Bad news, unapproved commenters: this is the last post of the night from us. DUAN is how you say it?
Since some of you seemed alarmed and confused (or, more likely, bored?): those "BTW" links at the bottom of posts were helpful author bylines. To review, today's NYC Blogging Illuminati Young Manhattanite consisted of Katie Baker (Bill Simmons, were you reading?), Foster Kamer, Maura Johnston, "99" and Krucoff.
Since A.J. didn't give us access to firstname.lastname@example.org, we were forced to rely on tips from friends and (gasp!) our own ideas. (True story: We didn't even have a television. Our sole sports inspiration in the apartment we were huddled in is that picture above!) Here are some of the ones that didn't make it in:
Nice tribute to Umaga, the Samoan Bulldozer, who joined a long list of dead before the age of 50 pro wrestlers.
An Open Letter To Saints Fans. From a Giants Fan. Yeah, you go read that.
Two video ideas: 1) Re-creation of Erin Andrews scene starring Katie but we couldn't find an ironing board. 2) Shooting ourselves in a mock game of Knicks vs Nets on a local playground but thought that might lead us to literally shoot ourselves.
Katie considered bringing you a Where Are They Now of her favorite girls from childhood sports movies until she realized the work had been done for her. Then she thought about writing the definitive takedown of Lawrence Tynes but couldn't bring herself to view any of the necessary YouTubes.
Krucoff had a tentatively titled post "Hockey Dads Featuring Rod Langway and the Mustache You Rode In On" using last week's WaPo article on Langway's estranged relationship with his soccer daughter as a starting point to delve into other hockey dad stories. In addition to ESPN's piece on Maple Leafs GM Brian Burke's gay son (it includes the quote, "OK, Burkie's gay. Who cares? Pass the beer nuts.") there's Hockey Dad: A Play in 3 Periods which he wanted to work in "Cross-Chekhovian." It's a good thing he didn't get to this.
Foster has a short memo to his fantasy football league:
Jason Yarn, I can't believe you were actually winning for a moment this season. You went from not having a life to having even less of a life because you're actually taking the time to perform in our league. Jesus. Matt, I heard you got a girlfriend, I hope she knows you like to suck balls and cheat at Fantasy Football. Adair, I know you're not winning. I haven't checked the scores in two weeks because Brian "I've Got A Headache And Can't Run, That's All I Have To Do Is Fucking Run" Westbrook couldn't perform for me but I know you're not winning, because if I wasn't stupid enough to draft Westbrook, you would've, for the third year in a row. John, suck my ass. I don't want you to win either. That's all. You all suck, this season sucked, and, uh, who do I pay my $50 to? Also, Till, I'll hit you up with that $150 soon enough. WE SHOULD'VE PULLED MACLIN FROM THE WAIVER WIRE WHEN I TOLD YOU TO, THOUGH. But really, I pissed on my phone two weeks ago outside of B Bar and haven't been able to answer it since, but I know, I owe you. That's it. I hate Fantasy Football. Adrian Peterson can finger his own ass. So can the rest of you.
Lastly, there was a minor rumble in a tiny section of the New York blogosphere this past week over hooking up. Imagine that. It started with John Carney's Guide to Holiday Romance, followed by Melissa Lafsky's rebuttal. Let's hear it for elliptically broad sweeping generalizations! So how about it: we leave it to you, DUAN, to come up with the Sports Fan Guide to Holiday Romance. Here are a few to get you started.