Day Two

We were going through day two of not hearing a word from Pal or his whereabouts when we came to the sudden realization that the last thing he said to us on Tuesday night was “how long’s the ride from here to Cleveland?”


Guy came in and showed this off, said the punch had a bit of a fuse. But, when it blew, it was smithereens.

He’s got a point, right? Pal said the big fella in the comic looks like a cross between Mick Foley and one of those stumpy vikings from that video game.

The Bite

Pal came upon this commercial while watching a Brendan Fraser movie. Said it had a bunch of juicers in it, and one of them ate a land crab.

He couldn’t understand why an ice cream bar needed a commercial, but that’s a dead end street. What he kept rewinding was the sound of the bite the European model takes — a noise that’s supposed to be her teeth sinking into the thinly-chocolated hunk of airy gelato.

Listen to it. Is she noshing on the stick of frozen candy milk, or the microphone itself?

More Tennis

Pal said if it was Sampras or Borg bending down the kid would’ve done the same thing. He even added Mary Pierce to the list. Like “if that was a young Mary Pierce bending over like that the kid would’ve eyed her down too.” Which doesn’t make any sense.

Why Pal Loves Watching Sports

roger federer

Back when he was living in New York City, Pal found a bunch of words author David Foster Wallace published (via The New York Times) titled “Roger Federer as Religious Experience”. He still brings it up, here and there, because he claims it never left him. He often says (paraphrasing), I’m not sure if it’s the best piece of sportswriting, because who the hell needs to crown it? But nothing else does a better job explaining why watching great athletes, ones at the very top of their sport, is so damn bewitching.

Wallace was an accomplished tennis player as a young man and had dreams of one day playing it professionally. He never did, obviously, but his youthful proximity to ones who eventually would make money with their racket and his crystal clear understanding of how truly skilled they were (and how much better than he) illuminates his study of Federer and … well, just read it. It’ll knock your striped, monogrammed socks off.

Do it.



A decade ago, Pal worked for this metropolitan supermarket company. To lure customers, he proposed to put penguins in the freezer aisles, with little flapped doggy doors for them to go in and out (when they got too warm). No one took him seriously. He quit the gig a week after and moved away.

Is This Your Handwriting?

A few years ago, Donny and his courtesan V. Stiviano, 31 years old at the time, were spotted celebrating her 21st birthday at a ritzy Los Angeles restaurant. Days later, Stiviano told the press she was to be the President of the United States.

In addition, she shared her occupation(s): “artist, lover, writer, chef, poet, stylist, philanthropist.”

The Oeuvre of Earl Joseph “J.R.” Smith

Pal waxed metaphysical over the weekend. The impetus was a professional basketball player from New Jersey.

Far too often, he thinks, people are painted in our culture as flat characters — with one color. They’re either good, bad, ugly or otherwise. Rarely are they depicted as they are: all of these things together, and more. Millions of shades.

Pal says we all have our shoulder angels, and shoulder devils. Armies of them.

As humans, each one of us succumbs to temptation. Every one of us sides with our prudent conscience. And all of us have listened to the wily serpent, and eviscerated the garden.

Richard Delgado, a University of California Los Angeles (UCLA) law professor who studied cults for decades once said that “everyone is vulnerable. You and I could be Hare Krishnas if they approached us at the right time.”

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Pal says nothing is sacred in The City of Brotherly Love. Santa absorbs derision. Friendly robots get bludgeoned. Young baseball fans get ralphed on. What are blest vestals left to do — but imbibe? They drink their rusty-watered medicine in plain sight, in hopes the suds will wash away the torment that rises from the municipality’s grubby boulevards and poison steam.