Just A Bunch Of Random Stuff
News, notes, and other ramblings:
–Got a new column up at the Chicago Sports review on the career revival of No-mah Gah-see-a-paah-rah. Check it out by clicking here.
–Two of my comic series-in-development, RIPPED and THE NETWORK, have found a home and will be winging your way later this year or early next. I’m going to wait until the contracts are signed before announcing the details, tho. Covering my ass and all that.
–I’ve also been contacted to possibly work with a boyhood hero of mine on a new project. This one’s got to stay quiet for the moment, but if it comes through, it’ll kick ass. If not, well…there’ll be a story to tell.
–I’m writing this from the Braves/Blue Jays game, and I’m ready to go down on the field and strangle a reliever myself. Goddamn, our bullpen stinks on ice. Twice in the last two innings we’ve had big rallies to tie the game–and both times, our bullpen has come right in and given up run(s). I’ll do a big column on the Braves’ misfortunes sometime this summer–aside from the monthly celebration of the hometown club I do in ChopTalk, that is–but even if we do manage to clamber back into the race (no sure thing at this point), we’re going to die a painful late-inning death in September if we can’t get the damn bullpen to be a bit less accommodating to the visiting team than Atlanta’s famed strippers.
–Oh, and I caught a foul ball tonight, sort of. Chipper Jones shot one straight back at the pressbox, and it popped off my hand and dropped to the floor next to me. (I’m going to check the replay tonight, and if I’m visible, I’ll figure a way to peel it off my DVR for your viewing pleasure.) Anyway, I didn’t keep the ball–this writing gig is sweet enough, so I figured I’d share the love. I tossed the ball to some little kid down below, who nearly caught it off his teeth. If it ends up on ebay, I’ll hunt the little feller down right after I’m done with the bullpen.
–Last weekend was a jaunt to the lovely Isle of Palms in Charleston, South Carolina. This weekend: a return to my old grad-school haunt of Memphis. All the barbecue a brother can stomach, and more.