Like our man Phife, the 5-foot assassin after the Sundance screening of the new Quest documentary.

Here is the official website for the movie.

What is your go-to sandwich for lunch? I got back-and-forth between salami and ham with assorted fixings…

“I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying.”
– Woody Allen

I couldn’t help but think of this classic Woody quote yesterday after Rob Neyer announced that he’s leaving ESPN. Almost immediately, a series of appreciations appeared on-line, from the likes of Will Leitch, Craig Calcaterra, Tommy Craggs and the boys at Pinstriped Bible (to name just a few). Rob is one of the most influencial baseball writers of the Internet Generation, and he’s a nice guy to boot, so it was warming to see all the love thrown his way. Especially, since he’s not, you know, dead.

Rob might have left ESPN but he’s not retiring. Today, he started blogging for SB Nation.

Here’s a cool Super Bowl primer from the SI Vault–game recaps for every Super Bowl every played.

Most Tuesday nights, I play basketball for a few hours in a tiny, dank gymnasium on the West Side. When I hop on the uptown train to head home, I’m a sweaty mess. I try to stand as far away from the other passengers as possible, but those 30 minutes are hellishly uncomfortable.

Heaven forbid that I need a seat. Some nights, the game gets rough and I’m too sore to stand the whole way. It’s usually empty enough to find a seat, but rarely is that seat out of smelling distance from the others on the train.

It’s particularly upsetting when I’ve calculated my stench radius, chosen a “safe” location, only to watch a new rider get on the train and head for a seat right next to me.

First a hint of disturbance crosses her face. Then her nose crinkles as she sniffs more deeply for confirmation. Her eyes search for the source. As suspicion gives way to recognition, I know she knows. She gathers her stuff and finds a new seat. If she’s kind, she doesn’t look back.

Of course, worrying about it so much just intensifies the sweatiness. The only thing worse than being on a stinky train is being the stink.

R.I.P. John Barry.

Nah, it ain’t snow, it’s a “wintery mix.” Sleet in the Bronx, rain in midtown.

Bring it on…and yo, is this going to be some kind of great spring or what? People are going to bug when it finally gets warm.

According to reports, the Yanks have signed Freddy Garcia to a minor league deal.

Yo, check out this slideshow of Thomas McKean’s inventive Metrocard mosiacs over at Huffington Post.

Shake it, folks.

For a dainty–and fruity–Super Bowl experience…

Crums…

[Photo Credit: Tshk!]

The other day I mused offhandedly about how cool it would be to own a baseball team, and also how completely impossible. And that made me think of minor-league or independent-league team ownership, which is still kind of a possibility for mere mortals – and which, these days, has a lot more room for quirk. Given the choice between two clubs, as a general rule of thumb, you’re probably better off joining the one that doesn’t require Bud Selig’s approval.

Back in the fall I read Neal Karlen’s Slouching Towards Fargo, which is an affectionate portrait of the St. Paul Saints circa 1996 and 1997, an independent Northern League team owned in part by Bill Veeck’s son Mike (decades after his Disco Demolition Night debacle) that boasts a pig delivering baseballs to the mound, a nun in the stands  offering massages, appearances by part-owner Bill Murray, sumo-wrestling contests for opposing managers between innings, and much more. “Fun Is Good,” is the Saints’ motto, and it’s refreshing to watch a team that doesn’t take itself too seriously. (Bless the Yankees, but you know it would do them good to lighten up once in a while). Daryl Strawberry, who redeemed himself with the Saints shortly before joining the Yankees and salvaging his career, serves as something of a focal point in the book, representing the Saints’ function as a haven of second- and third-chances for baseball types and locals; there are also draft holdouts, washups, career minor leaguers and female pitcher Ila Borders. The Saints have room for just about everyone.

Author Neal Karlen also tries to tell the story of his own sort of redemption, as he was initially sent to Saint Paul by Rolling Stone’s Jann Wenner to dig up mud and write a story eviscerating Bill Murray and Strawberry. But there’s little suspense or originality in the story of how he ultimately grows a conscience once away from the big city. This part of the book was less successful, for me – partly because Karlen’s writing (and, to be fair, editing – the book is very unevenly paced) is not up to the standards of his material, and partly because his view of cynical and immoral New York City media types vs. big-hearted Midwesterners struck me as overly pat. He frequently brings up petty grudges against other writers or media-world denizens, and he’s too on-the-nose when writing about how baseball and the Saints will heal us all; it’s a theme that would have benefited from subtlety. Still, Karlen does a good job of chronicling the fascinating collection of individuals who cluster around the Saints, a haven for nonconformists, and whatever his flaws as a writer, they don’t prevent the charm of the team itself from coming through loud and clear.

“Hopscotch” is an appealing but lousy movie. It looks like pea soup, the script is dull, and the acting is forgettable (I’m talking to you, Ned Beatty). But I’m a sucker for Matthau and Glenda Jackson so I sat through the whole thing, curled up on the couch with my wife over the weekend. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter that a movie is bad. If you are cozy with the Mrs watching Matthau humming Mozart, sipping beers, being Matthau, things could be a lot worse.

According to Premier, Kool Herc, one of Hip Hop’s founding fathers, is seriously ill (here is an update on the story).

Our thoughts go out to Herc and his family.

This site is just too cool.

Thanks to the Duck Dog for pointing out the facts.

I’m lovin it like Michael Kay loves his Mickey D’s.

[Pictures: Sophia Loren, Lenny Bruce, Zero Mostel and Julie Christie]

Jeb Stewart–known around these parts as “Evil Empire”–penned this cool piece about the legendary Rickwood Field.

Dig.

[Photo Credit: Mike Moody]

From our man in Japan, dig these cherce Blue Note t-shirts.

One of the benefits of living up in the Bronx is that I always get a seat on my way to work. By the time we reach Washington Heights, the train is packed. Today, it was crowded and a few people in my car were short-tempered. Nothing dramatic, just cranky on a Monday morning, negotiating space. I looked up and took it all in and thought, It’s amazing that more fights don’t break out. But the social contract holds together–most of the time.

Sometimes I wonder what life must be like away from so many people? Would it be peaceful and a relief? Or would I miss the agitation, conflict, and the pleasure of meeting a stranger’s eye and smiling ever so slightly?

What? The Pro Bowl ain’t good enough for you? The SAG awards isn’t doin’ the trick? How about chillin’ with some pals?

[Picture by Bags]

Eh? Why not?

[Photo Credit: Food 52]