This blog is out of retirement…and mad as hell:

“Oh, the names are really bad. I don’t even want to mention it, because there are names floating around and they’re bad,” Mrs. Obama says with a laugh. “You listen and you go – like, I think, Frank was one of them. Frank! Moose was another one of them. Moose. I said, well, what if the dog isn’t a moose? Moose. I’m like, no, come on, let’s work with the names a little bit.”

FRANKly, my dear, I should have voted Nader!
· Michelle Obama: I’m a Big Fat Stupidhead [People]

“I love Federer but Nadal is my favorite. He’s the man. I love his motivation and his heart is big. He leaves it on the court. And when I found out he still lives with his family despite his success, that was it for me. That’s unbelievable right there. That just goes to show you where his heart is at, how much love he has. So we were watching that match, and nobody thought he was gonna win. Everybody was telling me how he hadn’t beat Federer on the hard court and he could only do it on clay but I never had any doubts. I knew his heart was gonna do it for him, and it did.”

–Lil Wayne

Not ready to rock.

Closer, but still not quite ready.

OMFG vest open muscles ripped livin’ on a prAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYerrrrrrrr!

We lasted 75 minutes.

Oh my. This is truly going to be something. White-collar treatment at the blue-collar concert of the century!

The passing of the solstice indicates that these three certainties are just around the corner: sweaty crotches, an increase in Tasti D-Lite sales, and the return of LOLfrank! Indeed, the mysterious blog appears to be up and running at full speed, showing little regard for the nomenclature and formatting of standard LOLspeak practices. And that’s the way Frank likes it!

Every Sunday for over three years I’ve read The Hunt column in the Real Estate section of the Sunday Times, wondering why I couldn’t be in the endless stream of pictures of happy couples posing with their adorable dogs in their nice new apartments. Finally, by the grace of Joyce Cohen, I have joined that fraternity. Unfortunately the story isn’t about some kind of amazing once-in-a-lifetime deal that fell into our laps and permanently freed us from the shackles of making ends meet, but rather, the crazy amount of money we’re forking over every month to live in a housing megacomplex. But hey, closet space is closet space, a sink squirty thing is a sink squirty thing, and my basketball game has hella improved. Now if only I could get a Night Out With…

I can get over the fact that he attended 76,000 high schools, and that as one of the most prized recruits in the nation, he chose to spend his one year of college at Kansas State University (best NBA product: Mitch Richmond?). I can get over the vague rumors and questions over his “maturity,” and that ugly hat they slapped on him. I can get over the diss to Shawn Marion, who already represents the Heat in terms of players with Matrix-themed nicknames. What I can’t get over, however, is that the savior of the franchise (R.I.P. left side of Dwyane Wade’s body) came within 354 days of being born in the ’90s. Is it possible for a man to lead a team to glory when, on the day he was forced to swim the great canal and enter into the light, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” was the #1 song in the country?

I’m sorry, but I refuse not to laugh at this.

I took the above photo with my phone while seated near the top of Jones Beach on Saturday night, because I wanted to mention something about how strange it is that at one time in my life I drove seven hours to see Modest Mouse — and another time I saw them on three consecutive nights in two different cities I wasn’t living in — and nowadays I can catch them in a 15,000 capacity venue and be indifferent to hearing some of the songs that I used to listen to over and over (and over and over).

But as it turns out, this photo is somewhat more significant than a lame comment on lost youth or whatever, because I took it right before the skies opened up and hammered Long Island’s amphitheater-on-the-bay with enough lightning and rain to make you look out for Steve Carrell floating by on a big ark. Then BOOM!, and a bolt hit the venue. Then everyone ran for cover. Then security told everyone to ditch the big lightning rod and go wait in their cars. Then we scurried through ankle-deep flash flood waters and made it to the car, and got the fuck out of there. Apparently, headliner R.E.M. did eventually go on that night (Newsday reported a two-hour total delay, and one injury), which I would find upsetting if not for the fact that I had the cheapest seat in the house. Still, it would’ve been fun to catch Stipe & Co.

The funniest thing about this weird night, or the weirdest thing about this funny night — more so than the groups of middle-aged tailgaters blasting R.E.M. in the parking lot — is the insane press release that Jones Beach released about the show. In it, they say the lightning came after Modest Mouse had finished their set (Say wha? They hadn’t even given the suburbanites “Float On” yet), that the delay came at an “appropriate time” because there was a 25-minute intermission planned anyway to set up R.E.M., that people were instructed to wait in the covered concourses (Um…no) and that there was no damage to the venue (OK, maybe that’s true, but sparks were flying after lightning hit). Dudes, we know you didn’t want to cancel the show and have to refund the tickets, but why the Politburo press release? For a great rant about this whole ordeal, read this.

Anyway, it was a night of bests and worsts. The best dollar I ever spent, on a poncho at Target on the way to the show, and the worst $5.50 I ever spent, on a cup of water just before it started raining and I had to abandon ship. If only the bolt would’ve hit when Modest Mouse was playing “Fire It Up,” then I really might have started believing in God.

Target, coming through in the clutch once again.

Looking out on an abandoned amphitheater while taking cover.