Why I Can't Stop Writing About Sean Taylor

I was reminded by a very good friend today about this:

Come back Sean Taylor,
I won't survive another
Six and ten season.

In the earliest days of this publication, Sean Taylor was facing the gun charges that have been the media's starch in their coverage of his demise. My favorite version of the story is this:

Drug dealer stole Sean's ATVs. He went to the drug dealer's house and demanded the vehicles be returned. Dude pulls a piece out on my man, who takes it, sticks in dude's ass and threatens to pull the trigger 'til it goes click. ST pistol whips the dude and leaves the gun at the scene. His SUV is later riddled with bullets by unidentified assailants. He surrenders to the police the next day and immediately wins the media's " unquestionavble scariest black man on Earth"
crown. He later plead guilty to beating the dude up and went to kindergarten to teach inner city youth how to win fights.

Loved to tell that one. Until today I realized it was probably those dudes who killed him. I've decided that from this day forward to ask myself, before every decision I make, "What Would Sean Taylor Do? (WWSTD)"

And do the exact opposite. Most of the time. At least when I'm in the hood.

BTW - The Redskins went 10-6 the season after I wrote that.

Letter to Leonard Shapiro

Sent today at 15:54PM
mailto:badgerlen@hotmail.com


Mr. Shapiro -

I recently came across an article you wrote about the late Sean Taylor. You accused him of "disrespecting Hall of Fame coach Joe Gibbs by not showing up for mandatory offseason workouts and never calling to explain why..." in your piece. As a graduate of the University of Miami, Mr. Taylor attended offseason workouts in Miami along with a number of former UM players, including Ray Lewis and Jeremy Shockey. Coach Gibbs did state at the time that he wondered why Mr. Taylor hadn't contacted him, but later stated that he understood the reason and was OK with it.

Also, I find it interesting that, as a reader of The Washington Post both in print and online, I've never read an opinion column that you wrote before today. Highly dubious of you to call Michael Wilbon a "colleague" no?

Along with being a dubious contributor to the publication (you don't even have a Washington Post email address, evidently), your Post online pictures allows one to discern that you are also fat and bald, as well.

Regretfully,

Dr. Chewbakka
New York, NY

Goodbye Sean Taylor

I've led an extremely sheltered life concerning death. My mother's parents both died when I was too young think about anything beyond the loss of their physical presence. That's my experience with death.

Yet I just found myself wanting to write a letter to Sean Taylor, who died this morning after being shot in his home early Monday morning. I wanted to wish him safe travels to wherever he was bound. This is the first time I ever truly cared about the great beyond, and now I find myself questioning it seriously for the first time as well.

It's silly. I know. We never met. I don't think I ever saw him speak, to be honest. My admiration of him was almost solely limited to the devastation left in his wake in my favorite team's backfield. That and I believed he was unjustly accused of being a bad egg. Watch TV right now. CNN managed to fit in that he'd been fined by the league seven times for late hits. But maybe the bad egg personae is what led thugs with guns into his house. I don't know.

I watched every professional football game the man played. I watched his hit reels on YouTube in the offseason when I needed to feel the season wasn't that far away. And now, I can't believe I'm saying this, I can only hope that he is at peace.

Godspeed #21.

Sean Taylor Recovering, Expected to Miss At Least Two Weeks

The Washington Post reports tonight that "Taylor squeezed a doctor's hand and made facial expressions early in the evening, Redskins officials and a family friend said, providing some hope after he emerged from seven hours of surgery at Jackson Memorial Hospital".

Godspeed #21. Get well soon.

Christmas Wishlist Vol. 1

Merry reader(s),

Now that Thanksgiving has passed and we draw nearer to Christmas every hour, I am going to try and keep you up to date with what I want under my tree.

-Sean Taylor in full health. Not "playing shape" but full health. Godspeed.

-Any appendage from whomever it is that shot Taylor. What? Better that I get to them than he does. 

-A muzzled Sufjan Stevens. Shut. Up. 

Actually, I would like Sean to deliver the head of Sufjan to my home, finding out later that ST's father, the local police chief, cleared him of all the charges related to the removal of Mr. Stevens' dome, as he was the shooter all along.

Yule!!!!

Seriously, I really like Sean Taylor, and he's gotten a bad rap his whole career (even The Post is bringing up "past discipline problems" in their story) and I wish him a speedy recovery and a Merry Christmas. 

I Mean, Come ON

Who wouldn't rent this apartment?!?!?

http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/abo/472835091.html

Seriously.

Fantasy Football

I play fantasy football.

Fantasy football is a tea party for football nerds like me. It works like this: A group of (sort of) grown men pretend that we own football teams in an imaginary league. Stats win games. Wins and losses are decided by individual players' stats. Stats only. We then discuss with each other and the owners of other fake teams in made-up leagues how our teams that aren't real are doing. We might as well sip fake beer out of empty mugs while watching a cardboard television in someone's treehouse (bar).

I'm going to the playoffs that are so bogus that they begin Week 14, in my league this year and will likely win the whole shebang if I'm not kicked out prior for "conduct detrimental to a bunch of tofu-raised rodeo clown fluffers (READ: the other 'owners')." SEE BELOW - I'm Billingsworth

I promise you this, fair reader(s) - Upon securing the not-real-at-all Championship this year I use my newfound nonexistent media exposure to help single mothers in Darfur learn how to read. Spanish.

I will also use the very real, cold, hard cash winnings from this year's league to buy pornography for all of the younger siblings of the other owners in my league.

Man, Oh Man
Don Billingsworth	Posted: Oct 29, 4:39 PM 1 Reply	Edit
Team Billingsworth	Except for my little run-ins with Dreamboat and Purple Jesus, Team Billingsworth rolls on. I'm reminded of a note I got from the ass-jamming hippie in Vermont advising me as to my "rookie move" of not starting a running back several weeks ago. Hey, Cherry Garcia - Did you see how I left a receiver slot open this week, guy? I know! Rookie bullshit! Did you also see I'm one shy of century mark ahead of you in total points AND just knocked you out of 2nd place? Have fun looking up my kilt for the rest of the season, Jefferson Airplane. When I win this thing, I really hope you get second so you can pay for that vaginoplasty. -Sean Taylor
Re: Man, Oh Man
David Goodlund	Posted: Oct 31, 4:42 PM
Vermont Funkin' N...	I really can't wait until next year when your not in our league. I wish Jason wouldn't have invited such an egocentric fucking asshole into the league I set up. Fuck you and your ego that must make up for the size of your cock. Post edited: Oct 31, 4:40 PM by David Goodlund

C'mon Friends I Haven't Met Yet

This is not a picture of me when I was a kid. I was blonder, smarter and WAY more convincing when I threw tantrums.

This is a personification of my inner turmoil over nobody sending me invites for any of the cool new sites that are popping up to replace the sacred pig. what(dot)cd or libble(dot)com are supposedly pretty dude.

So, if you want me to stop, please send an invite to the current personification of me now on the right of your screen.

Spanks.

I Love Queens!!!

Excepting some really super subways rides following my deposit there by various forms of mass transport, I've never really spent much time in Queens. That all changed on Tuesday night when Drawler and I went to her cousin the actor's Halloween party in Astoria.

I knew I was in love with the place when I emerged from the subway to find the entire department of the NYPD in charge of saying "Bro!" blocking off the street and laughing amongst themselves. Out of the loop, I crossed the street and it was there that I saw what was so funny:

An SUV completely covered in blood!!!

That's right, folks. The blog that brings you (the occasional) definitive opinions on bloodys n ow brings you real actual effing blood!!!! This cartruck looked like a giant mosquito had just come from the plasma bar completely hammered and spring breaker vomited all over it. I wish the pictures were better, but in the three minutes it took my companion to realize she DID have her camera, the beast had been towed.

More blood at the bottom, and a big thanks to William for throwing a party just so I could meet "the dude in the opening credits with his shirt off" who made it to the final 50 of "So You Think You Can Dance."

Dekes In History Vol. 1

Deke Richards - Motown songwriter!

From some guy in some other band from the 60s:

I had a band in the 60s called the Four Sounds, a very successful bar band. Our friends were The Turtles, The Byrds, and we’d play Sunset Boulevard, and in the 60s there were tons of clubs. We did that for a few years and the guitar player was Deke Richards, he and Freddie Perren produced some of the biggest R&B songs of all time. Had a thing about never taking a bath. A white guy that always thought he was black, he would say “I cant take a bath because it would wash the soul off”. Another guy, the organ player, went on to form the Grass Roots. Well, we decided to get rid of Deke because he was getting kind of crazy, he said he was going to Hollywood and write R&B hits and he did just that and made millions. He wrote ‘ABC’ for the Jackson 5, amazingly huge copyrights.

Fuck. Yes. The guy's a combination of prodigious naming and KEEF, man! This dude was a member of "The Corporation" which were Berry Gordy's hired-gun hitmakers at Motown. "A white guy who always thought he was black..." Hang on, I just found a picture of him

About Brunch...

Faithful Readers -

As you can see, I am being held forcibly against my will. My captor is a savage who knows neither decency nor mercy. Even though hidden by a mask, I am aware of the name of the one who has taken me hostage:

Budget.

Yes, gentle reader(s), I am now fully and deeply committed to not spending all of my dubloons on weekend jags so terrifying to both liver and soul that they may only be sated by the sauce of the name "Hollandaise" and cocktails made from blood squeezed from a woman who's son all wars in the last 2000 years have been fought in the name of.

So - what sounds like more fun than a blog about a 7'8" beast that updates an Excel spreadsheet concerning its fiduciary status in order to stay somewhere above the poverty line?

Besides your mom?

The Land of The Depraved

They say Australia is the land of criminals.

Well, I say that it is. And I'll say it right to the face of any man from The Land Down Under that's at least two inches shorter than me and looks like he'd return a blow (grow up) with an open hand and a squeal. I'll also say it directly behind the backs of any Australians who don't fit said description.

And children.

I mean orphans.

Speaking of orphans and criminals, here's the story of a woman arrested for crushing beer cans between her breasts and her friend who was arrested for hanging nipples off her spoons.

One minute...ah...I said that wrong. Figure it out, teeny boppers and Donny and Marie fans.

Go 'Skins.

F*CK!!!!!

The greatest website in the entire world was shut down by effing Interpol just now. Those motherf*ckers can't find Carmen San Diego but they can shut down my source for free music?

(Story here)

I have spent thousands of dollars in my lifetime on recorded music. CDs get lost. Ask my father. A good many of my OiNK downloads were to replace CDs I'd lost or given away or records I wated digital copies of. Other bands saw me at their shows for the first (and in many cases, assuredly only) time because of music taken from OiNK.

I'm paying more than $1,000 a month in rent and bills. That's $12,000 a year. How much money do you think I make? What? Quit drinking or maybe smoking cigarettes? What fun is a party with one of my oldest friends if none of my other friends are invited?

So you know what Mr. Record Guy - That's it. I'm never buying another new musical item ever. I pledge it from this day forth. I will only make copies of friends' music or buy used records or CDs. No Christmas / birthday / goat sacrifice presents, no indulgences, no CDs from bands whose concert I am attending, even. No nothing.

Independent record labels: If you had any part in this, you Sam Jacobses of the world, shame on you. You're hurting your own acts by limiting our access to them. Your goal is to get better distribution or to sell your deal on an act. Without this, enjoy your 35% of nothing.

To you Spice Girls-producing child molesters who run the labels who instigated this: Go and get f*cked all day long. Every day forever. May your trophy wives or boyfriends explode into a wild year-long herpes outbreak.

Another site will emerge. I will join it. I will enjoy the f*cking of you for the rest of my life recorded music business people.

PS - Don't worry about getting me that fancy new iPod for Christmas or my birthday, loyal readers.

Mr. Of All Wookies? Washington Redskins Assistant Head Coach-Offense, Joe Bugel, Line One For You

That's right, folks.

I just got off the phone with Be-yoogs and it looks like I'm gonna be livin' the dream come Sunday.

The big show. Arizona at home.

What's that you say? At 5'8(1/2)" 167 lbs. I'd be the smallest animal to even play on an offensive line in the National Football League? My lack of any experience on a football field save charging one when my high school team (which I cheered REALLY loud for) won the DC city championship?

Whatever, hippie. I've got fire in my eyes and a stern glance which will strike great fear in the hearts of opposing defenders, some (most) of whom possess genitalia larger than my forearm. Also - Mike Sellers said he'd hook me up with the occasional chip block.

Updates to follow once I reach Redskin Park. One of The Danny's buddies is flying me down after work.

What A Day

It's 67 degrees in Manhattan today. The thin air is manifested in a clear blue sky that serves as no impedance to the sun whatsoever and holds only the light and immediate heat in it.

As a tribute to this glorious 24 hours, a special treat.

Enjoy.

Some Good Friends of Mine

As a good friend of mine once told a police officer, referring to me, outside Noblesville, Indiana, "You don't pick your friends. They pick you."

What he didn't add was that you CAN record them in different mediums and display them on your blog.

Lucky for them, nobody reads it.

Welcome

The entire staff of Wookiemania would like to extend a warm "RRRRRRRR-rrrrrr-A-rrrrrrrr- AAAARRRRRRRRRR" to the interweb's newest locale for reading about a 20-something woman's conversations with herself : "Let's Blog It Out"

(Ed. Note: The staff of Wookiemania would like to formerly apologize to the staff of "Let's Blog It Out" for our inappropriate actions during a recent sales meeting (right).

Please note that Isiah Thomas has been sacked as chief gender equality consultant at The 'Mania.

That is all.)

Brunch At The Lodge Redux

"I'll have two bloody marys, please." Author receives bloodys, produces a 10.

"That'll be $14."

"But they're two for one, no?"

"Yeah, but that's per person."

Long stare by author.

Yesterday's brunch at The Lodge in Williamsburg was perfect.

Dare I say it, wooks and wookettes -

5 of 5.

The service was wonderful.

The waitress independently verified my suspicion that, yes, the hollandaise that morning was pushing past all specified means. The eggs were apparently poached not by mortals, but demigods whose sole mission on this, this Wasteland, is bene-fection.

The bloodys were spot on and 2 for 1.

All for $15.

The Lodge is, as of right now, the hands-down best brunch in the 5 boroughs.

The Lodge
318 Grand @ Havemeyer
Brooklyn, NY G-MAP
718.486.9400

Take Me Down

It would be easy to say, "Hey, mister! Where's all the brunch reviews?" or "Hey partner! I thought we were gonna talk about bloody marys here!" and have two very valid points.

Unfortunately for you, writing about brunch is WAY harder than posting clips of Guns 'n F*cking Roses from 1988, when they ran for president as a band and I think they won.

Enjoy.

Al Sharpton's Frat Brothers

Hey! Where do you think YOU'RE going, son?!?

You'd better believe we saw you put that in your pocket! Those forks belong to the club!

Just kidding, Pedro! Oh!!! Oh, you should have seen the look on your little brown face!!!

Hey why don't you get Jerry, Frank and me another Mt. Gay?