If an undercooked veal chop could also develop a Long Island accent, it would be Francesa. If Sean Hannity’s trolled-out soul poured all its sour essence into eating parm-style sandwiches with Bill Parcells, it would be Francesa. If Donald Trump got an ulcer that could wear a headset and interrupt people, it would be Francesa. All of which is to say that I am, regrettably, fascinated by the guy.
Not to the point that I’ll actually listen to his show, of course: I’m busy, life is short, and I hate his voice and most of what he says with it. But I do enjoy, in a masochistic way, collecting Francesiana. When Francesa goes on a berserk rant about the New York Mets that is really a berserk rant about how much he hates LOSERS, I will listen to it. When Francesa nods off while a guest talks about the Yankees and then wakes up, plainly terrified, I will watch the video and embed that gif, which is courtesy of Deadspin. Inspired by friend of the program Ben Cohen’s meditative practice of doing so, I try to re-read Nick Paumgarten’s amazing, saddening, baffling New Yorker profile of Francesa and his frankly psychotic former partner Chris Russo at least once a year.
I think that Francesa nodding off while another person speaks and then awakening angrily is maybe the most perfectly Mike Francesa thing that he or anyone else could do. I am fairly sure he will top it, though. He will top it, and I will hate it, but a small, strange part of me will be grateful for it.
Posted: September 12, 2012 at 04:42 PM | 9 comment(s)
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