They Call Me Nostradamus

...because I can predict the future. Please allow me to quote from yesterday's post:

As for tonight's game: S.U.C.K. M.E. Alert!! S.U.C.K. M.E. Alert!! For those unaware, that acronym stands for Shaky Unknown Chuckers Kill the Mets Everytime - a phenomenon explained in this post. Michael O'Connor? I'm predicting 7 innings of 2-hit ball for him.

Michael O'Connor's line last night, you ask? Well, here it is:

IP: 7
H: 2
R: 1
ER: 1
BB: 2
SO: 6

I hope you've all learned two important lessons: (1) I'm brilliant; and (2) this S.U.C.K. M.E. thing is out of control. Seriously. If the Mets do end up making the playoffs, my advice to whichever team they face is this: rest your Jason Schmidts, your John Smoltzes and your Chris Carpenters. They'll be useless to you. If you've got a pitcher with fewer than 5 big league starts under his belt, that's your man.

Now, I can't add much more than that, because I didn't watch an inning of this game last night. This is because I was taking the Flitgirl out to her birthday dinner at a much bally-hooed restaurant known as davidburke & donatella on East 61st Street. You know those pricey restaurants where you pay $45 for a teensy piece of meat? Well, except for the $45 part, this isn't one of them. We literally waddled out of that place. My appetizer? Something called "angry lobster," which consists of 5 or 6 split lobster claws, lightly fried and dusted with paprika and cayenne pepper, sticking out of a bed of nails. I kid you not. This thing was insane. My entree was roasted duck on a bed of fried rice mixed in with slices of chorizo sausage and prawns. Unreal. Flitgirl got the "tasting menu," which consisted of about 4 smaller courses, including a lobster steak, a small regular steak (I think) and mixed desserts. It was an orgiastic feast that I highly recommend.