"So, you're not good at sports. It's a very small part of life."

"Sports, sports, sports, sports, sports…" - Homer Simpson in response


I read Bill Simmons' extended piece on the murder of Los Angeles-area prep football star, Jamiel Shaw. Honestly, I'm torn on this one. I was stunned to see ESPN give the story as much coverage as they did, in light of the network's attempt to shoehorn the tragic Eve Carson murder into the Duke v. North Carolina basketball game. (Do we really need someone to die just to "put sports in perspective"?) That said, I'm a little offended at Simmons' juxtaposition of the Shaw murder and the real-life inner city environment with the fictitious HBO series The Wire. Did I miss Simmons' point? Did he have a point?

These days I get a lot more out of CNNSI.com than the self-proclaimed WWL's website. In a follow-up to their excellent ranking of all 32 NFL stadiums, they're gathering reader input for their baseball version. (Which, admittedly, ESPN did an excellent job on a few years ago.) I did my civic duty and filled out a survey for San Diego's Petco Park – an antiseptically sterile baseball experience, but not without its charms.


The Brett Favre retirement coverage will not go down as the sports media's finest hour(s). I haven't come across too much balanced coverage, but Paul Zimmerman's look back is as close to accurate as you'll read on this subject. I especially enjoyed his follow-up column as he responded to a heap of negative reader responses. There's also a guy at the San Francisco Chronicle who has his own spin. Not sure I entirely agree with the racial element he raises, but I'm glad that someone is at least suggesting it.

My favorite baseball blog has nothing to do with my favorite team. The guys over at USS Mariner are passionate Seattle fans, but provide a perspective that can be applied to any Major League team. They're probably a little too sabermetric for most, but this post on "replacement level players" is an excellent read.

Speaking of baseball, I'm stunned that anyone actually has a negative opinion of Billy Crystal getting his swing on yesterday. Hell, I can't believe anyone even has an opinion on this. I can remember exactly two spring training "events" in all the years I've been a fan: (1) Michael Jordan's 1994 stint with the White Sox and (2) A's rookie 2B Jose Ortíz hitting on then-Girlfriend Bootleg. Every other year is a blur of split squads, uniform numbers in the 80s and 90s and sh*tty handheld camera "highlights" 56 minutes into Sportscenter.

TBG Reviews: Snoop Dogg's Ego Trippin'

2008 marks the 15th anniversary of Snoop Dogg's solo career. While I'm one of the few people left who was there from the beginning, I was really hedging on whether or not to buy Ego Trippin' - his ninth studio album. The first single ("Sexual Eruption/Sensual Seduction") was released last fall and I christened it Snoop's worst single ever. Not surprisingly, public response was the opposite of my own as Singin'-Ass Snoop scored a surprisingly decent (albeit, regional) hit.

This was still shaping up to be the first Snoop Dogg album I didn't buy until our friends at Geffen Records sent me an advance copy.

Now, we can all agree that 1993's Doggystyle was his finest effort (and the standard he'd unsuccessfully chase for the rest of his career). I'd personally put 1999's No Limit Top Dogg a distant second, with 2002's Paid Tha Cost to be Tha Boss album winning the bronze.

The remainder of Snoop's discography, quite simply, isn't very good. The Rhythm & Gangsta album spawned the biggest hit of his career, but not much else. Blue Carpet Treatment featured several Dr. Dre-produced cuts, but ended up as one of the disappointing albums in recent memory. Tha Last Meal was ruined by rampant bootlegging of the original version.

And, then there's the 1-2 punch that Snoop Dogg's career never really recovered from: 1996's Tha Doggfather and 1998's Da Game Was to be Sold…. Thanks to Ego Trippin', the trinity is complete.

Let's just get it out of the way: this is unquestionably the worst album of Snoop Dogg's long career.

It's rare that I'm moved to openly express dissatisfaction with an album while I'm in the middle of my first listen, but by the halfway point, my scrawny arms were aloft – gesturing at no one in particular – and making faces like a Black Malcolm.

Snoop Dogg – my n-word – what the f*** were you thinking?

None of the beats – not one – work. Snoop's co-conspirators here are DJ Quik and Teddy Riley, among others. Their inexplicable insistence on '70s soul samples and cheesy '80s synths are overused, out-of-place and, oftentimes, unlistenable.

Hey, I think it's great that Kurupt can dust his Black azz off for a cameo on "Press Play", but what it boils down to are a pair of almost 40-year-old rappers spitting over a sound that's almost 40 years old. And, the DeLorean is set for a similar timeframe on "SD is Out". C'mon, Snoop…I miss Roger Troutman as much as the next guy who barely remembers him, but do we need to hear an imitation of his fake computer voice in 2008? Thankfully, Charlie Wilson's still around to drop his ubiquitous "shabba dabba tweet tweets" on the track. Can't get enough of those.

Snoop keeps the guest spots to a minimum, as he drags Too Short in for the hyphy/down South mash-up "Life of Da Party". Equally irrelevant has-been Raphael Saddiq must work pretty cheaply these days, as his cameo on (wait for it) "Waste of Time" shows.

We go "international" for a few minutes on "Sets Up". It's got an ersatz Latin feel to it (like a knockoff of R. Kelly's "Fiesta") and, lyrically, comes across as a Snoop Dogg gangsta dance song. "Let it Out" sounds like it's India-influenced on the opening and the bridge, but it's all on cruise control from the moment Snoop opens his mouth.

The door is forever closed on that old Snoop sound here. He channels David Banner on "Staxx in My Jeans" (featuring the hook: "I got staxx in my jeans/Phantom up in my garage/My pockets look like Rerun/Your pockets look like Raj"). Then, Snoop does his best Bonecrusher on "Ridin in My Chevy". These ones still weren't as bad as the unapologetic sell-out anthem "Deez Hollywood Nights" or the country-western twang of "My Medicine" (dedicated to Johnny Cash).

From beginning to end, Ego Trippin' in exercise in Snoop Dogg's own self-indulgence. It's a vanity record within a vanity genre that plays more like a giant middle finger to anyone whose ever been on board his bandwagon. This one's worse than Doggfather and worse than Da Game is to be Sold…. It's a failure of cataclysmic proportions. Make God have mercy on your soul, Calvin Broadus.

TBG Reviews: Unhitched

One of the first lines of dialogue uttered by Rashida Jones' "Kate" character during last week's pilot episode was something to the effect of:

"I gotta get back to the office…"

True dat, Rashida. True dat, indeed.

Fresh off a stint as "Jim Halpert's" love interest on NBC's The Office, Jones is part of the cast for the new FOX sitcom, Unhitched. The premise revolves around a quartet of longtime friends who've recently divorced their respective spouses, including Craig Bierko as "Gator" – the neurotic one, Johnny Sneed as "Tommy" – the idiot freeloader, Shaun Majumder as "Freddy" – the naïve/heart-of-gold guy and Jones, who plays the hot chick who is inexplicably bad at dating.

Executive produced by The Farrelly Brothers, it became immediately clear that their, uh, "broad" cinematic comedy style might not play as well on the small screen. The opening moments from the pilot involved an absurdly unfunny sex scene with Gator and a blind date imitating the mating rituals of gorillas.

I'm sure someone like Joe Reid or Tom Daniels can tell me which modern sitcom popularized the single camera/no laugh track approach, but now all of them think that this style can make "stupid" look "inspired".

We're only two episodes in and Kate has been on two dates that have gone horribly awry, as she's fallen for guys whose careers aren't what they seem. Last night's air guitarist was, admittedly, funnier than the prior week's "leprechaun", but come on. We're expected to believe that this bi-racial inferno of fine can't land a decent man? I mean, I'll grant you that the show is based in Boston, but still…

Meanwhile, Majumder's clichéd character gets conned by a hooker and her pimp in the opener and became BFFs with a taciturn African-American bouncer in last night's episode. The over-the-top Indian accent is really a bit much in 2008 and the whole "childlike innocence" schtick is already old. Anyone wanna take bets on how soon he misinterprets a meaningless gesture from Kate and then falls in love with her?

The Gator and Tommy characters seem to solely serve as the gross-out components. If it ain't gorillas in heat, then one of them is enlisting the other to remove a "skin tag" from the back of a prospective girlfriend.

FOX ordered up 13 episodes, but it'd be a minor miracle is all of 'em ever see the light of day. These are four mostly unlikable, annoying characters and no amount of midget-inspired pratfalls or intentionally latent gay storylines can cover that fact for long. Still, Rashida might keep me watching for a few more weeks. She wore boots last night. Yum.

Lost - "The Other Woman"

What Aaron Liked: I can't say that I'm the biggest fan of Elizabeth Mitchell's "Juliet" character. Her zombie-like line readings and perpetually catatonic expression belie the universal love she seemingly gets from Lost fans. So, I'm as shocked as anyone at just how much I enjoyed her performance last night. And, who knew she was a whore?! "Go back to your home on Whore Island!" Wait, she's already there! Quite the clever mini-twist in the first few minutes (We're doing flashbacks again?) and credit to the writers for crafting a nicely layered piece of storytelling that kinda-sorta explained Juliet's often emotionless mannerisms. I suppose there's nothing left to say about the abject awesomeness that is Benjamin Linus. His string pulling of Locke is wonderful to watch, even if his eventual intentions are obvious. Spoiler alert: Ben's in it for himself.

What Aaron Didn't Like: Well, I could've done without the house-husband Ben scenes and all his ham-baking and Juliet-pining. Wayyyyyy too late to try'n humanize the guy who gassed his father and most of the island's population. Harper Stanhope's jilted shrink was pretty much paint-by-numbers…which reminds me: enough with the characters appearing/disappearing out of thin air. It's believable when it's Batman, not from a 40-something white girl in the middle of the frickin' jungle. Still not crazy about the "Faraday" and "Charlotte" rescuers, but at least they did more than play three-card memory monte this week.

Verdict: Solid episode, as we get a satisfying backstory and a single self-contained arc that's told in just one show. Plus, the wheels are at least in motion to teardown the absurd set-up of Locke's horseshoe-playing, baby-raising community so, for now, Aaron approves.

TBG Reviews: Burger King's BBQ Bacon Tendercrisp

So, last night was "Father's Night" at Little Boy Bootleg's preschool.

Thursdays are especially long days for Jalen, so Mrs. Bootleg often bypasses his mandated midday nap in favor of a 5 o'clock bath, 6 o'clock dinner and 6:30 PM bedtime. As luck would have it, most Thursday nights I'm stuck at work until 6:21, which, when you factor in my 10 minute drive home, means I miss out on a lot of special moments. Darn.

Quick quiz: There were two evening sessions at Jalen's preschool, yesterday. The first from 5:30-6:15 PM and the second from 6:30-7:15 PM. Which one d'ya think we got stuck with?

And, of course, Mrs. Bootleg thought this should be the ONE Thursday where she lets the boy nap after school. My son inherited a lot of things from his old man. OK, well, mostly his head…but, while I'm a fitfully light and restless sleeper, that boy can sleep through anything. Earlier this week, at 12:30 AM, he climbed atop my sleeping corpse and laid his entire body across my face. In a girly state of panic ("Mrs. Bootleg is trying to suffocate me with a brown fleshy pillow!") I threw the boy/pillow to the ground. Pretty sure he bounced off the carpet, but he didn't wake up.

Wait, I'm supposed to be reviewing a sandwich here, aren't I?

OK…we got the boy up after almost 15 minutes of trying. How'd we do it? Sorry, no time to explain. We hit the shower, the wife got Jalen dressed and we were off. Upon arrival, I discovered that the wife forgot to (1) brush the boy's hair and (2) lotion him up. As if it wasn't already uncomfortable enough for me to be at his mostly white school, fielding questions like, "Wait, Jalen has a mother…and a father?", I had to drag this ashy, unkempt kid with me.

Right, right…the sandwich, the sandwich…

All the kids were spooked by the dozen or so strange smelly men who weren't their familiar septuagenarian women instructors. By the time we'd collectively amputated the kids from our hips, it was time to go home. But, before we got home, it was dinner by BK.

I've previously affirmed my affection for Burger King's Tendercrisp line of chicken sandwiches. I'm not all that big on barbecue sauce on anything other than pig parts, but since it's scientifically proven that "bacon makes it better", I thought I'd give it a shot.

For what it's worth, this was the first ever Tendercrisp I'd eaten that was actually crisp. I hope someone didn't get fired over this, since the usually soft, mushy breading has always led me to believe that I was eating irony. Unfortunately, the rest of the ingredients couldn't keep up. The barbecue sauce was thin and off-tasting (think watery ketchup mixed with Splenda) and the bacon texture was predictably "boiled".

Lettuce, tomato and mayo finish things off and, while not a particularly exceptional meal, this one's still about average for fast food fare. Stick with the Firecracker Tendercrisp or, if you're all about real BBQ, hit up the local rib shack in whatever sketchy neighborhood is closest to your home. Make sure to order in your best Chris Rock voice.

Trust me, it always kills 'em behind the counter.

Well, if the bullet wounds…wait, what am I reviewing again?

Your Oakland A of the Day – Ariel Prieto

It's not hard to find hundreds of casual, bandwagon A's fans who've sworn off the team for good because one of their favorite players was recently traded.

These people are morons with short memories.

While the plan may blow up in GM Billy Beane's Moneyball mug, at least there is a plan – restock the farm system with high-risk/high-yield minor leaguers at the expense of some established talent that wasn't going to take the A's to playoffs, anyway.

Back in 1995, the A's had no plan.

Y'see, three years prior, they were an aging outfit hanging on to their (ultimately underachieving) Bash Brothers days. They were a very good – not great – team in an insanely competitive division. The A's caught a few breaks and milked Mark McGwire, Dennis Eckersley and an excellent bullpen to the 1992 AL West title.

That off-season, management forked out top dollar to retain McGwire and OF Ruben Sierra, then watched in horror as injuries, age and incompetence plunged the squad to 94 losses in 1993. The A's were still old, the farm system had failed them (wither Todd Van Poppel?) and by 1995 they were reduced to trotting out trash like Mike Harkey and Craig Paquette on a nightly basis.

With all that build-up – and, believe me, it was a LOT worse than what I've explained above – I still can't understand why the A's made Ariel Prieto the fifth overall selection of the 1995 Amateur Draft.

Prieto defected from Cuba in the spring of 1994. At the time, Rene Arocha – who'd defected a few years earlier – had become a serviceable arm with the St. Louis Cardinals. According to the Baseball Cube website, Prieto signed with Palm Springs in the independent Western League for what was ostensibly a glorified audition heading into the '95 draft. His stats were, admittedly, eye-popping:

W-L: 4-0 ERA: 0.97 IP: 37 K: 48 WHIP: 0.81

Now, it's easy to b*tch in hindsight, so you'll have to trust me when I say I was b*tching back then. Here was a 25-year-old with God knows how many innings on his arm, dominating at a level that was somewhere between Single-A and Double-A. (My hometown of Long Beach had a team in the Western League and I caught a few games…this was bad, bad baseball, kids.)

Even if we ignore the very real possibility that Prieto wasn't born anywhere near the vicinity of 1969, why would a terrible team like the A's want a supposedly Major League-ready pitcher just so he could throw for terrible teams for the foreseeable future?

There were strong indications at the time that the A's had targeted the University of Tennessee's Todd Helton for their first pick in the draft that year. Understandable, since then-first baseman Mark McGwire had missed virtually all of 1993-94 with a foot injury that was feared to be career-ending (six years later, it turned out it was). Instead, the A's, with the fifth overall pick, chose Prieto.

(Just for grins, check out the whole first round that year. Oh, and be sure to read the ridiculous quote comparing Darin Erstad to Kirk Gibson. Save for their scowls, the two were nothing alike. Erstad's legendary fluke 2000 season was accomplished by Gibson SIX times in the 1980s.)

Prieto made his Major League debut less than a month after being drafted, with two innings of mop-up relief vs. the Angels. His first start came five days later versus the Toronto Blue Jays. In what would be something of a microcosm for his entire career, Prieto was dominant in the small sample size of the first three innings. He didn't give up a hit and only one ball (barely) reached the outfield.

In the fourth inning – the second time around the Toronto order – Prieto was roughed up for two runs, two hits, two walks and a wild pitch. A two-run home run in the sixth by Joe Carter chased Prieto from the game.

Prieto had his moments in 1995, but would finish the year with two wins in eight decisions, an ERA close to 5.00 and just five more strikeouts than walks.

The A's put Prieto on the Opening Day roster in 1996, but he made just nine starts before being demoted to the minors. Prieto would yo-yo back and forth to the bigs for the remainder of his career. For whatever reason, he'd dominate Triple-A lineups and then completely fall apart whenever he was brought back up. After shoulder and elbow injuries cost him most of 1998 and all of 1999, Oakland finally cut bait on Prieto, releasing him prior to the start of Spring Training in 2001.

And, how awesome was it to be fan for the two years when Prieto and Van Poppel were on the A's at the same time?

Answer: not very.

That Bootleg Family in "Circus Jerkus"

The email came late last week:

The circus is in town! Do you think we should take Jalen? Let me know.

Love,

Mrs. Bootleg

PS: Are you EVER going to post Jalen's birthday pictures on your blog???

The circus is still alive? Wow, this blows my mind. I've only been once. My brother and I were four – maybe five – as our grandparents took us one year. The only thing I remember from that was a blue flashlight glow-in-the-dark thingie that stopped working the second the show was over.

Damn, carnies. Circus folk. Nomads, you know. Smell like cabbage. Small hands.

Anyways, I wasn't really feeling the wife's suggestion for a Saturday afternoon.

Our son, Jalen, is a wonderful little boy with the most earnest eyes you'll ever look into, an infectiously scratchy faux-smoker's laugh and a deep, deep appreciation of early episodes of The Simpsons. He's also an uncontrollable force of nature in closed quarters, whose full name becomes "Goddammit, Jalen get back here!" (with apologies to Dr. Bill Cosby, DDS) out in public.

It didn't help that the circus tent was going up in a small San Diego community called Mira Mesa. Anything that's a really big deal in this town is held in one of three places:

Downtown: Petco Park, House of Blues, 4th & B (think House of Blues II)

Mission Valley: Qualcomm Stadium (swap meets, RV shows and that football team I hate, hate, hate)

San Diego Sports Arena: Concerts, exhibition NHL/NBA games and, I'm told, WWE

Mira Mesa, on the other hand, is known for three things:

(1) A large Filipino and Vietnamese population.

(2) Two enormous ethnic supermarkets – one that caters to Filipinos and one that caters to Vietnamese.

(3) The Black Angus and Red Lobster – maybe 50 yards apart on the same lot – for the rest of us.

I was further disheartened by the fact that there were maybe 100 people in attendance for the 4:30 PM show. I knew we were in for a low-budget evening, when I returned to my recycled elementary school seat only to find that all of the kids had been escorted down for some audience participation.

And, for those scoring at home, my 4'8" midget wife was NOT invited down to be mocked and gawked at. C'mon, circus people…she needs a step stool to stir big pots on our stove. She's her own act!

The show eventually began and you can read right here to see what we saw:

The Esquedas Juggling Troupe - I can induce fits of laughter in Jalen simply by attempting to juggle. Obviously, I can't juggle, but dropping the balls and bouncing them off my head sends the boy into stitches. To that end, he was decidedly unimpressed by people who know what they're doing. In fact, he…wait, we have a dropped juggling pin! Jalen was pleased. Then, he laughed some more when another pin was dropped. Then, another…and another. Umm, these guys aren't very good. And, we're only on the first act.

The Torreblanca Clown Family - Much to my dismay, the clowns didn't come out to my favorite clown music of all time. And, I can't help but notice that everyone we've seen so far has been either Black or Hispanic. No doubt the quota system got these guys through Clown College, as their schtick relies mostly on a Chihuahua dressed as a bull, lion, elephant, etc. and the ol' no-pants pratfall. HAW! His boxers have hearts on them! Ugh.

Ted McRae, Snake Whisperer - Unfortunately, Ted couldn't be there, so to appease the dozens in attendance, his snake (an albino python) was trotted out for our amusement. The Ringmaster (who actually looked and talked like me, of all people) threatened to toss the snake into the stands. Oh, no! Here it comes! Here it comes! Here it…oh, he was just fooling us. He had me for a minute there.

Pas de Deux - Literal translation: chick on a horse. So far, the highlight of the evening for me as these skimpy circus outfits were not intended for the ample backsides and voluptuous curves of ethnic women. Seriously, this is like watching one of those Brazilian children's variety shows. I know it's for kids, but(t)…

The Flying Tabares - After intermission, we're treated to the trapeze artists. Not to belabor the point, but the female performers are spending more time trying to pull their awesomely low-cut leotards back up over their boobs. Odd, since their only role appears to be "put right hand on hip, hold left arm out at 45-degree angle, bend at the knee and grin". One of the guys actually falls off the trapeze and audibly cusses on the way down. Ear muffs, Jalen, ear muffs.

The Sky Riders - The grand finale! Take two motorcyclists, put 'em inside one of those American Gladiator "battle balls" and ride! This was the single coolest thing I've ever seen. (Sorry, "toilets at O'Hare Airport that automatically replace their paper seat covers when you stand up"…you'll have to settle for the silver…forever.)

OK, OK…the show wasn't as bad as I'm letting on. In fact, the sh*tty juggling and falling acrobats kind of humanized these freaks and weirdoes. Three hours of cheap entertainment that substituted for any apparent parenting from me and the wife?

Thumbs up in my book.