Quick Hitters

Yesterday was interesting. Cheddar Ben had in his possession an 18-foot rental truck from the good people at Budget. That truck contained all his worldly possessions, not to mention those of Blond Matt, one of his two new roommates. Cheddar needed somewhere to put that truck so that he, or more accurately, his two roommates who aren't too weak in the stomach to lift heavy shit, could unload it. Ironically, though, Park Slope is an absolutely nightmarish place to park.

Is that ironic? I don't think so. Never mind.

In any case, Wednesday was one of those days that it's best to forget as quickly as possible. Schedules were shredded, deadlines were missed, lives were threatened. I carried more clothes and boxes than was advisable, and ended up with a thick layer of moving sweat covering my body for most of the evening. I smelled like Doc Gooden after a 13-hour bender at The Embassy Club.

We're into the new digs, though, and into the process of setting up and buying shower curtains and all the domestic crap you have to pull when you get a new place. Finding garbage cans for each room. Learning how the garbage and recycling (salt) works. Picking out doilies for the armoire. You know, the usual.

There also, even at this early stage (i.e., Day 2), looks like there could be an Official Hipster Conflict. This was last night, and we were sitting on the edge of the moving truck, taking a break from unloading, when a Chevy Astro van pulls up and discharges a motley crew of guys.

We take a closer look. Shit. The first guy is sporting a thick mustache and a faded Jordache t-shirt. The second guy to emerge comes out in an open suit vest and way-too-tight jeans. This is not good. Then, the real trouble starts -- they open up the back of the van and start yanking out musical instruments: a keyboard, a couple of amps, the pieces of a drum set. Then they haul them over to the door right next to ours, plop them down, and stand there looking too cool for life.

At this point, a third guy gets out of the van, and immediately sends me into a quiet homicidal froth. He's a skinny guy of medium height with relatively long once-athletic legs; a Steve Rahl-type frame. I know what his legs look like, of course, because he's wearing khaki short shorts that come maybe 35 percent of the way down his thighs. He's paired these marvels of modern technology with an off-olive shirt and the most annoying pair of laceless Chucks you've ever seen.

He's scowling. His hair is unkempt. He throws us sweaty dudes a disgusted looks as he prances by, lugging a pair of cymbals. He is a walking Hipster prototype, and as he passes, I think to myself, "That's a dead man."

Suffice to say that we try to strike up a conversation with these guys about where they think they're going with these tools of Satan. We frame it as more of a question, as in, "Are you guys in a band?" with the subtext being, "Are you going to be practicing your emo bullshit next to our apartment, and if so, are you prepared to fight us?" They avoid eye contact in a patronizing way, and shuffle in before we get a straight answer. We're a little too tired to protest.

Updates on this, surely as it develops.

I missed everything about last night's game. Missed Willie's interesting decision to play Marlon Anderson in center field with his flyball pitcher on the mound -- worked out great, as it happens. Missed a great rebound effort by Guillermo Mota, who I'm convinced can turn this thing around and become at least serviceable before too long. Two perfect innings in that situation was a great help, if not to Tommy the Spy, and my confidence in him is a big reason why I'm not at all upset the Mets didn't overspend on a bullpen righty.

Missed Prince Fielder's 447-foot bomb, which Anderson marveled about in today's Times, and missed Castro's 3-run response. All of it.

But hey, today's a new day, and I'm far more set up to pay attention to the team than I have been for the past week. We're on the uphill axis of attention, if that makes any sense (it don't), and there'll be more to say soon enough.

Tomorrow, probably.