(EDITOR’s NOTE : from time to time, decorated sports executive / consumer rights advocate Randy L of the Bronx checks in at CSTB to weigh in on the important issues of the day. Upon Tuesday’s announcement that the Boston Red Sox had acquired starting pitcher Chris Sale from the Chicago White Sox, Randy offered, no he insisted on having his say – GC)
Greetings a very happy Hanukkah (18 days early) for all of my dear friends throughout the Yankee Universe. Of course, it seems as though IT’S RAINING GELT for our rivals some 4 hours down I-90, what with today’s blockbuster deal that sees noted uniform slasher Chris Sale joining the reigning division champions.
Our gutless/oversexed/ostensible General Manager has likened the Red Sox to the Golden State Warriors, which is a fascinating analogy given a) there’s no team in the major leagues with that name, and b) the basketball outfit meeting that description are at least as well known for being massive choke artists as they are for attempting to buy another championship.
So in other words, what Brian Cashman lacks in self-control, he occasionally makes up for in insight. And from this vantage point, I cannot help but be deeply saddened that a club with as storied a history as the Boston Red Sox would prefer to win a title in December than than the traditional October. Or November. You know what I mean.
Certainly, winning 3 World Series in the space of 9 years is impressive, but if adding a 4th trophy in 2017 is some sort of inevitability for the Red Sox and their boorish, entitled fan base, doesn’t that seem rather joyless at the end of the day? What kind of romance is there in rooting for a franchise that’s….sorry, I’m struggling to find the right comparison for our younger readers…the modern day equivalent of IBM?
If next year’s edition of my Baby Bombers — spearheaded by home-grown talent like Jacoby Ellsbury, Starlin Castro and C.C. Sabathia — ends up out of the running, it won’t be for a lack of heart and won’t be for a lack of brilliance on my part. And I can’t possibly worry myself with whatever hollow victories are piled up in some antiquated dump, not when we’ve got the grandest of all retired number ceremonies to prepare for. Maybe you haven’t heard, but I’m going to get the original Megadeth lineup back together for the occasion.
yours in hard-fought excellence,
(EDITOR’s NOTE : from time to time, decorated sports executive / consumer rights advocate Randy L of the Bronx checks in at CSTB to weigh in on the important issues of the day. Upon learning of the New York Mets signing former Heisman Trophy winner Tim Tebow to a minor league contract, Randy offered, no he insisted on having his say – GC)
Greetings, members of the Yankee universe and the desperate, life-long also-rans who fail to understand the difference between star power and a freak show. I’m of course referring to my good friends in Queens, Fred Wilpon and his slow-witted son, Jeff, and their general manager, Sandy Alderson, an honorable man who surely was forced to make his latest, ill-advised acquisition.
In the form of Tim Tebow, the Mets will send to Florida a guy pushing 30 who hasn’t played competitive baseball since high school. Though we hear repeated mention of Tebow’s leadership skills, let’s not forget the former Florida QB is saving himself for marriage, a stance which should go down a storm in an organization that’s had more zipper problems than the Clinton and Weiner households combined.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s certainly something to be said for not surrounding yourself with complete and utter sexual degenerates. I’ll long wonder how many more World Championships this premier franchise would’ve won if our own GM was capable of thinking 24/7 with his brains rather than his needle dick, but I think it is fair to say that we hold front office executives and uniformed personnel to a different set of standards. I don’t know who it was that once said, “you can’t have a team full of choirboys,” (I’d ask Cashman to look it up for me but I can’t bear to walk into his office and have him pretend he’s reading some statistical analysis rather than trawling Chaturbate), but let’s just presume it was me. It sounds like something I’d have said and I’m right. Unless you’re fielding some sort of men’s choir team, you cannot have a team full of choirboys. Or choirmen. You know what I mean.
Look, between the myriad sexual indiscretions of our GM, our primary radio voice and a recently jettisoned third baseman, you have no idea how much hush money I’ve thrown around. But would I ever dream of telling our world class athletes that a life of abstinence was a path to success? Compare the respective trophy cases of Derek Jeter and Tim Tebow where their professional careers are concerned. Where would the former be today if he’d kept himself in some sort of Christ-imposed cock cage?
Frankly, this entire thing stinks like the most cynical of publicity stunts, and the saddest thing is the Tebow farce threatens to overshadow the improbable return to Wild Card contention by a team that’s shown so much resilience and fortitude since the so-called experts left them for dead just a few short weeks ago. But enough about the 2016 New York Yankees, while we’re taking aim at our 28th World Series victory, the long-suffering Jay Horowitz will be reduced to begging TV outlets not to broadcast Tebow’s laughable attempts at throwing a baseball — or did the Mets forget they’re in the National League?
My own alma matter, George Washington University brought an end to the football program in 1966, and it’s just as well. It’s a brutish game, played by hulking unsophisticates, the likes of which I’m routinely having tossed from NYY Steak. A dullard like Tebow has no more business on the baseball diamond than CM Punk in the Octagon, Martin Shkreli in a rap battle or Nick Swisher in a public library. But since I’m as magnanimous as I’m brilliant, I am fully prepared to honor Tebow for his contributions to NYC sporting culture once he’s been waived by the Mets. I don’t know if we’ll be the first club in the big leagues to produce a bobblehead doll featuring a chastity belt, if Rob Manfred has a problem with it, we’ll just make our Staten Island Single-A affiliate do it. They seem desperate enough for attention, kind of like the Wilpons.
see you in October,
(EDITOR’s NOTE : from time to time, decorated sports executive / consumer rights advocate Randy L of the Bronx checks in at CSTB to weigh in on the important issues of the day. Upon learning of the most recent sexting revelations surrounding former Rep. Anthony Weiner, Randy offered, nay, demanded we republish the following item from July 23, 2013).
Greetings, fellow lovers of democracy and free expression. I realize we’re living in troubled times and many of you are unsettled when a public figure you’ve invested so much faith in can so casually, so routinely violate your trust. But enough about our disabled third baseman. Instead, I’d like to discuss the controversy swirling around NYC mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner and his lovely wife,
I don’t wanna get all puritanical or quasi-religious about this (who do you think I am, Chad Curtis?) but Anthony seems to have made a number of questionable decisions, the likes of which have embarrassed his constituents, his family, his political party, and most importantly, the people who were considering making a sizable financial contribution to his campaign. OK, I’ll get over it, but I’m not sure Weiner will rebound so quickly. Lucky for him, I have all sorts of experience dealing with situations almost as awkward as his, and as such, I’m uniquely qualified to offer guidance. So listen up, Weiner! It’s like you’re getting a free pep talk from Dick Morris, without any of the liabilities!
A successful political campaign is not altogether different from running the world’s most successful professional sports franchise. Both attract their share of obsequious hangers-on, but whether you’re trying to extract yourself from an embarrassing series of correspondence with a woman less than half your age, or you’re simply telling Rudy Guiliani he cannot wear a full Yankee uniform in the dugout, it’s very important to maintain boundaries. When our general manager disgraced the Yankee brand by thinking with his cock rather than his brain, we didn’t allow him to face the cameras in a smug manner, nor was he allowed to parade his long suffering spouse in front of a media gauntlet as a means of seeking sympathy.
Nope, instead with the help of the same Yankee medical staff that so successfully curbed the after-hours self-destructive behaviors of such arrested adolescents as Jason Giambi and David Wells, we prescribed Brian Cashman a powerful daily dose of Depo-Provera. And since he’s been on what I like to call a “PDD” (Performance Destroying Drug), not only has he stopped patrolling the region’s libraries looking for new sex partners, but he’s made some savvy moves to acquire Vernon Wells and Lyle Overbay, both of whom I expected to accomplish as much in 2013 as Joba Chamberlain at a Spelling Bee.
(there was also our commissioning a hypnotist who compelled Cashman to imagine Waldman in a catsuit each time he visited the “Casual Encounters” section of a popular website, but I’ll be honest — our legal dept. considers that to be some borderline Manchurian Candidate shit and we might have to just settle for the drugs going forward).
I’m trying to remain positive about this. There’s no reason why Anthony Weiner’s zipper problems need be the end of his time in the public eye, he simply needs to get it under control. David Cone eventually got his shit together, and I’ll bet Weiner can, too. Huma, if you’d like to join me for dinner at NYY Steak, I’m sure we can work out the proper course of medical action for your horny hubby. And what do I want in return? Absolutely nothing, other than knowing I’ve saved yet another relationship, and done what I can to repair a once glittering political career.
I LOVE NY,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : from time to time, noted baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to weigh in on the important matters of the day, sporting and otherwise. After Sunday morning’s announcement that Alex Rodriguez would end his playing career this coming Friday night at the Nu Stadium, assuming a tutorial role from Spring Training 2017 onward, Randy offered, well, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings members of The Yankee Universe and those who wish in their most personal moments-in-the-dark they could somehow be a part of it. But hey, maybe in two years’ time, Jay Bruce. Enjoy playing out the string surrounded by a Triple-A lineup andundocumented laborers struggling to move 2016 National League Champs swag marked down to 80% off.
But enough about our (alleged) crosstown rivals. Listen, I realize the narrative is that our organization’s “baseball” people somehow prevailed upon yours truly to trade assets like Aroldis Chapman and Andrew Miller for a boatload of prospects, but do you really believe, in your heart of hearts, that such cunning moves didn’t really have my fingerprints all over them? The only thing harder to comprehend than the local media’s love affair with our oversexed General Manager is his inability to think with his brains instead of his dick, but I know my readers aren’t nearly that gullible. Everyone from Baseball America to Tom Verducci to Meredith Marakovits assures me our future is blindingly bright and by this time in 2018, the entire sports universe will once again be KISSING MY ASS, 24-7 as we run away with the American League East.
Of course, you can’t start a new era with closing the door on the old one, and as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, our lineup will soon be free of the single biggest clubhouse cancer/contractual albatross in modern sports history. Some may call it unbecoming to gloat over vanquishing a rival, but I’ve worked tirelessly the last few years to make this day a reality. Allow me to gloat. It’s not as though you’ve accomplished anything with your pathetic lives.
(illustration courtesy Tim Cook)
Cynics will point out that Alex Rodriguez will still be paid the remainder of his 2016 and 2017 salaries, but that’s assuming he doesn’t manage to do something so embarrassing, so shameful, he’d sooner leave those tens of millions on the table than allow a certain accomplished executive to release a certain video recording he’s hoped against hope didn’t really exist.
So make no mistake, A-Rod’s merely “retired” from putting on the pinstripes and facing major league pitching. His days of LOOKING OVER HIS SHOULDER are only beginning, however, and I’m not at all inclined to kiss that money goodbye. While the intensely creepy Brian Cashman is trying to pick up librarians on social media claiming his name is Ryan Moneyperson (for fuck’s sake, was “Dick Tate” already taken?), I’m the one person in these offices who is working late into the evening, trying to figure out how we’re gonna be able to afford Giancarlo Stanton, Bryce Harper and Noah Syndergaard. Hypothetically, I mean. It’s not tampering if no one reads this blog anymore, right?
Good seats are still available for Friday night, and I’m told there’s a pregame concert hosted by a local celeb who has some sort of irrational dislike of trios. All of these math nerds in the office and not one of them could point out The National aren’t a trio?
yours in returning-to-dominance,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to weigh in the matters of the day, sporting and otherwise. Amidst reports of disagreement in the Yankees front office as to whether or not the club ought to be buyers or sellers at the trade deadline, Randy offered, no, he totally insisted on having his say – GC)
Greeting to members of the Yankee Universe as well as to the deeply envious, intensely insecure types (like say, this blog’s publisher) who can only dream of being a part of it. Before I address the topic du jour, I’d like to thank the folks at Vice Sports for the wonderful profile of yours truly that recently appeared. Until recently, I was only familiar with Vice’s heroic efforts to close some firetrap “music venue” that catered to the sort of arrested adolescents that keep CSTB’s founder in well, I don’t know, premium macaroni and cheese? Either way, it was nice to see that Vice’s skill-set exceeded simply cleaning up Brooklyn.
But I digress. What the Yankee Universe really wants is an answer to the question, “IS RANDY L A BUYER OR SELLER?”. “IS RANDY IN OR IS HE OUT?” “IS THE GREATEST PROFESSIONAL SPORTS FRANCHISE OF ALL-TIME RUN BY MEN OF COURAGE OR GUTLESS, SIMPERING NERDS WITH THE INITIALS, ‘B.C.’?
Friends, the answer to each of these questions is the former, I assure you. Surely there are enough self-styled historians reading this who can tell me how many times a Wild Card team has gone on to win a World Series. I’d ask our General Manager that very question but I fear sending him to the internet to look it up is what our Human Resource director has called a “trigger episode”. Of course, I had to look that up myself as I couldn’t understand why Cashman would be watching Roy Rogers re-runs on the job, but it wouldn’t be the first time he played fast and loose with his responsibilities.
Writing for something or other called Today’s Knuckleball (seriously?), Jon Heyman writes, “Word among rivals is that general manager Brian Cashman may be less convinced that staying the course is the way to go and more receptive to the idea of a rare sale of stars (though Cashman himself doesn’t exactly admit that that’s the case).”
Oh yeah, he’s got a real poker face. Let me take this opportunity to spell it out for our oversexed GM ; there’s an old saying, “He who dares, wins.” There’s no old saying along the lines of “he who dares to embarrass his employers by prowling for librarians and jumping out of airplanes manages to keep his job forever because he’s fucking teflon or something.”
With the possible exception of my beloved labradors and The National’s Matt Berninger, no one on earth means more to me than New York Yankees season ticket holders, particularly those in our Legends Suites. My colleagues and I — who typically can be found in our executive offices at 9am, not engaged in carnal activity in some 2 1/2 star hotel (that’s right, Cashman, there’s a tracking device on your car) are completely, utterly devoted to putting a competitive product on the field. You wanna talk about rebuilding, Brian? Try rebuilding your farce of a marriage, that is, if you can handle the hard truths this hand-picked, highly decorated counselor is ready to dispense. Even better, the sessions are on me. Like I keep telling you, I’m as magnanimous as I’m handsome.
So if any other clubs think they’re getting Chapman or Miller on the cheap, they’re sorely mistaken. When we capture our 28th World Championship in November, the media and my dick-for-brains colleague alike will be kissing my brilliant ass, but I shall always remember those who really believed in me. With that in mind, I would strongly suggest everyone in the organization who feels that way make some sort of formal loyalty pledge, or perhaps authorize a 5% transfer of their biweekly paycheck to this wonderful organization.
See you at the trade deadline,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : It was reported by Larry Brown Sports earlier today that a young couple took the occasion of Matt Harvey getting his ass kicked by the lowly Indians to engage in public love-making in the highest reaches of Progressive Field’s upper deck. Since the only other person I know of who’d find himself sexually aroused by Harvey getting lit up is Bronx baseball executive / CSTB contributor extraordinaire Randy L., it seemed like a very appropriate time to revisit Randy’s first ever entry in these pages, one that (as you’ll recall) concerned a similar incident in The House That Randy Built (“the woman sat on the toilet as her enthusiastic male partner — who wore a CC Sabathia t-shirt and no pants — climbed on top of her amid a crowd of onlookers,”). From September 17, 2012, “GUEST EDITORIAL : When Romance Blooms At The Nu Stadium” – GC) :
Greetings, losers, shut-ins, finger-sniffers and Mets fans — or am I being redundant? Though I’m loathe to drop any wisdom via a blog that can’t sell one single advertisement, I’m told the publisher is a big fan of my unexpurgated Yelp reviews. Since I’m as magnanimous as I am well-endowed, here’s a freebie for the sports blog crowd. Even if this is barely one step above Live Journal.
Deadspin’s Issac Rauch — hopefully no relation to the pituitary freak stealing money from the Mets — did an adequate Mike Taibbi impersonation yesterday with “A Couple Humped In A Yankee Stadium Bathroom Stall For About Three Innings On Saturday”. Three innings! That’s supposed to be impressive? A little advice for the male heterosexual readers — it’s really not necessary to go on that long. Maybe you think you’re doing her a favor, but chances are awfully high she’s pretty eager to get it over with and get back to pretending you have any redeeming qualities.
I am certain this story is going to get a lot of play in today’s tawdry media sphere, and despite the absence of photos clearly depicting penetration, I can understand this. Publishers and editors are businessmen, not Zucotti Park-dwelling fantasists who have to smoke copious amounts of weed just to tolerate fuckin’ Tom Morello. They’re in the business of MAKING MONEY, just like me and the two genetic lottery winners I do all the heavy lifting for. I know, you’re already shaking your head, “sex sells, Randy, we know.” To which I’d reply, you’re the cynic, not me.
Unless each of this blog’s 12 readers have somehow morphed into Andrea Dworkin (and in some cases, that would be an improvement), I can’t believe I even have to spell out the distinction, but there’s a world of difference between random sexual encounters in a public place and true romance. The former are generally desperate acts committed by sad, lonely, friendless individuals. The latter? Well, it’s the sort of thing that renders almost everything else (save for 27 World Championships, a chauffeured town car and enough cash to fill the Grand Canyon) meaningless.
I know this might be the minority opinion, but the young couple filmed In flagrante delicto (that’s FRENCH, you ignorant little shits) were true romantics after my own heart. Note the guy’s refusal to dispense of his CC Sabathia tee — I like it. He’s paying homage to a lynchpin in our attempts to win World Championship #28. And if the shirt was seriously stained before returning to his seat in the Audi Club, he can purchase a replacement at the Yankee Clubhouse Store, a 5000 square foot facility conveniently located in the Great Hall right behind home plate.
How many times have you heard of a similar incident taking place at that aesthetic/commercial disaster known as Citi Field? Not once, and I reckon that speaks volumes about the building’s stench and the host team serving as the greatest anti-aphrodisiac this side of a Hammel On Trial CD. Some of you self-styled comedians have suggested we hand out condoms at the gate, and it’s an interesting idea (especially if we can get Verizon or Turkey Hill to pay for it). And we’ll look into it just as soon as our crosstown “rivals” take steps to confiscate razor blades.
That’s right. I WENT THERE. While Flushing’s embarrassment does more to keep The Samaritans switchboard busy than say, a Hammel On Trial CD, the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees are all about romance and repopulating the Yankee Universe with more exceptional young people, conceived in the most sophisticated of environments. Who amongst us can say that Saturday’s consensual encounter might not result in that most precious miracle of all,
Nick Swisher saying something interesting the gift of human life? Maybe the Baby Bomber in question will someday grow up to be another Derek Jeter, another Don Mattingly, perhaps the next Joe Pepitone?
And perhaps — if he or she works very hard, uses his or her imagination and never, ever allows the intellectual shortcomings of 2 overprivileged siblings to undermine self-belief — becoming the President of the world’s most successful and universally recognized sports franchise, is within reach.
Not fucking likely, but parents can dream, right? A toast from me and everyone in the Yankee organization to Saturday afternoon’s young lovers.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB and weighs in on the important matters of the day. In February, Randy came to the defense of a colleague concerning the matter of a certain baseball franchise hoping to keep their most exclusive tickets out of the hands of the great unwashed. After HBO’s John Oliver ridiculed the Yankees and awarded the priciest of ducats to rank & file fans willing to wear goofy costumes on television, Randy asked, no, he demanded a right to reply – GC).
Greetings, members of the Yankee Universe and those slovenly, no-hopers with zero chance of ever entering its ranks. Nice 0-2 start to the 2016 season for that craven beaner-of-Yankees, Matt Harvey. I know, I know, “small sample size”, but let’s face it, Harvey’s already on the downside of his underachieving career and we’ve got our sights set on members of the Mets rotation who are proven winners. LIKE ME.
But I digress. As most of you might know, HBO’s John Oliver, ie. the only person in broadcasting less telegenic than Michael Kay, decided last week to play the class warfare card against this organization, and shamefully pandered to the sort of hoi polloi who believe they’re entitled to NYY Steak at Johnny Rockets prices. Yes, we all got a laugh out of Oliver currying favor with these losers by awarding them Legends Suites seating for a mere quarter, the caveat being they had to don costumes that may or may have previously been used for some sort of cult orgy.
The deep irony here is that while Oliver is making a knee-jerk appeal to Bernie Sanders acolytes who are hoping for a future where you pay NOTHING for anything of value, his employer, Home Box Office continues to charge an arm and a leg for substandard programming. How’d that second season of “True Detective” turn out? Serious question, I don’t know a single person who got thru the entire thing. How about the train wreck that is Martin Scorcese & Mick Jagger’s “Vinyl”? How do you put a thoroughly washed-up, completely out of touch relic like Jagger in charge of the musical contents when The National’s Matt Berninger is available the entire time? I realize this blog’s readers, most of whom are either still paying off student loans or continuing to sponge off parents (who are well advised to consider faking their own deaths and skipping town), believe our premium seats are unfairly priced, but let me ask you which is the greater economic travesty, $1600 to watch the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees or $55 a month to watch Lena Dunham run around naked? YEAH, I THOUGHT SO.
For the few of you who can can afford both the YES Network and additional pay cable channels, I would wholeheartedly recommend Showtime over HBO. For starters, they’re not the ones who’ve given a platform to John Oliver, but more importantly, Showtime is the home of my favorite serial drama, “Ray Donovan”. Maybe it’s not for everyone, but I remain impressed at the way the show’s creators are careful to depict every single person with a Boston accent as a lying, thieving, murderous thug. Scumbags, every single one of ‘em. So big, big points for realism.
I’m Still The Greatest,