Too Good To Be True

It's been 18 hours, and I still can't get over how good last night's season finale of "The Gauntlet" was. Did I say "good?" I meant "great." I knew there was a reason why I continue to grind through season after season of The Real World/Road Rules challenges, and the payoff is episodes like the one I watched last night.

If you didn't watch, here's a synopsis: The Veterans dominated the entire season, and were successful in getting rid of perceived weak links from their team before the final mission. However, they didn't get rid of a fat guy named Eric who ended up collapsing in the midst of a long run and had to go to the hospital. After Eric got carted off, they still tried to finish the race and ended up passing the Rookies anyway and finishing before them. They thought they might actually get the win, but they were disqualified because not everyone on their team finished.

I am not sure what was more amazing, the fact that The Veterans didn't realize early in the season that an obese out of shape guy might be a huge liability in the final mission, or that they actually thought they might be credited with a victory after coming back to win once the obese out of shape guy was rush to the hospital.

The Veterans were so cutthroat the entire time in their effort to "trim the fat," yet they seemed to miss the giant albatross that was getting wasted with them every night. And at somewhere close to 300 pounds, Eric is hard to miss. Seriously, did they think Katie or Coral would have actually slowed them down more than Eric?

Don't get me wrong, Eric seems like a fun guy, and that's probably how they justified not trying to eliminate him. That, and the fact that they were scared to go against him in a Gauntlet. But seriously, who would you be more scared of in a physical competition, Eric, or someone like CT or Brad? Even if the event severely favored a heavy person, you could beat him just by waiting (no pun intended) him out.

It was pretty amusing when they cut back to the scene from an earlier episode when Johnny Bananas pointed out how much of a liability Eric would be in a final mission. I am sure Johnny laughed as he watched last night's episode. Or at least I hope he was laughing at his teammates, not at Eric going to the hospital. That would be mean.

But probably not as mean as the rest of The Veteran team who basically tried to drag Eric around even though it was clear he was not going to make it and might be in serious physical danger. Brad was the only one of them with even a mild degree of sympathy, while the rest were obsessed with getting their 10 percent of $300,000.

When you consider how obnoxious they were last and through the entire season, losing served them right.

As for the Rookies, they should be thanking their lucky stars that Frank wouldn't let them strike a deal with Danny for immunity in the previous episode. If they had done that, then Eric could have gone into the Gauntlet and possibly been eliminated before the final mission. Since Frank wouldn't agree to the deal, they were able to grant Eric immunity and have a chance to win the final mission, which they did.

I know I said I would stop writing about The Gauntlet a few weeks ago, but last night was just too juicy. Besides, it was the finale. I need to do something with my time before baseball season starts.

Please Don't Kiss Me, I'm Not Irish

Those that know me know that I will typically look for any excuse for a good time. And by “good time,” I mean “go drinking with my friends.”

“Oh really, it’s Guy Fawkes Day? I had no idea! Where are we going to celebrate?”

You only live once (a cliché, but true), and there’s no reason not to look for reasons to have fun with your friends. Or at least that’s how I try and live my life.

There is one day, however, that the rest of the natural-born world uses as an excuse to go out drinking with their friends that I will annually avoid. And that day is today.

I know what you’re thinking, “who doesn’t like St. Patrick’s Day?” Well, I don’t. I’m not exactly sure when this boycott began, because I know I have partaken in St. Patty’s Day revelry in the past. And if you think I’m an Irish-phobe of some sort, you’re wrong on that count as well. I spent a semester of college studying in Dublin, and I have nothing but fine things to say about the good people of The Emerald Isle.

In reality, it’s not the way Irish people respond to St. Patty’s Day that bothers me so much. It’s that fact that every Tom, Dick and Harry decides that they’re “Irish” on March 17, and that means getting wasted to the point of incoherence and acting belligerent because hey, that’s what Irish people do!

Seriously, is there any cultural event that perpetuates more negative stereotypes than St. Patrick’s Day? What’s the line of thinking here, since all Irish people are drunken assholes, let’s ask like drunken assholes in celebration of their fine culture? I’m surprised that folks don’t take this idea to a further extreme and start dressing up like the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms commercials.

Baby Pet Peeves

I was at brunch today with my sister, father, and his girlfriend when I encountered one of my biggest pet peeves. It’s not quite up there with people who say “personal opinion,” but it’s close.

We were discussing the recent preponderance of baby showers that my sister has had to attend, when my dad’s girlfriend asked her about yesterday’s shower specifically.

“Does she know the sex of the baby?”

“Yes, she’s having a girl.”

“Oooh, how nice!”

I don’t mean to pick on my father’s girlfriend because everyone seems to do this, but would she have been disappointed if she found out it was going to be a boy? Every time I hear a person find out the sex of someone else’s baby, they always act really excited, as if that was the answer they were hoping for.

As I see it, there is no reason for anyone to have a vested interest in the gender of someone else’s baby, particularly if they barely know the person, which is the case here. A baby’s gender is pertinent information, but it’s not news that should elicit a reaction that is either positive or negative, it should simply be digested. However, I would be amused if someone reacted to hearing the gender by glumly saying, “oh, that’s too bad.” It’s never happened though.

Now when it comes time for me to be a father (don’t worry Mom, it will happen eventually), I will certainly care. In a perfect world, I’d have a boy and a girl. But if I could only choose one, I’d prefer a boy for the simple fact that I know it will be easier for me to relate to a boy. A less pressing reason is that a boy would also give me a greater chance of having my spawn make millions as a professional athlete.

Anyway, my only theory as to why people always pretend to be excited when they hear the gender of someone else’s baby is that they think that this kind of news deserves an excited response. I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t.

This gender thing got me thinking of another pet peeve of mine that also has to do with reproduction. It’s become trendy in recent years to hear couples say, “we’re pregnant.” This drives me absolutely insane.

And when I say this, it’s not because I am trying to win points with feminists by acknowledging that men don’t have any idea what being pregnant is like. It bothers me because it’s just not true. I’ve been told that couples say “we’re pregnant” as a way of demonstrating just how much of a group effort the whole process is going to be, but that’s horseshit. The man can help all he wants, but he’s got the easy part.

If a couple wants to say, “we’re expecting,” that’s fine. But “we’re pregnant” is not.

Time To Say Goodbye

Jerry Seinfeld has a routine where he laments the changing nature of rooting for teams in professional sports. With all the trades and movement via free agency, Seinfeld says it’s gotten to the point where we’re all rooting for laundry, because the clothes stay the same but the players don’t.

It’s not one of his funnier routines, but the point is accurate. The transient nature of professional sports has made it foolish to get too attached to any players on your favorite team. Since I’m typically a realist, this hasn’t been too much of a problem for me. While my allegiance to my favorite teams never wanes, I usually choose my favorite players from around the league. These are players I enjoy watching for one reason or another, and since they’re not on my team, I don’t really care what team they play for.

Sometimes, however, I find myself choosing my favorite player from my favorite team, but rarely have I ever had the disappointment of seeing him leave during the prime of his career. I was dejected to see personal favorites like Charles Oakley (Knicks) and Jessie Armstead (Giants) leave town, but they had already given me years of enjoyment as a fan, so I was able to come to grips with their departure.

It’s not always so easy to see our favorites leave, so you can imagine my dismay when I found out that safety Gibril Wilson, my favorite member of the New York Giants, had signed a free agent contract with the Raiders just four years into his career.

After being drafted by the Giants in the fifth round of the 2004 NFL Draft, Wilson entered the league with little fanfare. And to be honest, I latched onto him mostly because of his amusing name. From Pepper Johnson to Osi Umenyiora, the Giants have never lacked great names, and Gibril was no exception.

Similar to the way I developed a fondness for Armstead, I watched Wilson as he excelled on special teams and in certain pass-defense packages his first couple of years in the league. It turned out he was actually pretty good, and I never hesitated to sing his praises to all my fellow Giants fans.

But then he became a major contributor to the Super Bowl champions, and suddenly he was a hot commodity on the free agent market. And when I found out that the Raiders were hot after him and he was raised in northern California, it seemed like a no-brainer he would end up there. When you factor in that the Raiders were willing to make him the third-highest paid safety in the league, and it was a recipe for his departure.

I can’t blame him for taking the money because word around the campfire is that Giants weren’t going to come close to matching the $39 million contract he received that included $16 million in guaranteed cash. I don't want to say Wilson isn't worth it, but I get the sense the Raiders are attaching a little too much value to the fact that he just won the Super Bowl, as if he has some magic winning dust. If the Giants lost to the Patriots, I have to think the contract he received would have been worth about 30 percent less.

Don’t worry, this is not going to ruin my week, or even my day. It’s just a little disappointing. The lesson, as always, is Seinfeld sees all.

Caught In A Landslide

When I was about 13, my travel soccer from South Riverdale went to Purchase, N.Y. to play F.C. Westchester. As far as we were concerned, they might as well have been A.C. Milan. All I remember about the game was that we lost 8-0, and it could easily have been three times that bad. As my teammate’s father so eloquently put it, “I felt like I was watching the Harlem Globetrotters . . . but my son was on the Washington Generals.”

This season’s “Gauntlet” has a similar feel.

If you’ve been watching, you know what I’m talking about it. The Veterans are the Globetrotters, and the Rookies are the Generals. It’s just getting silly. So silly that I might not be able to write about it anymore.

MTV basically tried to give the Rookies a victory with that stupid burial challenge, and they still couldn’t win. How incompetent do you have to be? The funniest part about it was how the players were freaking out about getting buried two feet deep in the sand. Do you really think MTV is going to let you die on the show? These contestants just get dumber every season.

And after all that, the Rookies still wouldn’t put Nehemiah into the gauntlet against Frank, even though he was clearly the reason they couldn’t win an event that was essentially handed to them on a platter. So instead, they throw in the almighty M.J., and it seemed like everyone thought it was a foregone conclusion he would beat Frank. Is it because M.J. played football at Vanderbilt? Please.

It’s not like Frank is built like McLovin’, and he proved it by defeating M.J.

So now we’re at the point where the Veterans have twice as many players as the Rookies, not to mention a crate load of schwag they’ve won along the way. There seems to be a sentiment among the Vets that having too many players is going to be a detriment in the final mission.

While this strikes me as a needless worry when you consider their domination, it’s also setting up setting up to be the only drama left in this season as the Vets try and figure how they can get some of their female players kicked off.

All in all, it’s been a pretty disappointing season. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop watching though.

No Bourbon For Me

After living outside of New York for most of the past three years, the best part about being back is the ability to reconnect with old friends and family. It's not that I didn't like living in North Carolina because I did, but my social network runs much deeper up in NYC. Considering I grew up here and lived here for two years out of college, it really should come as no surprise.

As a result, I've spent the better part of my first couple of months in New York feverishly trying to catch up with old friends. One of these friends is a buddy from college that moved to Manhattan while I was in North Carolina, which makes it a lot easier to hang out with him.

He's a ton of fun, so I'm usually down to meet up with him, except of course when he wants me to join him for his regular Thursday visit a bar called Bourbon St. on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

He has a good reason for going there, and it's because Bourbon St. serves $1 drafts on Thursdays, and he tries to get me to join his group of regulars almost every week. I just can't do it, and there's a good reason.

When I was in high school, Bourbon St. was known as one of those places known for being rather relaxed when it came to scrutinizing IDs at the door. Therefore, it was also a place that had a younger clientele. When I was a junior in high school, a friend of mine and I decided to finally get up to speed with the rest of the country's teenage population and get fake IDs. With IDs, we reasoned, we'd finally be able to get into cool bars like Bourbon St.

One Saturday afternoon, we made a trek down to the West Village to one of those shady stores where it's kind of hard to tell exactly what they sell, but you know they have fake IDs.

We didn't really know what we were doing, and it showed. Our problems were further complicated by the fact that we didn't want to spend more than $40 or so per man. This meant that we wouldn't be getting replica out-of-state licenses, but rather generic-looking college IDs. We had friends with similar IDs, however, and those seemed to work OK. We figured we'd be OK.

I like to think that we were pretty bright kids, yet we decided to get IDs that were virtually identical, except mine said "St. John's University," and his said "Rutgers University." You'd think we'd have realized that since we planned on using these IDs at the same time, our IDs would look better if they were from the same school. Apparently not.

We were pretty proud of our purchase, and we looked forward to getting to try them out. I was a little bit of a wimp, so I didn't want to risk using them anywhere out of fear of them being confiscated, or worse, us getting arrested. As you can tell, I was a bit paranoid as a teenager. One place I wasn't afraid to try my crappy fake ID was Bourbon St., and sure enough, my friend and I waltzed right in.

What I didn't realize at the time is that bars either take fake IDs, or they don't. This wasn't a situation where my ID was being examined for its authenticity, because it was obviously fake to anyone with a third-grade education. The biggest lesson I learned from that experience is that it behooves any teenager to spend the money on a good ID. You're high school years will be more fun, and you won't have to worry about whether you're good enough for places like Bourbon St.

When I first got back to NYC in December, I begrudgingly joined my friend on Thursday at Bourbon St. because I hadn't seen him in a really, really long time. And while it was great to see him, I couldn't shake the feeling of being anywhere from 5-to-10 years older than the everyone else there. After that, I vowed never to go back there again.

To turn a phrase from Groucho Marx, I don't want to go to any bar that would have a dorky 17-year-old version of myself as a patron.

White People Like Stuff

Being the hip New Yorker that she is, my sister is always in on the cutting edge. So of course it was her that sent me the think to "Stuff White People Like," a hot new blog that is pretty self-explanatory. The blog is quite "smart" as my boss here at ESPN Mag likes to say, and I found myself shaking my head with self-awareness as I read it. Since I'm in my late 20s and live in Park Slope, the blog is basically poking fun at my entire demographic.

In my defense, I will say that I don't like Oscar parties, snowboarding or food Co-ops. I do like Mos Def, however, I've been down with him since he was one half of Black Star, and before he was appearing on Chapelle's Show.

I take pride in being able to laugh at myself, so I got to thinking about other things that white people like that should appear on that blog. Fortunately, my Saturday night gave me plenty of fodder as I was at a birthday party at Automatic Slim's, which is a closet-sized bar in the West Village that spins all sorts of music white people like. Over the course of the evening, I realized there are three songs that stand above the rest in terms of the love-affair white folks have with them, and they are "Livin' On A Prayer," "Don't Stop Believing," and "Sweet Caroline."

To be honest, I can't really decide which of these songs white people love most. My friends used to own a bar up by Columbia University, and they claim that "Livin' On A Prayer" would be played on the jukebox at least twice on any crowded night. Ever since then, I've always considered that the quintessential white person bar song. And to be honest, if I never hear that song again at a bar, I'll be a happy person. I don't choose music at bars, however, and when that song comes on, the white kids start belting out the story of Tommy and Gina like its going out of style, even though it's clearly not. Last night was no exception.

The Bon Jovi "classic" received some competition from Neil Diamond and Journey last night, and I came to realize that those two songs might have surpassed "Livin' On A Prayer" on the white people chart. To see the pleasure white folks derive from screaming out a "ba-ba-baa" after each "Sweet Caroline" is quite remarkable. When the song regained popularity after it's appearance in the film "Beautiful Girls," I was into it. More than a decade later, I'm pretty fucking sick of it.

It's become even more nauseating due to its association with the Boston Red Sox, who play the song in the middle of the eighth inning at every home game. It's a nice little tradition, and I don't begrudge them for it. Even the Mets play it now, and with the exception of Billy Wagner, it's my least favorite thing about the organization right now.

Unfortunately, the Red Sox success has made the song far more prevalent and we're forced to hear it more frequently. On the plus side, it helps prove my theory because I don't think there is a team with a whiter fan base in all of sports than the Boston Red Sox. Have you ever seen a non-white Red Sox fan? Me neither, and Red Sox "nation" is everywhere.

That brings us to "Don't Stop Believing," but I'll stop short of poking fun of that song because I still kind of like. That being said, I only think I can deal with hearing it at bars for another year or so before I want stab Steve Perry with a spoon.