More competition than I need...

Wednesday Night Music Club: As a White Sox fan I really feel like posting Moby’s “South Side” right now. However, I cannot in good conscience post any video featuring Gwen Stefani to my blog. As a result I am going to stay with Moby and go for his cover of “That’s When I Reach for my Revolver”. This is from the late 90’s when Moby realized that Techno was dead and over so he made a punk rock album. Six months later U2 released Pop thinking that Techno was huge. Silly, silly Bono.

And no I didn’t go to the ballgame tonight. Though watching the Royals lose on a balk would have been a level of enjoyment that I wouldn’t believe possible without chemical enhancements. I’m not sure if anyone else enjoyed my last post but I’ve been wanting to do that for years. I certainly didn’t expect it to be that long but it was a 13 inning game. And surprisingly, no one ever asked me what the hell I was doing writing in a notebook for an entire game. You would think that a guy sitting in a row all by himself who is continuously writing in a notebook would at least raise a slight bit of interest.

So I should respond to the latest stories regarding My Beloved Lindsay. If the UK’s Sun is to be believed (and if you can’t trust a newspaper that features topless women on page 3 I don’t know who you can trust) then Lindsay is officially a couple with DJ Sam. Sam short for Samantha. Now obviously this is a bit disconcerting for me.

Not for the reasons that would be disconcerting for more residents of Kansas City than I am comfortable with. I have absolutely no qualms with how any two people choose to be happy. As long as you have two consenting adults I really don’t care how the pairing is put together. Happiness is tough enough to find as it is, if it is within the same gender then so be it. However, this puts a huge crimp in my plan to date My Beloved Lindsay.

See, my logic so far has been foolproof. I would continually profess my smitteness with My Beloved Lindsay while she a) spirals out of control and b) slowly dates every guy in existence. As a result the number of guys who are a) willing to date her and b) haven’t already dated her would become smaller and smaller. At some point, I would be the best option within that pool. I was probably only six weeks away from that moment where I would be her best option. But now if I have to compete with the wiser half of the population I’m pretty much screwed. Well, not literally of course but you get the point.

I think I’ll leave it at that for the night. I think I wrote enough last night to last me through the rest of the week. And I didn’t even reference my desire to beat up the Royals first base coach just to uphold my South Side pride. I’m sorry but that is just how we roll where I’m from. Coach first base, get your ass beat. It’s the rule.