I prefer not to discuss personal matters in this setting for a variety of reasons.  For starters, I’ve little desire to share my innermost thoughts & hopes for the future with a bunch of degenerates, voyeurs and ambulance chasers.  Also, because I have almost nothing of human interest to impart. When I’m not putting hydrogen peroxide on the dozens of box cutter wounds I accumulate each afternoon (BUT ENOUGH ABOUT MY SEX LIFE – HEYOOO), I’m being pestered for meat by one of two predatory creatures who are under the impression I’m their personal chef and servant (and who am I to argue?).

The life of an intermittent sports blogger is not particularly glamorous, trust me. And that’s why I’ve always clung rather fiercely to certain hobbies that perhaps the general public might not fully appreciate.   Some of you collect baseball cards, others are obsessed with Faberge eggs, Furby’s, expensive wine, Nazi porn, human body parts, or old copies of fanzines. And that’s all well and good, but none of those things float my boat.

No, instead, I’ve dedicated my off-hours to hoarding the rarest form of sports collectible ;  Ballpark Giveaway Figurines Depicting Closeted Homophobes Looking To Hook Up In Public Bathrooms.   Only the bravest of pro sports franchises have contributed to this fascinating genre, and the St. Paul Saints’ 2008 Larry Craig Bobblefoot Doll has long been considered the holy grail, the “Six & Change” if you will, of the pile.

As it happens, however, a couple of years ago, a person very close to me managed to procure one of these rarities, and while the gift was most certainly cherished, all of a sudden, my days no longer felt as full.  The Chase Was Over, if you know what I’m trying to say.

So now I just send all the money I’d have otherwise spent on Ballpark Giveaway Figurines Depicting Closeted Homophobes Looking To Hook Up In Public Bathrooms to WFMU.   Sure, the firing departure of Dino Costa Tom Scharpling was deeply disappointing, but one man does not make a radio station. Two men, sure, but not one man.  WFMU remains the single greatest outlet for amazing, format-smashing sounds of endless variety, delivered by a wildly knowledgeable airstaff, most of whom seem blissfully unaware of whatever lifestyle accessory crap is happening at other, ostensibly non-commercial stations.

That’s not to say I don’t occasionally hear something I dislike on WFMU, and every time that happens I immediately pick up the telephone, call the station manager Ken Freedman and demand a full and prompt refund of whatever money I’ve sent the station in the past year.

Usually those calls go straight to voice mail (pretty bourgeois, right?) but on the few occasions I’ve been able to get Freedman on the phone, he carefully reminds me that WFMU has a very strict, “you broke it, you bought it” policy  and/or something about continued calls and correspondence  violating the terms of a restraining order that was handed down sometime in the early 2000’s.

The thing is, when you’ve been the subject of multiple restraining orders, it’s hard to keep all the names and dates straight.

In any event, WFMU’s annual fundraising marathon is underway.  For every dollar you give them, that’s one less dollar they’ll be forced to accept from me.