The label on the 2.5lb bag of baby spinach that sits in our fridge reads "young and tender". And by the nature of the leaves and how they change color and shape when cooked, this spinach is also impressionable.
I kind of feel bad eating it now, because it's young and impressionable. Who am I to take advantage of a defenseless piece of spinach in its youth? Further, since its packaging describes it as "tender", it apparently has a softer, emotional personality. I hate to think of what might be going through the mind of a piece of that spinach, as it swirls around in my belly with some chicken and a few mushrooms. As it mixes with acids and bile, will it regret the decision it made not too long ago to be a follower and allow itself to be mass-packaged and ultimately consumed by me, so violently?
Poor spinach...so young, so tender...it had so much promise.
I'd now like to post a series of emails that have been transpiring this morning between myself and an older, sarcastic gentleman that I work with currently. This all started because I had to reschedule a philanthropic event that I had put together at a local food bank...I'll be out of town for the originally scheduled date. Anyway, here goes:
Email #1, from Mike:
Chad has to go out of town...for what?? A spa weekend??? Antiqueing??? An art trip to Provincetown??? Lets just tell the hungry people that next week they may have a better chance to eat.....nice.
Email #2, from me:
I'm actually spearheading a panel discussion out in Malibu that weekend on the correlation between baldness and social ineptitude. I'll be sure to keep you abreast of the results, my folically challenged friend.
Email #3, from Mike:
I am married, I have a good looking wife, a big house, a riding lawnmower, two beautiful girls and 3 toilets. Does it really matter what I look like anymore??? I think not. Beauty fades....porcelain toilets and having a family that loves you is what endures.....who loves you Chad??? Who??? Thought so....
Email #4, from me:
Boy, thanks for the reality check. I apparently no longer have a reason to live. Farewell world...
Email #5, from Mike:
We will miss you.....are you going to leap from the top of the Round Up at the Topsfield Fair this weekend???
I'm going with the girls. See you at the Anna's Fried Dough Stand.
Email #6, from me:
Aha...a topic I actually have been meaning to discuss with a fellow North Shorerererer. Should I bother with it this year? Should I subject my young, pretty girlfriend to the riff raff that is represented at the Fair? Maybe she'd like to make out atop the ferris wheel, where so many before have tried to round first base and get to second, only to fail miserably and drop their piece of fried dough into the hay-blanketed grass below.
And the final email, from Mike:
You know you really aren't at the Topsfield Fair if you don't go through the woods, jump the creek which will be 100% dry this year and sneak over or through the fence.
She will love that!!!!!
There you have it. Hope I've wasted a good chunk of your time this Friday morning. Please, enjoy your weekend, Go Umass - Beat BC, and Go Sox, clinch the FUCKING PENNANT.
28 September 2007
24 September 2007
38 Is Special
Hmm, letter and or number sponsorship is something that Sesame Street popularized a long time ago. Well, I guess popularized isn't the right way to put it since it didn't exactly catch on and become a common thing elsewhere. One previous post has been brought to you by the letter 'E' and this particular entry will be brought to you by the number '38'.
***to save those non-sports fans some time and reading effort, this blog will be nearly entirely about sports...TAKE HEED***
This is sort of a magical number right about now, and I'm going to show you why. I'll show you the many sides, the many angles and maniacal nature of the inner workings of my brain when it comes to numbers. In truth, I haven't been inspired to write anything about numbers in quite some time but I thought this was a fitting time to bring it on back...just in case you've lost that number-lovin' feeling...whoa-oh that number-lovin' feeling. Righteous, bro.
The Patriots are averaging a whopping 38 points per game this season. I'm wondering if maybe Bill Belichick is trying to prove something here. What with the recent tomfoolery, wouldn't it be kind of interesting if the Patriots decided to impose their will on teams to the tune of 38 points per game exactly? You know, just to show that they can score as many points as they want, at will, on any opponent in any game. It would be fantastic, and it would put them over the 600 mark for total points in a season. Moss is on pace to put up about 27 TDs, and Brady's pace would give him 53 TDs and 6 INTs at season's end. The funny thing about that is, I don't even think it's that far-fetched. That's how good this offense is and that's how good Brady can be with this cast. None of us an fans have had a chance to see what Brady's potential is and now we do. Over the past 5 years or so, the comparisons to Peyton Manning have not been fair because the players that surround the two QBs have been so grossly dissimilar. Well, not anymore and Brady looks unbeatable back there. Tom Brady is better than Manning. He always has been and FINALLY the proof is in this current batch of insanely good pudding...moss flavored, of course.
Guess who turns 38 next month? Brett Favre, who, at last check, was rated just behind Brady, Manning and Romo as the top QBs. I don't see how anyone can't love this guy and how he plays the game. Watching old #4 do what he does makes me wish I was a Packer fan, even if just for a season...even if just for a game at Lambeau. Favre plays the game with the intensity of a crazy man, yet the spirit of a child. What other quarterback picks up his receiver after a touchdown pass and spins him around like a husband might do to his wife on their wedding day? Maybe that's a bit of stretch as an analogy, but you get my drift. It's such a pleasure to watch Favre play the game and I truly hope he comes back for another season after this one.
Does anyone remember who Eric Gagne was before he came to Boston? He was a rejuvenated reliever with a 2.14 ERA and the confidence of Jack Palance. He was also #38. Now, he's a self-doubting mess of a man with an ERA about 2/3 of a mile north of shitsville. Hey Schilling, give him his number back. It's clearly not doing much for you anymore, so give it up. I really think that it's playing on his psyche. As I've said before, a man without his number is like a clown without funny nose. Actually, it's nothing like that because clowns can be perfectly effective without the red nose. It's more like the Patriots without their cheat films...no, that's not good either. How about, it's like Jenna Jamison without a vagina? Does that work? DING DING DING! We have a winner. Eric Gagne without his #38 is like Jenna Jamison sans vagina...totally ineffective.
There's just something special about 38 these days. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clean my .38 special.+
Oh, almost forgot. My nephew Aaron turned 4 today (the 25th...this post took me a day or two to finish). Everyone wish him a happy birthday.
21 September 2007
There Do I Begin...Thus, I Continue.
I asked that you don't get me started on the bluetooth cult that exists out there right now. I asked nicely but you ignored the requests...you have no regard for my excitable fuse which only happens to be exceptionally high right now because of a certain team with certain issues and a certain pitcher that has a certain uncertainty about whether or not he actually has balls. (he remains french, though...which is so tough to swallow sometimes)
Where was I? Oh, that's right! Bluetooth. Well, I must admit that the idea of this product/service agreed with me when I first came into contact with it about five or six years ago. It was an answer to the incredibly impractical 'hands-free' sets for the car, which in my opinion actually cause you more of a struggle than simply answering your phone or making a call the regular way. Bluetooth was supposed to be a safer way to drive and talk, not a fad that ended up on the ear of the cool kids at school and the most annoying people one could ever imagine. I contend that it is still a good idea but it became something entirely different than what I thought it was meant for...of course I'm rarely right about these things anyway.
I foresee a time in our future when everyone has built-in Bluetooth capabilities; perhaps we have an installed chip in the brain, complete with satellite technology, GPS and such. We'd all walk around, seemingly talking to the people around us but in actuality, everyone is talking via the cellular, Bluetooth chip. It's going to be really weird and it will appear as if we are a completely insane society that consists of a bunch of loonies who walk around talking to themselves all the time. Upon learning of our society, the inhabitants of Mars will depress a version of the "EASY" button and destroy us all, and it will be because of Bluetooth. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Sometimes I look back on what I've just written and I wonder if there might be some things going on upstairs that need to be treated by a medical professional.
Enjoy your weekend...the last one of the summer. Suck, doesn't it? At least we have football and playoff baseball.
Where was I? Oh, that's right! Bluetooth. Well, I must admit that the idea of this product/service agreed with me when I first came into contact with it about five or six years ago. It was an answer to the incredibly impractical 'hands-free' sets for the car, which in my opinion actually cause you more of a struggle than simply answering your phone or making a call the regular way. Bluetooth was supposed to be a safer way to drive and talk, not a fad that ended up on the ear of the cool kids at school and the most annoying people one could ever imagine. I contend that it is still a good idea but it became something entirely different than what I thought it was meant for...of course I'm rarely right about these things anyway.
I foresee a time in our future when everyone has built-in Bluetooth capabilities; perhaps we have an installed chip in the brain, complete with satellite technology, GPS and such. We'd all walk around, seemingly talking to the people around us but in actuality, everyone is talking via the cellular, Bluetooth chip. It's going to be really weird and it will appear as if we are a completely insane society that consists of a bunch of loonies who walk around talking to themselves all the time. Upon learning of our society, the inhabitants of Mars will depress a version of the "EASY" button and destroy us all, and it will be because of Bluetooth. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Sometimes I look back on what I've just written and I wonder if there might be some things going on upstairs that need to be treated by a medical professional.
Enjoy your weekend...the last one of the summer. Suck, doesn't it? At least we have football and playoff baseball.
18 September 2007
14 September 2007
Coincidence?
Ok, so I posted a blog this morning about my evening and how angry I became over an incident with my bank. Well, as you may have read or will read after reading this, I used the word 'apoplectic' to describe my feelings. I rarely use this word...so rarely that I'm not sure I've used in the past year. Anyway, our elevators here in my building have those info screens that show the weather, scores, stock market updates and random facts. Coming up from our team breakfast no more than ten minutes ago, the 'fun fact' of the day on one of these info screens was the definition of the word 'apoplectic'.
I was a little sad because no one in that elevator could possibly have understood how amazingly weird and coincidental that was but I was pretty excited about it. Maybe you will be, too. Then again, maybe you won't.
I was a little sad because no one in that elevator could possibly have understood how amazingly weird and coincidental that was but I was pretty excited about it. Maybe you will be, too. Then again, maybe you won't.
Anger is a Gift
We all get angry. Lately, I've been pretty good about not getting angry about stuff. Last night was a huge exception. I was, in the words of the lispy Dan Dierdorf, apoplectic. That could very well be the understatement of the year.
I had to pick up a newly hemmed suit at the tailor last night, after which I was slated to drop by a local sushi place to grab our dinner order; I had phoned it in before I left for the tailor. As I drove over to get the suit, I phoned into my bank's customer service hotline to change up the accounts as they're linked to my debit card. It's a very simple procedure, which I know because I've worked for banks and I've performed this very task. I've even worked for my bank, on this very same system they still use. It's a piece of cake. Soooooo...nineteen minutes later, I get a confirmation from the woman on the other end of the phone that she has completed the task and wonders if there's anything else she can help me with. I'm slightly agitated at this point due to the holding time, but nothing near apoplectic just yet. I politely told her I was all set and hung up.
Next, I run into the tailor, grab my suit and head over to the sushi place to get our dinner. The two are a mere half mile from each other, but parking on Newbury St. in Boston is a nightmare. So I throw the hazards on and run into the restaurant, leaving my Ion double parked. I wait patiently for the Japanese lady to run my debit card so I can pay for the food, but she's taking a long time. I figure that there's maybe a few people trying to run cards and it's not big deal. She returns to me and tells me that the card has come up 'cancelled', and she tried three times to get it to work. Immediately I know what has happened, and I'm not happy. I tell her I have to go call my bank and she gives me this look that says "yeah, I think you better", only with a Japanese accent. Just what I needed.
I call into my bank and spend another fifteen minutes on hold. About 10 minutes into that call, a cop made me move my double parked car, so I'm now just circling the block over and over. The result of this call with my bank was not good, as Wayne (the call center Manager) told me that since the card was cancelled (by accident and the fault of the bank) it could not be reactivated. I would be receiving a card in the mail which they would overnight to me, but being that it was Thursday evening, this card could not arrive before Monday. This is not good. And as I sat in my car yelling at this man who I don't know and who also didn't do anything wrong, I began to feel bad. I explained to Wayne that, while it wasn't his fault directly, he represents the bank and ultimately the people that he manages and thus, it's indirectly his fault that one of his reps is under-trained and utterly incompetent. He concurs but reiterates that he's doing everything he can to assist me. I tell him that I appreciate his efforts, but ultimately that it is amazing how easily one's bank can bend him over and drill him in the ass without consequence. AMAZING. He chuckles for a second, but only until I snap at him and say that he's not allowed to laugh at this situation yet. Again, he concurs. He asks the name of the rep that drilled me in the ass and I cannot remember. He tells me he'd fire her if he knew who it was, but why not just try and train her so she actually knows what she's doing? Unfortunately that was not my first thought after he offered the firing solution...I'd have requested she be set on fire.
The end of the story saw me counting out pennies from the coin slot in my console and then dropping a pile change onto the counter at the sushi place. The woman was so not pleased with me for this act, but what else could I do? I couldn't use my card and luckily, I had juuuust enough change and cash to cover the bill. Truth is, they fucked up my order and it was cheaper than it would have been so I was saved by their error...kind of ironic that one error sort of aided me in the wake of another one that boned me.
I had to pick up a newly hemmed suit at the tailor last night, after which I was slated to drop by a local sushi place to grab our dinner order; I had phoned it in before I left for the tailor. As I drove over to get the suit, I phoned into my bank's customer service hotline to change up the accounts as they're linked to my debit card. It's a very simple procedure, which I know because I've worked for banks and I've performed this very task. I've even worked for my bank, on this very same system they still use. It's a piece of cake. Soooooo...nineteen minutes later, I get a confirmation from the woman on the other end of the phone that she has completed the task and wonders if there's anything else she can help me with. I'm slightly agitated at this point due to the holding time, but nothing near apoplectic just yet. I politely told her I was all set and hung up.
Next, I run into the tailor, grab my suit and head over to the sushi place to get our dinner. The two are a mere half mile from each other, but parking on Newbury St. in Boston is a nightmare. So I throw the hazards on and run into the restaurant, leaving my Ion double parked. I wait patiently for the Japanese lady to run my debit card so I can pay for the food, but she's taking a long time. I figure that there's maybe a few people trying to run cards and it's not big deal. She returns to me and tells me that the card has come up 'cancelled', and she tried three times to get it to work. Immediately I know what has happened, and I'm not happy. I tell her I have to go call my bank and she gives me this look that says "yeah, I think you better", only with a Japanese accent. Just what I needed.
I call into my bank and spend another fifteen minutes on hold. About 10 minutes into that call, a cop made me move my double parked car, so I'm now just circling the block over and over. The result of this call with my bank was not good, as Wayne (the call center Manager) told me that since the card was cancelled (by accident and the fault of the bank) it could not be reactivated. I would be receiving a card in the mail which they would overnight to me, but being that it was Thursday evening, this card could not arrive before Monday. This is not good. And as I sat in my car yelling at this man who I don't know and who also didn't do anything wrong, I began to feel bad. I explained to Wayne that, while it wasn't his fault directly, he represents the bank and ultimately the people that he manages and thus, it's indirectly his fault that one of his reps is under-trained and utterly incompetent. He concurs but reiterates that he's doing everything he can to assist me. I tell him that I appreciate his efforts, but ultimately that it is amazing how easily one's bank can bend him over and drill him in the ass without consequence. AMAZING. He chuckles for a second, but only until I snap at him and say that he's not allowed to laugh at this situation yet. Again, he concurs. He asks the name of the rep that drilled me in the ass and I cannot remember. He tells me he'd fire her if he knew who it was, but why not just try and train her so she actually knows what she's doing? Unfortunately that was not my first thought after he offered the firing solution...I'd have requested she be set on fire.
The end of the story saw me counting out pennies from the coin slot in my console and then dropping a pile change onto the counter at the sushi place. The woman was so not pleased with me for this act, but what else could I do? I couldn't use my card and luckily, I had juuuust enough change and cash to cover the bill. Truth is, they fucked up my order and it was cheaper than it would have been so I was saved by their error...kind of ironic that one error sort of aided me in the wake of another one that boned me.
13 September 2007
Aye, PAPI!
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Uhh...sure. I'll have...let's see here, a dong and...ok, better make it two dongs, two runs scored and five RBI's."
"Ok, sure. How would you like those dongs?"
"Right, one three-run and one solo walk-off."
"Coming right up."
Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Papi we all know and remember, is it not? It's Senor October making an early appearance as a prelude of things to come in the 10th month of the year. And as the Sox bounced around David Ortiz's large-carriaged frame last night in front of the faithful, you had to breathe a huge sigh of relief that the lead in the AL East hadn't slipped to a mere 4 games going into the weekend series with the Pinners. It was also particularly good to see the old Ortiz up to his usual tricks, as he continues his torrid late-summer stretch.
More good things: Don't look now, and I said this to my Dad the other day, but JD Drew is coming out of his funk. Another 2 hits last night, on base 4 times and his look up there is just different. He's more comfortable, he's seeing the ball really well and his swing is smooth. Lest we forget, JD Drew was brought here to produce on offense. I don't need to tell anyone who hasn't been living in a hole for the last 5 months that he has not come as advertised. I seem to recall an expectation of 20 HRs and 100 RBI from this dude Drew, and how far off that has proved to be. All of this aside, if he can lump together a good stretch here in the late going and carry it into the playoffs, one thing is for sure: all of that will be forgotten in a HURRY.
Another note from last night's action: our bullpen hurled 5 1/3 of one-hit ball, walking one and striking out two. Solid work after Lester got worked over in the early going. The gold star of the night (aside from Ortiz) has to go to Julian Tavarez. 3 IP, one hit and the key to the Sox being able to hang in there in the middle innings. I love him in the long relief role and there's no way the Sox are where they are without Tavarez.
Should be an interesting weekend...I hope us loyal Sox fans are still sane come Monday morning. Enjoy the dilemma of Sunday night, which will play on your sanity for sure. Pats-Chargers, Sox-Yanks...big night. Good luck to you if your significant other is either a Charger or Yankee fan. And if she's both, well then I guess you really fucked that one up, pal. But I really hope La (Charger fan) doesn't hate me come Monday morning. As long as the Pats don't cheat this time, I think we'll be ok.
10 September 2007
Here's What I Know
I know what you're thinking and thanks for the vote of confidence. True, I may not know all that much but today I've come to a few realizations and I intend on sharing them with my loyal readers. I will try my best to tailor this one away from sports, but there will be a Patriots reference in here somewhere. I have to, and if you saw the game yesterday (or heard it) you know what I mean.
So one thing that I know is that people who make yard sales a lifestyle are pretty strange folk. La and I assisted my folks at their first such event in ten years this Saturday and sure as you're born , there were some choice attendees. I find that there are three types of people who go to yard sales:
1. The seekers. These people come in with an agenda and you bet your ass that there's no way they will buy anything except for what they came to find. This one guy came mid-morning on Saturday looking for records. He spent all of 2 minutes there, asked if we had any, and promptly returned to his car (which he kept running) when he found out that we were bone dry in the record department. In truth, such gems as Neil Diamond's whole catalog and a sprinkling of Donna Summer were scooped up at the last yard sale. Gems, I tell ya. Gems.
2. The room-fillers. So many people use yard sales as their vehicle for furnishing extra rooms, cottages, houses for sale (for realtors), etc. I respect this genre because I have fallen into this category before. The truth of the matter is, you can find some really valuable stuff at a very small price at yard sales, saving you probably hundreds of dollars on some items. Of course you can also waste a lot of time looking through some old guy's baseball card collection if you let your mind get off track. Then the same guy wants like $30 for his Dykstra rookie card and you realize that one man's valuation system is probably a little off from yours.
3. The habitualists. I love these people. My dad pointed out a pair of them this weekend during a slow period of the yard sale. This couple pulled in a gold Buick, one of them wielding a clipboard and Sharpie. They have fucking lists, folks. Lists. Shit, if you can cross item #144 off that list, which happens to be a Betty Boop Pez dispenser, I guess you can call that a good day. That's a damn good day. Item crossed off the list at our yard sale this weekend: Danielle Steel's Palomino in hardcover. At $.50, it was a freaking steal. Memere is rolling over in her grave because she bought that edition for $17.95.
It was a solid morning at the yard sale, as my parents watched not nearly enough of their old crap disappear into strangers' welcoming arms. There will be another installment next weekend and not to worry, Kansas Jim. No Nintendo exchanged hands on this day. In fact, I didn't even put it out to sell. That's loyalty.
Know what else I know? My father and I are spatially incompetent. Dad, I really hate to lump you in with me on this one, but I have to think that I got it from someone in my lineage and you're the first in line for the distinction. Mom clearly has a better grasp on determining space. What really gets my goat is that for guys like my pop and I, there's just no remedy. We're screwed for life because a cure does not exist. We have to rely on our will and determination to get through sticky situations, such as one we encountered this weekend. Let me paint this picture for you:
There we were in La and I's apartment, trying to shimmy and shake Chip's couch out the front and/or side door so that we could bring in our couch/loveseat combo that has been sitting in my parent's basement for months. I shit you not, that couch almost beat us down that day. We were in a veritable dog fight with the couch and his ally, the door frame. At one point, the two of them had us dead to rights at the top of the stairwell outside the front entrance. At my worst moment, the door frame looked me dead in the eye and said "Not today, young man. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever." We stood at a standstill for 10 minutes, unable to move the couch. When we finally got the couch back into the apartment, we were drained; emotionally and physically. We measured the only other doorway that proposed an exit and it seemed impossible. My encouragingly aggressive mother urged us to try that other doorway again, but standing behind his tape measure, my dad sternly opposed. So we rolled up our sleeves again and move our other couches in without removing Chip's couch. We put it to the side and out of the way and that was that. He'd have to do it himself later on. And he did, with ease. Such ease that him and his brother were able to remove it within 30 seconds, and through the same doorway that my father and I swore could never fit a couch. It was an awesome display, but really deflating. Just another installment in the tales of the spatially inept.
The last thing that I know as of right this second is that the Patriots are almost unspeakably good this season. They have holes, but if you saw them yesterday, you agree that they are pretty scary. And they don't have Richard Seymour or Rodney Harrison on the field yet. I won't say too much about them yet because it's so early, but is Randy Moss really doing the things he did yesterday? Jeesh. I feel bad for opposing secondaries...really, really, bad. But I'm not saying another word until the Charger game next week has been played. That promises to be an early season grudge match between last year's AFC Divisional opponents. Bad blood and all. Strap 'em on, boys. That one should be a fun ride.
So one thing that I know is that people who make yard sales a lifestyle are pretty strange folk. La and I assisted my folks at their first such event in ten years this Saturday and sure as you're born , there were some choice attendees. I find that there are three types of people who go to yard sales:
1. The seekers. These people come in with an agenda and you bet your ass that there's no way they will buy anything except for what they came to find. This one guy came mid-morning on Saturday looking for records. He spent all of 2 minutes there, asked if we had any, and promptly returned to his car (which he kept running) when he found out that we were bone dry in the record department. In truth, such gems as Neil Diamond's whole catalog and a sprinkling of Donna Summer were scooped up at the last yard sale. Gems, I tell ya. Gems.
2. The room-fillers. So many people use yard sales as their vehicle for furnishing extra rooms, cottages, houses for sale (for realtors), etc. I respect this genre because I have fallen into this category before. The truth of the matter is, you can find some really valuable stuff at a very small price at yard sales, saving you probably hundreds of dollars on some items. Of course you can also waste a lot of time looking through some old guy's baseball card collection if you let your mind get off track. Then the same guy wants like $30 for his Dykstra rookie card and you realize that one man's valuation system is probably a little off from yours.
3. The habitualists. I love these people. My dad pointed out a pair of them this weekend during a slow period of the yard sale. This couple pulled in a gold Buick, one of them wielding a clipboard and Sharpie. They have fucking lists, folks. Lists. Shit, if you can cross item #144 off that list, which happens to be a Betty Boop Pez dispenser, I guess you can call that a good day. That's a damn good day. Item crossed off the list at our yard sale this weekend: Danielle Steel's Palomino in hardcover. At $.50, it was a freaking steal. Memere is rolling over in her grave because she bought that edition for $17.95.
It was a solid morning at the yard sale, as my parents watched not nearly enough of their old crap disappear into strangers' welcoming arms. There will be another installment next weekend and not to worry, Kansas Jim. No Nintendo exchanged hands on this day. In fact, I didn't even put it out to sell. That's loyalty.
Know what else I know? My father and I are spatially incompetent. Dad, I really hate to lump you in with me on this one, but I have to think that I got it from someone in my lineage and you're the first in line for the distinction. Mom clearly has a better grasp on determining space. What really gets my goat is that for guys like my pop and I, there's just no remedy. We're screwed for life because a cure does not exist. We have to rely on our will and determination to get through sticky situations, such as one we encountered this weekend. Let me paint this picture for you:
There we were in La and I's apartment, trying to shimmy and shake Chip's couch out the front and/or side door so that we could bring in our couch/loveseat combo that has been sitting in my parent's basement for months. I shit you not, that couch almost beat us down that day. We were in a veritable dog fight with the couch and his ally, the door frame. At one point, the two of them had us dead to rights at the top of the stairwell outside the front entrance. At my worst moment, the door frame looked me dead in the eye and said "Not today, young man. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever." We stood at a standstill for 10 minutes, unable to move the couch. When we finally got the couch back into the apartment, we were drained; emotionally and physically. We measured the only other doorway that proposed an exit and it seemed impossible. My encouragingly aggressive mother urged us to try that other doorway again, but standing behind his tape measure, my dad sternly opposed. So we rolled up our sleeves again and move our other couches in without removing Chip's couch. We put it to the side and out of the way and that was that. He'd have to do it himself later on. And he did, with ease. Such ease that him and his brother were able to remove it within 30 seconds, and through the same doorway that my father and I swore could never fit a couch. It was an awesome display, but really deflating. Just another installment in the tales of the spatially inept.
The last thing that I know as of right this second is that the Patriots are almost unspeakably good this season. They have holes, but if you saw them yesterday, you agree that they are pretty scary. And they don't have Richard Seymour or Rodney Harrison on the field yet. I won't say too much about them yet because it's so early, but is Randy Moss really doing the things he did yesterday? Jeesh. I feel bad for opposing secondaries...really, really, bad. But I'm not saying another word until the Charger game next week has been played. That promises to be an early season grudge match between last year's AFC Divisional opponents. Bad blood and all. Strap 'em on, boys. That one should be a fun ride.
07 September 2007
Unfinished Business
No sooner than when my brain only started to form the thought of JD Drew not hitting into a double play, he promptly wooded a trademark twin-killer to Miguel Tejada, abruptly halting a perfect run-scoring bid with the bases jammed in the 8th last night.
1. Take a goddamn pitch, you fucking jackass. Please, for the love of all that is holy, you're in a megaslump. The least you can do is give your eye a chance to see the ball a little better before you take a hack. TAKE A PITCH.
2. Show some emotion out there. Would it kill you to break a bat over your knee once in a while? If I were you, I'd have no bats left by now. My thigh would be a bruised, bloody mess...hey wait. Yes, please start breaking bats over your knee/thigh. Maybe we'll all get lucky and you can be IR'd for the rest of the year.
2a. If #2 can happen, then my boy Jacoby can occupy a spot in the outfield for the rest of the year. In case you missed last night's action, he pinch-hit in the 8th before Drew came to the plate and singled to left...loading the bases. It would have plated the go-ahead run, but he hit it too hard and right to Jay Payton. The kid is on fire. ON FIRE. And I predict that he switches to #3 next season.
I've got nothing else to say about JD Drew and I think I'll bite my tongue for the rest of the season because I fear the sports media uses Drew as their 'out' story when there's nothing more to write about. Truth is, I hadn't really ripped on him for a while but there are times in every Sox fan's life where he just has to bag on a guy who sucks. (Damian Jackson was the largest recipient of this in my time thusfar) I suppose there's still time for him to break out of his funk...like 4 more years. Imagine that...the Sox are paying a guy $15 million to hit .252 and drive in 50 runs. Good investment so far, boys. I have nearly all praise for you in terms of scouting ability, I do. You just tend to overvalue veteran players.
In the spirit of trying to be more welcoming to a wider range of readers, I'd like to talk favorably about A-Rod for a second. That scene at Ruth's House the other night was absurd...just absurd. It was 'The Natural' being played out, like Gibby's homer for the Dodgers when he could barely hobble about the bases. A-Rod was supposed to be a scratch from the lineup; he was in pain, a night off would have been a good thing for him. But he played, homered twice in the same inning and-whoa, let's back the train up for a second. Twice in the same inning? The guy was a last second addition to the lineup because he felt he needed to be out there and he homers twice in the same inning? Yeah. And two curtain calls later everyone in that dugout is scratching his head, wondering where this guy gets it. It was pretty amazing, and I love that stuff. He's gotta be the MVP this season, hands down. At this point, the Pinners are locking down the Wildcard and building momentum towards the playoffs. And it's mostly due to Rodriguez. My hat's off to you, A-Rod. It's hard to make a case against you as the best that has ever played the game.
There, that was for Steve at Enzymatics. Thanks for reading and see you in the playoffs. Oh, a warning for you: my father isn't one to be messed with in terms of the Sox. A little light banter is acceptable but keep in mind that if lines are crossed, he's got some serious angst from years and years of anguish. Watch your step...
Shameless Plug: Yard Sale tomorrow morning, 8am-noon at 9 Ray St in Beverly, MA. Word is, there'll be an original Nintendo system with 20 some-odd games for sale...if I choose to part with it. Yeah, Double Dribble is one of those games.
1. Take a goddamn pitch, you fucking jackass. Please, for the love of all that is holy, you're in a megaslump. The least you can do is give your eye a chance to see the ball a little better before you take a hack. TAKE A PITCH.
2. Show some emotion out there. Would it kill you to break a bat over your knee once in a while? If I were you, I'd have no bats left by now. My thigh would be a bruised, bloody mess...hey wait. Yes, please start breaking bats over your knee/thigh. Maybe we'll all get lucky and you can be IR'd for the rest of the year.
2a. If #2 can happen, then my boy Jacoby can occupy a spot in the outfield for the rest of the year. In case you missed last night's action, he pinch-hit in the 8th before Drew came to the plate and singled to left...loading the bases. It would have plated the go-ahead run, but he hit it too hard and right to Jay Payton. The kid is on fire. ON FIRE. And I predict that he switches to #3 next season.
I've got nothing else to say about JD Drew and I think I'll bite my tongue for the rest of the season because I fear the sports media uses Drew as their 'out' story when there's nothing more to write about. Truth is, I hadn't really ripped on him for a while but there are times in every Sox fan's life where he just has to bag on a guy who sucks. (Damian Jackson was the largest recipient of this in my time thusfar) I suppose there's still time for him to break out of his funk...like 4 more years. Imagine that...the Sox are paying a guy $15 million to hit .252 and drive in 50 runs. Good investment so far, boys. I have nearly all praise for you in terms of scouting ability, I do. You just tend to overvalue veteran players.
In the spirit of trying to be more welcoming to a wider range of readers, I'd like to talk favorably about A-Rod for a second. That scene at Ruth's House the other night was absurd...just absurd. It was 'The Natural' being played out, like Gibby's homer for the Dodgers when he could barely hobble about the bases. A-Rod was supposed to be a scratch from the lineup; he was in pain, a night off would have been a good thing for him. But he played, homered twice in the same inning and-whoa, let's back the train up for a second. Twice in the same inning? The guy was a last second addition to the lineup because he felt he needed to be out there and he homers twice in the same inning? Yeah. And two curtain calls later everyone in that dugout is scratching his head, wondering where this guy gets it. It was pretty amazing, and I love that stuff. He's gotta be the MVP this season, hands down. At this point, the Pinners are locking down the Wildcard and building momentum towards the playoffs. And it's mostly due to Rodriguez. My hat's off to you, A-Rod. It's hard to make a case against you as the best that has ever played the game.
There, that was for Steve at Enzymatics. Thanks for reading and see you in the playoffs. Oh, a warning for you: my father isn't one to be messed with in terms of the Sox. A little light banter is acceptable but keep in mind that if lines are crossed, he's got some serious angst from years and years of anguish. Watch your step...
Shameless Plug: Yard Sale tomorrow morning, 8am-noon at 9 Ray St in Beverly, MA. Word is, there'll be an original Nintendo system with 20 some-odd games for sale...if I choose to part with it. Yeah, Double Dribble is one of those games.
05 September 2007
Hail to the Chief!
Did you know that Jacoby McCabe Ellsbury is the first Native American of Navajo descent to reach the majors? Yep, he is. I have to ask though...after seeing what Jacoby has done in 11 games at the major-league level, is it fair to ponder what other Navajo might be worth looking into for baseball talent? Who knows, maybe the reservation is flooded with speedy talent. This also just in: Ellsbury's Navajo name is actually "Hits For Average, Runs like Wind".
I'm not sure how PC that last paragraph is and I surely meant no disrespect to the Navajo people. But I can't hide the fact that I am simply dumbfounded by the talents of one of their own in Jacoby Ellsbury. The young outfielder continued his barrage of stellar play last night by going 3-for-3 including a triple and home run, raising his 11-game average to a modest .452. His OBP is a hair over 51% and his RBI production puts him on pace to pass JD Drew by the end of the season. Well, that's hardly impressive. Believe me, I truly appreciate what Coco Crisp has done for the team this season but if Ellsbury isn't our starting center fielder next season, I'm giving up my rabid fandom. Seriously. Maybe. Probably not.
Flipping this coin over to the tails side, I saw the highlight of A-Rod's moon shot last night. Whoever saw SportsCenter this morning also saw the look that Jeter gave him as he jogged into the dugout. Hilarious and pretty much the same look I would have given him. His face said "what the...was that a joke?" If you saw the homer, you know what I mean. If Manny had been playing left, he wouldn't even have raised out of his hands-on-knees stance, much less turned his head. It was, as I hate so much to hear on the YES Network, an A-Bomb for A-Rod. I've got no disses here...nothing negative to say. The Yankees are probably going to win the Wildcard, and the Sox are probably going to play them in the playoffs, and it's definitely going to be another epic showdown. Come on now, Clemens back in Fenway during the playoffs? It's going to be absolutely ridiculous, such that I'm drooling over the prospect.
Well, time to hit the phones and make some money. Let's all sit back and appreciate the time of year, as we stare a few things in the face: Baseball's playoffs, the start of the NFL season, the second week of the college football season and the mere stone's throw away that will be the most exciting NBA season in Boston since some dude from French Lick played here. Who's giddy?
04 September 2007
Young and Relentless
This weekend at Fenway Park served as a peephole into the future of this franchise. I will assume that I'm in the majority of people who think that future should very well be now, whether we're the best team in the sport or not.
Injuries have allowed us fans to get a solid look at some of the young talent on this squad; some of it fairly old news at this point. Old news, new news, has been or might be, I see some really bright skies ahead for the Sox. It's not so much the Buchholz no hitter, either. While that's all well and good and historic, you just can't rely on that type of young success to be a lasting thing. What impresses me more about the young Buchholz is his humbleness and maturity as a pitcher and player, because that's what will make him successful. All the talent in the world may not make a lick of difference (http://www.boston.com/news/specials/jeff_allison/) if you don't have the head on your shoulders to support that talent. More and more coaching, experience and studying the game will hopefully continue to mold Buchholz into the pitcher he so apparently can be. And he's not the only one with that much potential.
You've read prior praises of Jacoby Ellsbury. With Manny Ramirez out of the lineup for who-knows-how-long, Ellsbury should see a good amount of playing time split between left and center. I think it's harder to get excited about a position player than a phenom pitcher like Buchholz, but I have been excited about this kid since he was drafted out of Oregon State. You can see potential brilliance in all facets of his game and that is truly exciting. Outside of learning how to play the wall in left, I struggle to find true inconsistencies in his game. He's a contact hitter with tremendous speed, he knows how to run the bases, he can work a count, he covers a ton of ground in the outfield, he'll dive for balls if need be and he's coachable. Saying he's Johnny Damon with a better arm is pretty high praise for such a young guy but that's the word out there.
Finally, there's the Sox Rookie of the Year frontrunner, Dustin Pedroia. I don't know what more to say than: 7th in the AL in hitting and logical choice for a gold glove it weren't for the existence of Placido Polanco who refuses to make an error. Plays like the one he made to save the Buchholz no hitter this weekend are merely a small sampling of how valuable he has been this season. He hits to all fields, throws his body around in the field (my father calls him Pigpen because his uniform is ALWAYS dirty) and he plays as hard as anyone in the game. Our scouts have done worse than guys like Pedroia.
I guess that's who we should be thanking for this kind of feeder system: the scouts and the front office. With guys like Theo, Ben Cherington, Jed Hoyer and the rest of our scouting ensemble, it's hard not to trust the decisions that are made with young players. It's also hard to justify sitting a guy like Ellsbury when he has given so much to this team in limited time on the field and at the plate, but I'll never complain about seeing his name or any of the other young players on the scorecard.
Injuries have allowed us fans to get a solid look at some of the young talent on this squad; some of it fairly old news at this point. Old news, new news, has been or might be, I see some really bright skies ahead for the Sox. It's not so much the Buchholz no hitter, either. While that's all well and good and historic, you just can't rely on that type of young success to be a lasting thing. What impresses me more about the young Buchholz is his humbleness and maturity as a pitcher and player, because that's what will make him successful. All the talent in the world may not make a lick of difference (http://www.boston.com/news/specials/jeff_allison/) if you don't have the head on your shoulders to support that talent. More and more coaching, experience and studying the game will hopefully continue to mold Buchholz into the pitcher he so apparently can be. And he's not the only one with that much potential.
You've read prior praises of Jacoby Ellsbury. With Manny Ramirez out of the lineup for who-knows-how-long, Ellsbury should see a good amount of playing time split between left and center. I think it's harder to get excited about a position player than a phenom pitcher like Buchholz, but I have been excited about this kid since he was drafted out of Oregon State. You can see potential brilliance in all facets of his game and that is truly exciting. Outside of learning how to play the wall in left, I struggle to find true inconsistencies in his game. He's a contact hitter with tremendous speed, he knows how to run the bases, he can work a count, he covers a ton of ground in the outfield, he'll dive for balls if need be and he's coachable. Saying he's Johnny Damon with a better arm is pretty high praise for such a young guy but that's the word out there.
Finally, there's the Sox Rookie of the Year frontrunner, Dustin Pedroia. I don't know what more to say than: 7th in the AL in hitting and logical choice for a gold glove it weren't for the existence of Placido Polanco who refuses to make an error. Plays like the one he made to save the Buchholz no hitter this weekend are merely a small sampling of how valuable he has been this season. He hits to all fields, throws his body around in the field (my father calls him Pigpen because his uniform is ALWAYS dirty) and he plays as hard as anyone in the game. Our scouts have done worse than guys like Pedroia.
I guess that's who we should be thanking for this kind of feeder system: the scouts and the front office. With guys like Theo, Ben Cherington, Jed Hoyer and the rest of our scouting ensemble, it's hard not to trust the decisions that are made with young players. It's also hard to justify sitting a guy like Ellsbury when he has given so much to this team in limited time on the field and at the plate, but I'll never complain about seeing his name or any of the other young players on the scorecard.
02 September 2007
Oh Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel...
...I made it out of Clay. And when it's dry and ready, I'll promote him to the majors from Single-A and then he'll no-hit the Orioles at the tender age of 23. Oh, and it'll be just his second major league start.
Hi Clay. Hi.
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