How to get caught cheating on your wife

A story I read in today’s edition of the New York Post was basically a step-by-step primer on a great way to get caught cheating on your wife, so I thought I’d share it with everyone. Information, after all, is a valuable tool.

First off, you don’t want to pick just any woman to cheat with. Why would you want to go and do something silly like that? No, you want to pick a woman who’s instantly recognizable to reporters, photographers and just about anyone who’s been near a television or newspaper since former New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer added the “former” to his description. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Ashley Dupre. Her “friends” call her Kristen. And she addresses her friends by client number. Sadly, 9 is already taken.

Second, you don’t pick just any old place to hook up. If you’re going to go for it, you might as well go for the gusto. So be sure to pick a well-known Manhattan hotel where Lindsay Lohan and her lesbian lover, Samantha Ronson, are staying. There will be plenty of press and paparazzi there.

Finally, be sure your wife doesn’t find out from the nosy neighborhood yenta. Get with the program. This is the information age. A story in the New York Post that will spread via e-mail faster than the old Nigerian bank scam is the way to go.

So what was T.J. Earle thinking? I mean, seriously? Was he trying to get caught? The guy is the vice president of a major construction company, and he’s putting himself in a position to lose half of his shit? I don’t want to lose half of my shit, and I’m sure half of my shit is about half of a percent of half of his shit.

Stupidity is alive and well.

Feeling Dan Uggla’s pain

Watching Florida Marlins second baseman Dan Uggla commit three errors during extra innings at Tuesday night’s All-Star Game brought back vivid memories of two games from years ago.

The first was at the scene of the All-Star Game, Yankee Stadium, on May 3, 1990 (a huge thank you to The New York Times for filling in some of the details that have become hazy in 18 years). It was an afternoon day game and, since I was in my senior year at NYU, I blew off whatever classes I might have had and took the 4 train up to the Bronx.

The Yankees had a 5-1 lead against the Cleveland Indians in the seventh inning when rookie third baseman Mike Blowers absolutely forgot how to play baseball. He made four errors in the last three innings, leading to several unearned runs and a 10-5 Cleveland victory.

So, Dan Uggla, take comfort: Your three errors — the last one, by the way, was the result of highly questionable official scoring — didn’t cost your National League team the game. The N.L. lost, but not due to Uggla.

The second game Uggla’s fielding woes brought to mind was more personal: It was a game I actually played in.

I played coed softball for many years with a company team from Scholastic, home of Clifford the Big Red Dog. At the time — probably around 1992 or 1993 — we played in a publishers’ league that played in between fields on the Great Lawn in Central Park, before that area was completely redone.

Our big rival at the time was another publishing company, Putnam. And I single-handedly cost our team the game. I played third base, made four errors that led to a bushel of unearned runs, and went 0-4 at the plate, stranding an army of base runners. A cardboard cutout would have contributed more to Scholastic’s effort that day than I did.

So again, Dan Uggla, take comfort: While a makeshift field on the Great Lawn in Central Park in front of 30 or so people (including participants) is nowhere near the stage of Yankee Stadium in front of 56,000 and millions more on TV, again, at least you didn’t cost your team the game.

Plus, you get paid a hell of a lot more than I do!

The new Chase ATMs are PHAT!

In a rare change of circumstances, I went to the Chase branch near my office not to withdraw money, but to actually make a deposit. Praised be Jeebus!

I got to the ATM lobby and cursed up a storm when I realized there was not a single deposit envelope to be found. Then, as I was in the process of storming out, I spotted a large cardboard advertisement touting Chase’s new, user-friendly ATMs and the fact that deposit slips and envelopes were no longer necessary.

After an about-face, I dipped my ATM card in one of the machines and was quite impressed. Not only are deposit slips and envelopes now so 2007 – you don’t even have to key in the amount of the check or checks anymore. Checks are fed into a slot and scanned, and an image of the check appears on screen saying, “The amount of your check is $3,936,811.09. Is this correct?”

OK, so my check was for slightly less money, but you get the idea.

Anyway, well done, and a tip of the hat to Chase and the manufacturer responsible for the new ATMs.

Josh Hamilton … wow

I have been fortunate enough to experience some incredible moments at Yankee Stadium, so it takes a lot to impress me. But after witnessing Josh Hamilton’s ungodly hitting display at the All-Star Game Home Run Derby last night from my usual perch behind home plate in the upper deck, impressed isn’t a strong enough word.

Yes, I know, the Home Run Derby is a hitting exhibition that means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. And I know, it’s much easier to hit when you can pick and choose only the most perfect batting-practice “fastballs” in your hitting zone, as opposed to having to worry about balls and strikes, breaking balls and all of the other nuances of the game.

Josh Hamilton, 2008 All-Star Game Home Run Derby

But no human being should be able to repeatedly hit a baseball 450 feet, with three of Hamilton’s rockets going more than 500 feet. I don’t care how gift-wrapped the situation was. It was absolutely incredible to watch.

I can generally track home runs very well from my seats, which I’ve had since the 1997 season. But I lost one of Hamilton’s 500-foot-drives against the white background of an ad on the back wall of the bleachers and, until told otherwise by someone with a radio, was positive it had gone completely out of Yankee Stadium. And with the display he put on, I wouldn’t have been shocked if he had accomplished that feat.

I almost feel sorry for Justin Morneau. He ended up winning the contest after Hamilton ran out of gas — the two finalists start the last round at 0-0, so the fact that Hamilton had more than twice as many homers as anyone else during the first two rounds didn’t help him. But last night’s Home Run Derby will disprove the sports cliché that no one remembers who finished second. In this case, no one will remember who finished first because everyone was dazzled by the runner-up.

And Hamilton’s life story — coming back from drug addiction that derailed his career for several seasons and nearly cost him his life — just added to everything.

Just so you know why I say I’m not easily impressed, here are some of the historical games I’ve been privileged enough to attend at Yankee Stadium:

• Game five of the 1978 World Series, when the Yankees won their third straight against the Los Angeles Dodgers after losing the first two contests in L.A., going on to win the series in six.

• Dave Righetti’s no-hitter against the hated Red Sox on July 4, 1983.

• Jim Abbott’s 1993 no-hitter against the Cleveland Indians — only in America can a guy with one hand end up pitching a no-hitter in the Major Leagues, even if he did end up with a career win-loss record under .500.

• Jim Leyritz’s game-winning homer in the bottom of the 15th inning in game two of the Divisional Series against the Seattle Mariners in 1995: It was the Yankees’ first playoff appearance since 1981. Who knew they’d drop three games in a row in Seattle, marking the end of Don Mattingly’s career?

• The sixth and final game of the 1996 World Series, in which the Yankees — after losing the first two games at home, then sweeping three in Atlanta, including another dramatic homer from Leyritz — beat the Atlanta Braves to win their first championship since 1978. Current Yankees manager Joe Girardi had the game’s huge hit — a triple. I cried like a baby when Charlie Hayes caught the popup to end the Series. I’m not ashamed.

• Game one of the 1998 World Series, when the heavily favored Yankees, down 5-2 going into the bottom of the seventh, erupted for seven runs — a three-run homer by Chuck Knoblauch, who cost the Yankees a game versus Cleveland in the American League Championship Series by letting a ball roll down the first-base line while arguing with the umpire, and a grand slam by Tino Martinez.

• Games one and two of the long-awaited Subway Series in 2000 against the Flushing Pond Scum New York Mets: Paul O’Neill’s walk in the bottom of the ninth in game one was as professional of an at-bat as I’ve ever seen, and Roger Clemens firing the bat handle at Mike Piazza was just plain funny.

• Games four and five of the 2001 World Series: Two nights in a row, down two runs in the bottom of the ninth with two outs, two two-run homers (Tino Martinez, Scott Brosius). Even though they lost the series to the Arizona Diamondbacks, wow.

• Game seven of the 2003 ALCS — otherwise known as when Aaron Boone became Aaron Fucking Boone.

So when I say I don’t get impressed easily, it’s not because I’m jaded — it’s because I’ve been really fortunate over the years to experience some great baseball moments.

Joe DiMaggio was quoted as saying, “I’d like to thank the good Lord for making me a Yankee.” Well, I’m not very religious, but I’d like to thank whatever power was responsible for making me a Yankee fan.

Josh Hamilton: Well done, sir!

Concert tickets through the years

I saw my favorite band, Rush, at the PNC Bank Arts Center last night. It was, as always, a damn good show and, while driving home, the thought struck me that Sept. 17 will mark 25 years since my very first concert — Rush at Radio City Music Hall.

I also thought about one of my biggest pet peeves: the fact that, unless you “know someone,” it’s utterly and completely impossible to get truly great seats for a concert.

I’ve had times when tickets have gone on sale at 10 a.m. and I’ve gotten through to TicketBastard.com at 10 a.m. and one second and ended up in the third deck. And, if you want to take a ride in the way-back machine, there were times when I was one of the first few people on line outside a TicketBastard outlet or a venue’s box office and gotten disappointingly mediocre seats. As always, the true fans get screwed, much like sports.

Then I had a few laughs thinking about the things I used to go through to get tickets before the Internet became the norm.

I remember camping out at Madison Square Garden from 6 p.m. on a Friday until 10 a.m. Saturday morning, when tickets for the first KISS show at the Garden in years went on sale. And after 16 hours of no sleep but plenty of Jim Beam, fast food and emergency runs to the lovely, pristine bathrooms of Penn Station, about 50 people, clearly working for scalpers, rushed the front of the line. Not only did the cops and security guards do absolutely nothing about it, but they prevented any of us from doing anything about it. So the end result of my 16 hours on the street was a set of marginal, second-level tickets.

I remember spending the night outside a Sam Goody on Madison Avenue with a TicketBastard counter on a frigid winter night to buy Metallica tickets. I wanted to strangle the guy two spots ahead of me on line for playing Metallica’s “Trapped Under Ice” about 30 times in a row until, mercifully, the batteries in his boom box died. Other than being scarred for life and never being able to enjoy that song again, take the KISS/MSG experience and substitute Jack Daniel’s for Jim Beam and the spot between two delivery vans on 44th St. for the Penn Station bathroom, and there you have it.

I remember somehow scraping up enough money on a college student’s budget to see seven of the nine area shows by Rush on the Hold Your Fire tour. Even though every show had the exact same set list and I didn’t have good seats for any of the seven shows, I still enjoyed every minute.

Things are different now with the Internet. But are they really any better? Getting tickets is still absolute torture.

Granted, it’s a lot more comfortable in a T-shirt and shorts, in my climate-controlled apartment, in front of my PC than it was on the sidewalk of Madison Avenue with temperatures in the 20s and a biting wind.

But there are few things in life more infuriating than the countdown feature on TicketBastard.com. The irritating little device that tells you how long your wait is for tickets is nowhere near accurate. I’ve seen it count down from 15 minutes to 1, only to ratchet back up to 6, stay there for about 10 minutes, then suddenly offer me tickets for seats that I’d need a sherpa to bring me to. Watching the computer screen while praying you get tickets for, say, the last show at Giants Stadium by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band one of the more nerve-wracking experiences I’ve ever endured.

It is really that much worse than a night outside, fueled by whiskey and the naïve thought that I might actually, for once, get good seats? Ah, to be 18 and dumb again. (Well, I’m still dumb — just double the 18 and add four years.)

Is it 1998?

Last night’s Rays-Yankees game at the Stadium was surreal. I almost felt like I rode to the ballpark in a DeLorean with a flux capacitator, and not on the 4 train.

The Yankees were playing a huge game, albeit against the Tampa Bay Rays, who, while for real this year, have been irrelevant since joining the American League.

And while this Yankees team can’t hold a candle to the teams in the past, it was two old-school Yankees who led the club to victory last night.

Andy Pettitte pitched eight strong, shutout innings for the win, only really running into trouble in the top of the seventh.

And who got Pettitte out of trouble in that seventh inning? None other than the captain, Derek Jeter, who turned a spectacular, inning-ending force play by backhanding a grounder deep in the hole and firing to second while airborne.

Jeter also jump-started the Yankees’ offense. With two outs in the bottom of the third — just when it looked like the Yanks were going to waste the opportunity of first and second, none out for about the 1,473th time this season — Jeter came through with a two-run double off Scott Kazmir to break a scoreless tie.

What’s next? Jeff Nelson and Mike Stanton anchoring the bullpen? Darryl Strawberry coming off the bench and drilling a fastball 450 feet?

It was like déjà vu all over again.

Nervous Nelly lives!

I lived in the northwest part of Hoboken for three years, in an apartment complex that offered a free shuttle to the PATH station, as northwest Hoboken is on the exact opposite end of town as the train.

I usually caught the last shuttle in the morning, at 9 a.m. Mornings and I don’t get along — never have, never will. And more often than not, there was a woman on that shuttle who I used to refer to as Nervous Nelly.

Nervous Nelly would arrive at the corner where the shuttle picked us up at about two minutes to 9, nervously pacing, stamping her foot, checking her watch, checking her BlackBerry and repeating all of those steps several times until the shuttle arrived.

Then once the shuttle was en route to the PATH station, she’d be even worse. Every time the bus slowed down, an exasperated sigh would follow. More watch-checking, more BlackBerry-checking, more foot-stamping, and God help us all if someone was double-parked and the bus had to honk because it couldn’t get through.

When we finally arrived at the PATH station after the harrowing five-minute journey, she’d fly out of the bus, sprint down the stairs and practically dive head-first into the train.

Well, I hadn’t seen Nervous Nelly since I moved downtown about two-and-a-half years ago, but I got on the PATH after work Wednesday and there she was, in all of her splendor, stamping her foot and checking her watch several times between each stop. Predictably, when the doors opened in Hoboken, she took off so quickly that you’d think the first person up the stairs got a free five-carat diamond.

Glad to see you’re still among the living, Nervous Nelly. One suggestion: You might want to cut down on the caffeine a little bit. Just a little bit.