Lenny Dykstra - At Least He's Not in Vegas

The way the market is headed these days it seems like honest bloggers like us just can't get any traction towards our dream of nude Scandinavian sex servants. We don't have the inside track on Wall Street, and we need someone in OUR corner - preferably someone we can trust. Maybe it could have been Wade Boggs, but the fried chicken and beer thing doesn't exactly scream responsibility. Ryne Sandberg has been kind of an ass since he went totally bald. We love Cal Ripken here, but I'm not sure he would ever be called a genius.

That only leaves Lenny Dykstra.
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I understand I'm a little late to this party, as he has been profiled on HBO's RealSports (the show Bryant Gumbel doesn't totally deprive of life). Deadspin apparently got to it, too. Frankly, I can't afford HBO after sinking all my investment capital into Countrywide and Bear Stearns (Since when are bubbles bad? I love bubbles.) Even if I missed the boat, I still have some personal insight into the world of Lenny "Nails" Dykstra.

In around 1992 or 1993 I was in Cincinnati on a family vacation (Dad had a business conference). Being from Maryland's Eastern Shore, I grew up equidistant from Baltimore, Washington and Philadelphia, though we were Orioles fans. I did make it up to Philly a couple times a year for Phillies games at the Vet. Unfortunately, the Phillies, Lenny Dykstra, John Kruk and Darren Daulton were in Cincinnati when I was there.

We went to two games at Riverfront, and I had the pleasure of an up close and personal meeting with Mr. Dykstra. The 11 or 12-year-old me still collected autographs, and Lenny was making himself available to the fine people of the Natti. One particularly buxom young blonde (I was into titties already at 11 or 12) wanted Lenny's...um...Hancock. Lenny, of course, obliged the young lady. He grabbed a baseball, and wrote something on it before tossing it to her. The baseball came from a kid I'm pretty sure. He yelled over the crowd of kids, "That's my hotel and room number. Come by after the game and we'll f--k."

And that's why I'm willing to spend $995 for Lenny's stock picks. When Lenny wants something, he doesn't wait for it to come to him. He grabs it by the silicone and takes it. I'm sure that attitude carries over to Wall Street.

Just look at the picture from his website, The Lenny Dykstra Report. The baseball cap tells you he's one of us. The Motorola RAZR in his left hand and equally cheap cell in his right tells us that he means business, but he's also too frugal to splurge on a Blackberry or equally "effective" communications device. The smile tells you he's a winner, and that he's stopped chewing fistfuls of Red Man.

You may wonder about Lenny's secret to success. It's simple really. He uses a ghost picker. Now some people, an insider rag called "Forbes" for example, have called Dykstra a fraud because he does not pick his own stocks. The financial wizards at Deadspin (seriously, they're making money off writing about sports aren't they?) have even intimated that Philadelphia native and stock blowhard Jim Cramer may have even "created" Dykstra out of fan love (Note to readers: We need a "bromance" like word for this phenomenon. As always, portmanteaus are preferred. Keep an eye out for that contest.)

Of course, this is a very shallow way of thinking. Sure, Lenny might rely on others to help him "develop" his opinions. That's what always made Lenny so great. He didn't carry the whole tobacco-chewing load by himself. He trusted the Krukker to take some of that burden. When he disintegrated his car in 1991 on his way home from the One-Nutted Wonder's bachelor party, he let Darren Daulton's face absorb the impact. Lenny has always understood the value of others.

I don't know about you guys, but I'm definitely taking advantage of this opportunity. It'll be the best $995 I give to Lenny since I bought that three-month supply of greenies from him back in 1995.