Archive for Boughten

At times and perforce, the homilist’s greatest rhetorical device is knowing when to fall silent and allow the miracles to unfurl in that silence, like an abundant dong released from its underthings. Now is such a time . . .

Mitzvah Chaps is very proud to announce that Dayn Perry — husband, father, dog owner, sports writer, practicing Catholic, non-proselytizing vegetarian, Mississippi native, Chicago resident, zealous and abiding fan of the St. Louis Cardinals, and creator of at least one ugly-ass weblog — and I have collaborated to make a chapbook of Dayn’s writings entitled Drinking with Boileryard Clarke: Dayn Perry Celebrates Himself & Baseball. Dayn made all the writings, I did the arranging of said writings into pages, then printed, collated, and assembled the pages and a cover into a chapbook.

Covers by Daniel Rolf. All other filth by Dayn Perry.

Info:

• Sixteen choice Dayn Perry pieces with accompanying images, many of them reproduced in full, modern color.
• Charming introduction by the author himself.
• Letterpressed covers designed by Daniel Rolf of Sensitive House and printed at Bay View Printing Co.

This is now a real object that you can hold in your hands. Check out the Table of Contents, and a spread from the book.

It is a peculiar object, too, perhaps, given that all of the writings contained in Drinking with Boileryard Clarke (save for the author’s introduction) have previously appeared at this very internet, and are still, to this moment, available for viewing at this internet. So why make a chapbook, then, you might ask.

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As you have no doubt learned by now, I recently was the winning bidder of the Sotheby-auctioned marijuana bong that formerly belonged to Walter O’Malley. Please do admire my purchase:

Lost to history is just what a relentless weed smoker O’Malley was. Sure, every baseball fan knows that Walter O’Malley burned through a lot of herb, but none but the most devoted historian recognizes the depth and breadth of his beloved habit. But that’s not why I was happy to secure ownership of the bong at a cost of $6.28 million in unmarked bills.

You see, upon O’Malley’s cherished bong, which for years served as the Dodgers’ “Vice President of Velvet Easy Time,” is the patina of not only heavy and unqualified use, but also the forces of consequence. As William Manchester wrote in his 1971 opus on the life of O’Malley, The Felis Leo of Our Brooklyn Hearts, Times and Honor and Valor, it was O’Malley’s zeal for the kine bud found in the roadside ditches of the Inland Empire that prevailed upon him to move the Dodgers from Brooklyn to Los Angeles. Manchester writes …

Much as Walter O’Malley could never resist the invitations of a stupendous doobie, so it is that I am unable to resist an artifact such as this.

I shall admire Walter O’Malley’s marijuana bong stationed upon my mantel and think fondly of his listening to Steely Dan somewhere in tangled Heaven.

The film character Jeffrey Lebowski, colloquially known as “The Dude,” is well known for his fashion choices. A personal favorite of mine as a baseball fan comes from the “Requiem” scene, in which The Big Lebowski informs The Dude that the former’s wife has been kidnapped. The Dude arrives wearing this shirt:

I recently acquired this shirt from Found Item Clothing, and I’m told the “Little Lebowski” store in Manhattan also carries it. As you can see, it’s a faithful reproduction:

The best detail? The player in the shirt was a real Japanese player by the name of Kaoru Betto. Betto was, according to the Baseball-Reference bullpen, one of Japan’s first power hitters. He also owned arguably the best baseball nickname possible: “The Gentleman of Baseball.” I know I wish that was my nickname.

Also worth noting: the shirt was apparently a favorite of Bridges, as he also wore it in the films Cold Feet and The Fisher King.

In yet another hallmark of the present author’s questionable decision-making skills and political acumen, I present to you the third in a likely three-part series on the procurement and evaluation of a collection of unknown baseball cards. Today’s episode: a 4,000-count monster box purchased for ten dollars at a local baseball card store. Surely, such baldfaced oneupsmanship of our Fearless Leader will not go unpunished, and my 5,000-word chapter about Pete O’Brien for the upcoming NotGraphs: The Book book has been all but doomed. Still, I am willing to martyr myself and my sportswriting career prospects for you, dear reader, as I share with you a voyage almost as magical as reading a book, only not quite.

The box in question:

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I bought a t-shirt today …

“Mr. Roberto Clemente!” I said upon purchase. “One must certainly respect the great Mr. Roberto Clemente!”

“One must certainly not,” sniffed Cistulli, who, unbeknownst to me, had been lurking behind a potted palm the entire time. “And his name is not ‘Mr. Clemente.’ His name is ‘Bobo Clementines.’ The honorific is reserved for men of honor. Bobo Clementines is a mewling baby coward.”

“How can you say such things?” I gasped.

“Charity is vice,” sniffed Cistulli. “Death is weakness. I do not respect Bobo Clementines.”

Then he ravished me.

Jeff Karstens knows many things. He knows how to throw a fastball. He knows how to operate a door to a hotel room. And Jeff Karstens certainly knows how to conquer women. His sexual exploits are things of yet-to-be-discovered lore. When it comes to the realm of the opposite sex, and the subsequent mounting there-of, Jeff Karstens prefers quantity to quality. You don’t stare at the hearth when you’re poking at the fire, you know?

Now, you too can possess the same prowess once only known to Jeff Karstens. Introducing DERP: A new fragrance for men. (The next section requires, nay, DEMANDS, that you read the italicized words with an internal whisper.)

A fragrance by and for known gallivanters and fornicators.

DERP.

Also works well as a hair tonic.

DERP.

Featuring the essence of animals unknown to our civilization.

DERP.

Can be used to unclog pipes and as emergency lawn mower fuel.

DERP.

May cause internal bleeding.

DERP.

Do not use near open flame or mammals.

DERP.

Creating a scent that is somehow audible.

DERP.

Ladies will come running, though they may not stop when they reach you.

DERP.

DERP is can be found at all major truck stops across greater western Pennsylvania, and wherever fine taxidermy is sold.

The entire contents of the author’s refrigerator.

When my father wanted to drink irresponsibly as a young man in New England, he did so with Narragansett Beer. Unfortunately, living in Wisconsin, I’ve been forced — until now, at least — I’ve been forced to break from family tradition and drink other brands of beer irresponsibly.

Recently, however, Narragansett announced their intentions to fulfill the brewery’s manifest destiny — i.e. to overspread and to possess the whole of the continent which Providence has given them, etc., etc.

And, fortunate for those who (a) operate baseball-related blogs and (b) are unafraid to employ the flimsiest of pretenses, it appears as though Narragansett has released — and the author has purchased today a six pack of — something called Grand Slam Baseball Cans, the distinguishing characteristic of which is that it (i.e. the aforementioned can) features a design with a baseball and playing field and also some cheerful comments on the nature of the game itself.

There is a saying that a fool and his money are soon parted. Whether that’s the case or not, it is true that anyone who possesses money will eventually spend some of it in a way that does not contribute to his/her overall well-being and fulfillment as a person. There are, of course, a nearly infinite set of degrees to which this can play out. I feel as though I fall on the upper 50% of that spectrum, but I am not without my occasional lapses in judgment. Behold this stupid bobblehead I bought on eBay recently:

The absurdity of this purchase is magnified by the fact that:

1. I don’t live in Oakland, nor have I ever considered myself a fan of the Oakland Athletics.

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A photo of the author, his loins barely covered.

The Beginning Part, In Which the Author Loses His Hat
The first leg of the author’s present Journey Eastward necessitated that that same author, along with his wife, make a trip via bus from Madison, WI, to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. This is no problem in itself: provided one has enough in the way of internet podcasts downloaded to his informationPhone, the ride is mostly-to-entirely bearable.

This particular trip skewed decidedly harrowing, however, owing to how the author, in his haste to account for the most essential elements of the Journey — baggage, tickets, wife — while alighting from the aforementioned omnibus, accidentally left behind his well-worn Milwaukee Brewers cap.

A Note on the Cap in Question
You can ask anyone: the Brewers cap in question was the very picture of Excellence in Men’s Headwear. It first called to the author from a vendor’s shelf at Miller Park, not unlike how the sex-nymph Calypso called to Odysseus from the sex-island of Ogygia — except that, instead of detaining him for several years from wife and child by dint of unabated lovemaking, the author’s hat merely sat atop his head and didn’t bother anyone.

In most ways that matter the hat in question was not unlike American wordsmith Walt Whitman, in that it both (a) represented the very best of what is possible in this life and (b) wasn’t allowed in nice restaurants, owing to some combination of its appearance and smell.

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Having recently read an uncorrected proof of my colleague Dayn Perry’s forthcoming book, Business and Fucking: Secrets to Dominating the Competition in the Boardroom and the Bedroom, I am now filled with (a) a profound sense of shame, which no amount of therapy or SSRI or deep knee bends could ever truly purge and (b) wisdom concerning business.

My first step after reading Perry’s book? To cry in the shower, naturally.

My second step, though? To design and purchase business cards, with a view to announcing to the world that I’m a gentleman who knows a thing or two about a thing or two.

Here is the front of said card (which is actually the MiniCard sold by MOO):

And, in full technicolor, the reverse side: