WHEN THE SANDMAN CRIES

Many months back, I blogged about how underrated a foot can be. You take it for granted, but when it hurts, you realize how valuable it is. I learned that lesson on Memorial Day weekend, when, while stumbling around my house drunk, I stepped on one of my kids' toys and cut the bottom of my foot.

In addition to taking heat from Mrs. Pendleton, who had to clean up the bloody carpet the next morning, I had to deal with about 5-6 days of every other step I took being extremely painful. It really hurt. Now, I know I sound like a huge puss, but hey, it friggin hurt. It did teach me a very valuable lesson, though. If I'm gonna drink and pass out down stairs, I should at least be wearing flip-flops.

Fortunately, my foot was fully healed for last Saturday's Localschill nuptuals. Let me tell you, it was a great time. In addition to seeing Localschill get married twice in the course of 5 hours, I got to do schtick with the Sandman, Jersey Girl, the Joker, the Professor, Squawking VFR, Localschill and of course, the Colonel (aka Boba Frets).

What's scary is, besides Localschill, we were all the same table, and had quite a blast. The Professor pretty much held court. It was a great time.

Speaking of the Sandman and the Colonel, I'm sorry to hear that White Lion has been removed from the big Ratt/Poison summer tour due to legal issues. I know you were looking forward to it. Anyway, though you'd enjoy this shot of some nutty cats playing air guitar, air drums and air keyboards at the wedding (Note: The faces have been covered up to protect their identities.)

Surprisingly, the beer count did not skyrocket at the wedding as I thought it would. There are two reasons why it didn't. First of all, I had to play two games of softball on Sunday morning at 9 bells and then head to Shea Stadium to see the Mets mail it in. (Believe it or not, I accomplished both). Also, with the Pendleton children sleeping at grandma's hut that night, I figured if I stayed mostly sober, I might have a shot with the Mrs. and an empty hut. Let's just say, I spent the rest of the night trying to do what the Professor tried to do to himself years ago.

Speaking of my hut, we've been without a fridge for about a week as I wait for the repairman to get a part. Like a foot, a fridge is very underrated. However, I'm taking the breakdown of my Magic Chef as a sign to stop drinking again, as I lost about 25 bottles of beer in the fridge malfunction. And since the beer count is such a popular deal (and I've lost count since Jan. 1), I'm gonna start a summer beer count, retroactive to last Monday (6/3). So right now, the count is at O. I'm so fired up for this, I'm about to book a beach house in Ocean City, NJ, which has no bars in town. Also, I'm working on the 4th of July and have no weddings planned. The killer day could be Aug. 2, which I'll remind everyone is the big FNC outing to the Beachcomber is Seaside Heights to see Shorty Long and the Jersey Horns.

Speaking of Seaside Heights, this line appeared in a Star-Ledger story today about a sewage spill in Monmouth county. I just wonder, was the writer referring to the sludge or a-holes who tend to flock to the shore from North Jersey and Staten Island. Here's the graph:

If it had been raw sewage, there would have been large grease balls washing up on shore, Simmons said. "It would have been a mess," he said.

Anyway, the goal is to keep the count under 100 by Labor Day. No shot you say, we'll see.

Finally, can someone please tell my why Julio Franco is still on the Mets.

Thank you for your time and courtesy.