Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … Joe Torre.

Just what the hell is this man’s problem? I believe the rule regarding Major League locker rooms reads: “What you see here, what you hear here … Let it stay here when you leave here.” Yet this craggy old douche, who is still managing a Major League baseball team (yet again loaded with talent), contributes a few heaping handfuls of clubhouse dirt to an upcoming book by Tom Verducci. I’m sure his current crop of Dodgers are thrilled to know that their locker room and personal life high jinx are now possible fodder for the next no-doubt-boring-as-hell Torre tome.

Joe Torre has gotten entirely too much press and public love since he started managing the stacked and ready-to-roll-for-a-decade New York Yankees. Before he came to New York, Joe Torre’s unremarkable, 15-year managerial career consisted of the following:

• Three 90 loss seasons.
• Not one 90 win season.
• 10 sub .500 seasons.
• One division title (promptly swept in the playoffs) and just three second-place finishes.
• Four cellar finishes
• That rank garlic breath (I’m just assuming from the looks of him).
• No Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera or Andy Petitte.

That’s right, genius Joe didn’t become managerial Mensa material until he found his lucky ass sitting in a dugout steeped in future Hall of Famers and a slew of other assorted superstars who will barely miss out on a Cooperstown bust.

I’m know there’s more to managing than just penciling in each night’s lineup, but I believe the rest of Torre’s job got a lot easier after filling out his lineup card night after night with names like Jeter, Bernie Williams, Jorge Posada and Paul O’Neill. Hell, he had a second baseman throwing routine grounders 12 rows deep into the stands, but because Chuck Knoblauch could hit better than most team’s leftfielders, it didn’t matter. Every time Torre would lose his Series winning third baseman at the end of the season, his G.M. Brian Cashman would simply replace him with a Wade Boggs or a Scott Brosius.

When it came time to fill in the pitching slot, all he had to do was remember who was next in the rotation that night. “Let’s see, is it Clemens, Petitte, Wells or Cone? What’s that? Wells is gone? Then I guess I’ll go with Mussina. We got him now, right? Wake me up around the 7th inning. If we’re winning, and odds are we will be, I’ll dial up one of those stellar bullpen hold specialists to keep things in line until it’s time to bring in Mr. Lights Out Rivera so that I can doze through the ninth inning.”

For this, Joe Torre was seen as some sort of dugout Edison, only instead of creating the incandescent light bulb, he pulled off the big brain coups of coaxing a string of playoff appearances out of a clubhouse that had more baseball royalty than Rod Blagojevich has chutzpah. (That crazy Blags fucker even yukked it up on The View yesterday. He might be my favorite infamous real life character since Colin Ferguson, the Long Island Railway shooter, put on that dazzling display as his own attorney during his trial. Governor Blags has a way to go to surpass the “Is this guy for real?” jaw-dropper that was watching Colin Ferguson viciously cross-examine the very people he’d shot.)

I know, I know. Managing the New York Yankees is one of the most stressful jobs in sports. It’s also one of the most highly paid, which means that poor rich Joe could afford of a lot of Valium to fend off that crushing anxiety of coffee-breathed sportswriters combined with his mega-million dollar contract.

I know, I know. He had to deal daily with the most ferocious, merciless baseball press corps in the game. Sure, that might be a tough task if you’re managing a team of journeymen in the Big Apple, but how much explaining did he have to do when they were winning 90-plus games every year? Even an idiot press corps who will be satisfied only with a 162-0 season can be handled pretty easily when two out of three post-game press conferences entail explaining why you won by four runs instead of five.

I know, I know. He had to deal with King George Steinbrenner’s batshit crazy mood swings, idiotic press comments and incessant meddling every time a losing streak reached three games. But King George paid Torre a king’s ransom, so I’m sure St. Joe could laugh off the Boss’s blathering every time he collected that fat-as-David-Wells paycheck.

And yes, I know I know I know. The biggest part of managing a team of superstars is managing the gargantuan egos that threaten to blow the seams out of the locker room. Sure, if you’re managing a team of stars in Cincinnati, you better make sure all the bigshots are happy and want to stick around and perform. But if Gary Sheffield ain’t happy with things in the Bronx? You can send him packing for less greener pastures while Brian Cashman goes out and signs another big stick to take over right field.

So spare me the Joe Torre worship. I’m sure he’s got a keen baseball mind. He’s good at schmoozing the press and keeping egotistical owners appeased. God knows he mastered the art of calling the bullpen to have Mariano Rivera come in and close games.

But he comes up a bit short in the class department by dishing on A-Rod, who did nothing but hit the shit out of the baseball in the years he played for Torre. Maybe A-Rod did provide a bit of clubhouse cancer. Maybe his too large presence did have an adverse affect on the Yankees the last few years. If so, you know what moves the best team in baseball past all that bullshit and has them back on top come late October? A truly great manager.

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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• Overrated – Returning home run balls
• Note to Self – Thanks be to sports
• Note to Self – The tie that Bonds
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Whether on stage screaming lyrics to a song, storytelling at a spoken-word show or helping Will Smith and Martin Lawrence take down white supremacists in Bad Boys II, it’s pretty clear that Henry Rollins is a take no prisoners, take no bullshit kind of guy.

It’s also clear that he’s one of the hardest working celebrities alive today. With a versatile career in a variety of different fields, it’s clear that Rollins can accomplish anything he puts his mind to. In 2007, he took some time out his busy schedule to talk to us about his career, travels and experiences – and he certainly didn’t pull any punches in the process.

If you missed the interview then, here’s your chance to read it now:
http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2007/01/25/one-on-one-with-henry-rollins/

Courtney Enlow

Last year was all about various Ebolas. But I’ve pledged in 2009 to be more upbeat, more optimistic. To see the good in things. And that is why “Things Assholes Like” will pop up from time to time over here.

Perhaps for this inaugural submission, I should discuss what exactly constitutes an “asshole.” Because there are people in this world who are good and kind and happen to like shitty things. Like the somewhat clueless guy strolling around in the Ed Hardy t-shirt he got as a gift, or the girl who bought one of the Shopaholic books at an airport because she forgot to bring something to read and found herself enjoying it [sheepishly raises hand]. No, these people are not assholes. An asshole is someone who refuses to see beyond their horrible taste or to see things for what they are, and force their own terrible enjoyment upon others. “You didn’t read Twilight? You don’t want to? You stupid whore!” * runs away crying to get her third Robert Pattinson tattoo *

For example, assholes like to post unnecessary and mean Internet comments. Go to any YouTube video or article on Digg (or my column from last week, for that matter) and you’ll see some fucker who daddy never hugged ranting about how stupid what they’re reading is, what a FAGG!!1! the author is or how much Liberals are ruining this country.

But those people bum me out. Plus I understand that you are not supposed to feed the troll. So I thought I’d start this rolling with a subject close to home and rather specific.

Assholes like to play Wii loudly at 3 a.m.

Possibly under the influence of cocaine, but then that would take away from the assholiness of the inner-asshole. And no one likes a faker.

Like many people who live in apartment buildings, I have an upstairs neighbor. This neighbor was not a problem until roughly December 15, 2008. For that was the night it began.

Every night since then, I’ve been pummeled out of a deep sleep by the sounds upstairs. The sound starts soft, then becomes so loud as to shake the items in my bedroom, then repeats in military fashion for two hours, like a horrible waltz. Bum-bum-bum-BUM-bum-bum. My light fixture shakes, my heart races and the urge to kill rises. Initially, I hoped that it would just go away. I was leaving for vacation for two weeks, perhaps by then it wouldn’t happen anymore. But it only worsened. Of course the obvious solution would be to go upstairs and talk to this person. Which I attempted, and quickly stood down.

When I went to confront this foul creature, I soon realized via a trail to their door that they were the culprits behind the vomit incident that had plagued our hallways for the better part of a week. Also, it was 2 a.m. and this person was blasting some kind of hipster shitrock, like Interpol and ICP had a really ugly baby. I decided that A (Wii/DDR/jazzercise sounds – I haven’t yet truly decided which it is, but I’m leading towards Wii) plus B (loud 2 a.m. music) plus C (vommy grossness) equaled massive amounts of cocaine and booze, and I being a smallish woman who lives alone would probably be murdered by his bare hands (note: I had that night been suckered into visiting rotten.com, which is probably why my mind was working this way). I opted instead to leave a note. This did about as much good as one would imagine.

After the un-success of the note, I was starting to really lose it. I have often imagined that hell is an eternity of being constantly awoken from a nice sleep, and there I was in my own personal hell.

I began picturing myself using the telekinesis I’ve long wished to have to blow up whatever device was causing this person to do this to me. I was like a nerd un-friendly Carrie. I would become some kind of superhero, going from tenement building to tenement building, erupting devices of neighborly annoyance into flames, their owners on their knees begging for forgiveness.

But I don’t have firepowers. What I did have was the arm of my elliptical machine. So I removed it and began banging on the ceiling with it.

I don’t understand this person. What kind of human being is so callous and rude that they spend their nights doing the most obnoxious and loud things possible? I mean, parties and music and general shenanigans, I get. I understand that. I’m not a perfect neighbor myself. I get way too fancy with my attempts at cooking and end up with the fire alarm going off at least once a month. I sing loudly to songs like Michelle Branch’s “Goodbye to You” and various Jewel songs (complete with impression, which sounds more like Kermit than anything else). But I tell you this – I attempt to at least keep it within my own walls. I become embarrassed at the mere thought of bothering another person. The instant someone complained about the volume of my Core Rhythms DVDs, as advertised by one Mary Murphy, you can bet I’d take it to heart and really try to keep it down.

But then there’s this asshole. This guy just won’t stop.

This past weekend was the final straw. A Saturday night-in apparently, doing what he does best. 2 a.m. – it starts. I feel my eyeballs bulging out of my head in rage. At any moment, they will no doubt burst from my head and through the ceiling and smack him in the head like he deserves. So I grab my trusty elliptical arm (which of course means unscrewing it from its holder, never to be correctly placed ever again) and bang twice on the ceiling, which is Morse Code for “shut the fucking fuck up.”

He proceeds to stomp on the ground like a toddler facing punishment, then to spend the following hour doing his little kick routine or whatever it is at twice the volume.

I hate him. And he, like his asshole brethren, must be destroyed. And that is what I intend to do.

One could say that there are bigger issues in this world to face, and one would be correct. But I believe that the complete and utter eradication of assholes will do more good for this world than you know (also, acid rain and the rain forest just kind of petered out, maybe assholes will too).

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

Similar Posts:

• Outside of the In-Crowd – A review of Twilight by someone who hasn’t seen Twilight
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Hobo Stu

Hello everyone,

I’d like to officially welcome Chris Kirkman back to HoboTrashcan.

Like he did last season, Kirkman has returned to give his thoughts on each episode of Lost and to share a special episode-inspired drink recipe each week. It’s his first week back on the site and his post this week already has my head hurting. Luckily, I have a delicious Paloma to drink, which is helping to soothe my pounding head.

Here’s what’s new on HoboTrashcan.com this week:

Lost: Down the Hatch – A Quantum Leap forward
Chris Kirkman triumphantly returns to the site this week to break down Lost‘s season five premiere. After sharing his musings on time travel and ley lines, Kirkman offers up a delicious episode-inspired drink recipe.

Murphy’s Law – I’m Batman
In a surprising twist that DC Comics hopes will boost sales, last Wednesday Batman was killed by the evil god Darkseid. Following this shocking development, DC Comics has announced that there will be a “Battle for the Cowl” in which a new Batman will be crowned. This week, Joel Murphy asks the comic book company to consider him for the job.

Note to self – A Cardinal mistake
While most “experts” were writing off the Arizona Cardinals last week, Brian Murphy took a look at the team and said they had a legitimate chance of making it to the Super Bowl. Since mainstream sites like ESPN seem more interested in covering the Dallas Cowboys, this week Murphy follows up on that column by explaining why the Cardinals have a good shot at beating the Steelers.

Outside of the In-Crowd – Crazy for Swayze, pleased by The Beast
This week Patrick Swayze superfan Courtney Enlow attempts to make sense of Swayze’s new show, The Beast. While she certainly struggles to keep track of the plotline, it’s clear that Swayze’s charisma and combat skills have once again won her over.

Overrated – Updates
Sometimes a topic is so overrated that Ned Bitters fails to adequately capture the topic’s overabundance of adulation in a single column. To remedy that situation, this week Bitters revisits three previous topics – athletes thanking God, Thanksgiving and athletes coming out of retirement – and shares a few thoughts that he failed to mention the first time around.

- Hobo Stu

Hobo Stu’s Weekly Recap is also available as an email newsletter. To sign up for the newsletter to ensure you never miss an update, send an email to newsletter-subscribe@hobotrashcan.com.

• Introduction
• Girl Scout cookies
• Lost thoughts
• Contractually obligated Batman discussion
• Academy Award predictions
• “Grind” by Melt

Hobo Radio 73 - Give us our damn cookies! [ 1:09:02 ] Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

Week 73 Spotlight: Give us our damn cookies!

A lot has happened since our last podcast. Barack Obama officially became the 44th President of the United States. Lost returned to ABC after a lengthy hiatus. The nominations for the 81st annual Academy Awards were released.

While all of these events are important, they all pale in comparison to another significant event that occurred this past week – the Girl Scouts announced that they will be reducing the number of cookies they put inside their boxes of Thin Mints, Do-si-dos and Tagalongs. Obviously, Joel Murphy and Lars Periwinkle are not happy with this unforeseen development. They give their thoughts on the Girl Scout fiasco, along with the other events mentioned above, on this week’s show.

What did they think of the premiere of Lost? Can they successfully predict this year’s Oscar winners? What is Lars Periwinkle’s middle name? The answers to these questions and more are in this week’s podcast.

Hobo Radio is the official podcast of HoboTrashcan, brought to you by The Podcast Network.

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