up pretty bad by the Tigers (and all their players had the flu), which I guess is annoying. But the worst part of the day came in the afternoon, before I went to the stadium, at the grocery store.

Food shopping is usually pretty sweet. I go to a joint called Topps, and most of the time I can just relax, check out some good eats, and maybe meet a few cute girls ;). Grocery stores are great for that. But yesterday’s trip was terrible!

It started off well enough, with a quick stroll through the cereal aisle to pick up some Cinnamon Life. They had plenty in stock, and I tossed a couple boxes in my basket and headed for the vegetable section.

There, they have these huge rolls of plastic bags on top of thin metal stands, and you have to rip each bag off individually. You’ve all seen them before. One thing I like to do is tug real quick and then rip the bag dramatically. That usually impresses the ladies if they’re standing nearby.

Well, it just so happened that two good looking ladies were looking at the Braeburn apples a few feet away. I coughed loudly so they’d look my way, and executed my pull and tear move. But the stupid bag didn’t break! I ended up pulling out like six feet of plastic. The girls looked at me and kind of giggled. I knew I had to save face, so I tugged again at a hard downward angle.

Disaster. The whole stand came crashing down. I had to jump out of the way so it wouldn’t hit my foot, and I kind of stumbled into the heads of lettuce. A couple fell to the floor, and I may have kicked one in frustration. Lettuce really explodes when you kick it! One of the girls said “what’s he doing?”

A manager came up after that, and made me leave the bag. Plus, I had to pay for the stupid lettuce, which was probably rotten anyway. Before I left, I let him know in no uncertain terms that the metal stand wasn’t heavy enough to support the bags, and that I wouldn’t hesitate to report them for a safety hazard if they didn’t get new ones within a month. I marked the date on my calendar right in front of him, so he knows I won’t forget.

Later, at the check-out, still pretty upset at the sub-standard bag system, I noticed the woman ahead of me had a jar of dill pickles. They looked awesome — like something that could really cheer me up. I knew I’d lose my place in line if I went back to get some, though. I’m a Yankee, and I don’t have time to waste. Torre always yells at me for being late, and I was already cutting it close. Thinking fast, I offered to buy them from her at double price. But she was a stubborn, ugly woman who probably didn’t even know who I was, and she kept saying I should just get some of my own. People around me were whispering, and I saw the manager start to come over, so I upped the ante and offered her a thousand dollars for the jar. “That’ll teach her to refuse an offer from A-Rod,” I thought.

Finally, she agreed, and I bought the pickles. The people around me stopped whispering, and I gave them my patented “I told you so” smile. If they thought A-Rod was the kind of dude who messes around, they learned an important lesson.

Afterward, though, a thousand dollars seemed like an awful lot to spend, and I got so mad that I just threw the pickles into the gutter. It was a pretty crappy day all around, and then the Tigers thing happened.

Talk to you guys soon,