A Spiritual Exercise Concerning Max Scherzer
July 19, 2012
In his Discourses, noted Roman Stoic Epictetus proclaims that, to live a life free from anxiety, that each of us must become like a “spiritual athlete.” To that end, NotGraphs presents this exercise, with a view towards helping to tighten and tone the spirits of the readership.
Society is like she-bears; our spiritual health, like small children being eaten by she-bears.
Notes
Consider, this hypothetical scene.
A man announces — in his home, late this morning — a man announces that he’s anticipating, with mounting anticipation, the very enigmatic Max Scherzer’s start in Detroit at 1:05pm ET.
That man’s wife responds by suggesting that, perhaps — owing to how the man hadn’t been there in a couple of days and, due to the imminent arrival of a house guest, was unlikely to go there over the next couple — that perhaps the man in question should, indeed, go the gym with her at 1pm ET, when her yoga class happens to begin.
What should the man do in this entirely hypothetical scenario that didn’t just unfold in a certain, unnamed author’s house about an hour ago in Madison, Wisconsin?
Customers Who Bought This Book Also Bought…
I was doing some important R.A. Dickey research when I stumbled across the Amazon page for his autobiography, Wherever I Wind Up: My Quest for Truth, Authenticity and the Perfect Knuckleball.
And while the first few screens of “Customers Who Bought This Book Also Bought…” links make good sense, you keep clicking and you get some strange entries:
Justin Halpern’s I Suck At Girls
Nancy Gibbs and Michael Duffy’s The Presidents Club: Inside the World’s Most Exclusive Fraternity
Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (“Roger Ackroyd knew too much. He knew that the woman he loved had poisoned her brutal first husband. He suspected also that someone had been blackmailing her. Then, tragically, came the news that she had taken her own life with a drug overdose.”)
Alex Stone’s Fooling Houdini: Magicians, Mentalists, Math Geeks, and the Hidden Powers of the Mind (“From the back rooms of New York City’s century-old magic societies to cutting-edge psychology labs; three-card monte on Canal Street to glossy Las Vegas casinos; Fooling Houdini recounts Stone’s quest to join the ranks of master magicians.”)
The only sensible conclusion: Amazon thinks R.A. Dickey, dumped and alone, is going to become President of the United States and murder someone with his mind.
Bad Fantasy Team Names Of The Future
One Twomey-ny
Love Grove
Addison And Subtraction
Wacha-Wacha!
Lucas Sims Life
The Royal Tissenbaums
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Request-a-GIF Revisited: Eric Young Walks on Air
You might have already looked upon Carson’s fulfillment of reader Dave’s wish to watch Eric Young, Jr. slip-slidin’ around the bases into GIF-tacular eternity. That was fun wasn’t it?
Because Carson’s days consist of prettily sitting on his NotGraphs throne, waiting for his loyal subjects’ GIF-based pleadings at which to wave his magical GIF-making scepter, and because I work a real job, he got to Dave’s request before I did. (Actually, my real job was mostly cancelled yesterday due to a massive fire in the neighborhood that caused 4,400 buildings to be without power for 4-5 hours, during which span I went with a co-worker to see The Amazing Spiderman, which, turns out, is a totally unnecessary piece of cinema.)
But [I hope] it’s worth revisiting this EYJr incident. Here are some things to consider, presented in the style of my above-teased liege, Count Cistulli, whom I adore.
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Buy HALL OF NEARLY GREAT Early, Often
July 18, 2012
The purpose of this post is to convince the readers of this post to click this hyperlinked text and buy an ebook called The Hall of Nearly Great.
The Hall of Nearly Great — which can be purchased by clicking on this hyperlinked text for a price absurdly close to free — represents an attempt, in the words of editors Sky Kalkman and Marc Normandin
to celebrate the careers of those who are not celebrated. It’s not a book meant to reopen arguments about who does and does not deserve Hall of Fame enshrinement. Rather, it remembers those who, failing entrance into Cooperstown, may unfairly be lost to history.
Tales of Triumph in Targeted Advertising
The musical rock-and-roll group They Might Be Giants, dork anthem pioneers, said in their song Kiss Me, Son of God:
“I built a little empire out of some crazy garbage
Called the blood of the exploited working class.”
I’m not 100% sure on what that exactly means, but I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of metaphor. More specifically, it could be some sort of metaphor about capitalism.
People on my television have told me that capitalism is the backbone of our nation. As an employee of a Fortune 500 company, I have signed a written commitment stating that I believe this to be true. What can I say? My hands are tied.
As a newly-minted champion of capitalism, I feel I must divulge something. You, the consumer, have no original ideas or thoughts. We’ve thought of them for you already, long ago. Our great trick is allowing you to believe that you are creating virgin opinions, un-probed by the long member of industry. That last sentence I wrote? It was constructed in the 1970s by powerful men (always men) wearing fine Italian slacks.
The German social critics Adorno and Horkheimer wrote in their seminal work The Dialectic of the Enlightenment:
“Even the aesthetic activities of political opposites are one in their enthusiastic obedience to the rhythm of the iron system.”
A truer statement has never been uttered by neo-Marxist heathens.
Nothing you do or say matters. Every meaningful idea that has ever fired across your synapses has fired across someone else’s years ago.
On a long enough timeline, your existence is rounded down to zero.
Considering the intelligent and forward-thinking audience to whom I’m bestowing this information, I’ve come to two conclusions:
1) You have come to this realization already, and have been unsuccessfully attempting to shield yourself from the truth.
2) My words have made you realize the breadth of your insignificance, answering a life-long question you weren’t quite sure how to ask.
Either way, it’s kind of a bummer, right? You may feel that you need some help to cope with this crippling understanding. Well, we here at Big Business have already thought of that, too.
Behold this recent screen capture:
It’s quite genius, actually. We have set up a system to oppress you, and when you become aware of it, you look for solace in the same system.
Sorry, readers. That’s the way it is. But look on the bright side. In 20-70 years, you’ll be dead.
What Did Not Happen At The Deadline
Baseball America sums up what happened with the 15 draft picks from the first ten rounds who were still unsigned 15 minutes before the deadline this past Friday at 5PM.
This is not an excerpt from that article:
Kevin Gausman (Orioles, first round, No. 4 overall): Finished eating sandwich. Casually picked up his cell phone for the first time in a few weeks. Saw 92 missed calls from the 410 area code. Listened to the voice mails. Checked his watch. 30 seconds left. Called back, and agreed to sign for $4.32 million, apologized for having his phone on silent since June.
Mark Appel (Pirates, first round, No. 8 overall): Read a blog post about Stanford adding a new flavor of soft-serve to its cafeteria for the fall. Added this piece of information to his pros and cons list, and decided this pushed it over the top. So long, $3.8 million. Hello, Advanced Topics in Macroeconomic Theory.
Lucas Giolito (Nationals, first round, No. 16 overall): Carefully reattached the prosthetic arm he has been using since the unfortunate elbow incident, made sure his sleeve was covering the evidence, signed onto Skype, and did a video chat with the Nationals, informing them he was willing to sign for $2,925,000.
Request-a-GIF: Eric Young Falls, Gets Back Up Mostly
July 17, 2012
It is, generally speaking, the policy of this website not to use the misfortunes of others as a means to the end of our own personal and/or collective glory — and it’s for that reason which, generally speaking, the request for such a GIF as follows (of Colorado Rockies utility gentleman Eric Young stumbling elaborately) would be summarily denied.
In this particular case, however, an exception has been made, on account of the suppliant in question (a certain Dave, in this case) has submitted his request from an email address at Loughborough University in Leicestershire, UK.
Is Dave an actual student, or faculty member, of Loughborough University? “Doesn’t matter,” is the only possible response. That he has made the effort to create a foreign — and therefore pleasantly mysterious — email account is both halves of this particular battle.
Low Art: Baseball Shrinky Dinks
I’m not an artistic person. When I was six I won a coloring contest held at the local drugstore, and decided that it would be wise to reinvest my improbable ten dollar prize into some art supplies. Said supplies languished in the back of my desk drawer for years, and I never again established professional status as an artist. In high school I took a couple of art classes which killed my GPA, but allowed me to spend sixth period bullshitting with friends while smearing expensive oil paint onto cheap canvases with little forethought.
Despite being bad at art, I still enjoy making it. I don’t know if this is some pathetic attempt to create tangible evidence of my existence, a way of carving notches into the caves of my descendants, or whether it’s simple procrastination. My descent into new artistic depths occurred while trying to entertain eight year-olds with one of those summer projects no one actually engages in unless attending a summer camp. The process is simple and inexpensive: all you need are some sheets of clear plastic purchased from your least-detested local craft store, a fine-point sharpie, some worthless junk-era baseball cards, and an oven. If you don’t have an oven, this project may be somewhat less simple and inexpensive.