Please read this week’s piece on Lenny Dykstra in the New Yorker. His candor – on all subjects – is refreshing. We read it on the subway yesterday and found ourselves laughing out loud. Here’s one of the best exchanges between Dykstra and the magazine’s writer, Ben McGrath. A few more quotes (in italics) after the jump:

Dykstra drew my attention to a pair of sixty-inch televisions that had been mounted on the wall. “They’re a little gaudy, but pretty,” he said. One of them wouldn’t turn on, for some reason, and this sparked another brief tirade, reminiscent of his snapping at the St. Regis waiter about poor service. “Put it in right, man!” he said, as though speaking to his electrician. “Do your work right. I can’t stand this minor-league hack job.€ After a few minutes of trying, and failing, to fix the problem, he shrugged. “So much for the high-end stuff. But, anyway, when it’s done right it’s sweet, watching the market.€

Improbably, he has since become a successful day trader, and he let me know that he owns both a Maybach (“the best car”) and a Gulfstream (“the best jet”).

This man is humble.

“You’ve got the ten per cent who are going to find their way no matter what,” Dykstra said of the athlete population. “And you get the ten per cent that are fuckheads no matter what—we’ll paste an ‘L’ to ‘em.€ The rest need guidance, and Dykstra, who will write a regular column called “The Game of Life,” is prepared to give it. “This will be the world’s best magazine,” he said.

Elijah Dukes is not amused.

As proof of the worthiness of his cause, he brought up his old Phillies teammate Pete Incaviglia: “Remember the big, burly guy? Best five-o’clock hitter in baseball history. Allergic to leather. Allergic to leather.€ (Translation: Incaviglia could hit the ball a mile in batting practice, and was no good with a glove.)

Still laughing.

As Dykstra moved about the house, he gave the general impression of a lotto winner who can’t quite believe his good fortune and needs constant reminding that what he sees around him is real. “Pull that door, dude,” he said, gesturing toward a brass handle. “Feel that. That’s a door, man. And the stairs—it’s like fucking royalty. This is a compound.€

The man is really impressed with himself.

Although he recently divested, owing in part to a rise in the minimum wage, he gave me directions to the Team Dykstra Automotive Center in Simi Valley, so that I could see for myself. “It’s the Taj Mahal of car washes,” he said. “Ask for Carlos.€

Does anyone out in LA want to give this place a shot?

Nails Never Fails (New Yorker)