WAIT FOR IT...
Ok, so this isn't going to be one of those classic French update posts, wherein I carmelize several inane and few pertinent points of (non)interest. But it's coming, hence the "wait for it..." I'm itching to write it, though. Just ITCHING.
But before I can, I have to take care of some business on le blog. Chuck, you there pal? (not to be confused with you, Pop...another Chuck altogether and anyway, the day I start calling you "Chuck" is the day I start going by "Chazz", with two z's) To give everyone else a little insight into this beckoning, Chuck and I sat together on my recent return trip to LA, and I/we have a story to tell. I mean I do, but I need Chuck's help. Email me, big guy. cab1979@gmail.com
My bedroom is a cool 59.3 degrees Fahrenheit this morning. I woke up with a cold, wet nose and the shivers. Where the fuck am I, Massachusetts? Oh that's right, I left the icy tundra for the blue skies and palletable temperatures of Southern California. So why the fuck am I wearing long underwear INSIDE MY APARTMENT??? Please help.
Yours,
Frigid and French in Venice
28 December 2008
11 December 2008
26 November 2008
an ode to thanksgiving
you'll have to forgive my lack of capitalization in this entry. you see, spilled water into my keyboard yesterday and suddenly the i have no use of my caps lock, left shift or left control key. i do realize that i could use the right shift key, but my hands are not trained just yet. so let's pause here and give thanks for the dual shift keys, for without them we'd have zero shift keys. yep. hang on, just let me check something here...ok, yeah. i remembered to take my medication today. phew.
thanksgiving...a truly american holiday, if ever there was one. sure, you'll argue that independence day is the one truly american holiday, simply based on the spirit and enthusiasm of the day coupled with the meaning. but we're talking 1776. i'm talking about 1620, or thereabouts. plymouth rock, the mayflower, pilgrims, native americans, corn...perhaps turkey, ok. that shit is american. it's north american. it's...well, it's basically a cartoon, in my opinion. i don't know about you, but i have this image of a cartoon turkey running in circles around a bunch of pilgrims in golden belt buckles and those top hat things; they're all trying to corral our friend tom, but even the turkey himself is kind of smiling. the cartoon eventually leads to a slaughtering, defeathering and beheading and finally, a roasting in some pilgrimesque oven or some shit. everyone eats, pilgrims and indians alike clink versions of cups, they reminisce about how a close indian relative was scalped by thomas j pilgrim but everyone stops laughing when chief gone-too-far makes a comment about said scalped indian relative's sexual carnival with thomas j's virgin wife-to-be. it's your standard t-day table talk.
this will be my first californian thanksgiving. i will be amongst another version of family and the person who i love the most and i hope to enjoy some white meat and several starchy options. i will miss my immediates and the table they sit at, which is all i really know to this point. it's got me thinking...something i've been doing a lot of, but not of subject matter that happens to be blog appropriate. well, i reckon it's time to pen down. i give thanks everyday, but today i will do it cyber-publicly.
i give thanks to the hardly variable pacific coast weather. granted the last few days have brought something called rain and sub 70-degree weather, but it sure as shit beats the ball-shriveling cold of the northeast. i don't miss red ears and runny noses, nor do i miss getting to work with hathead. that's a bit funny, though. i now 'show up' to work with bedhead, wearing nothing but mesh shorts and some eye crusties, but i'm warm. i win.
i give thanks to my new family out here who have treated me with love and kindness from the start. in this same light, i give thanks to my closest friend these days who happens to be a mutt named roxie. she's my only company on most days and while she can't speak or really fend for herself, she's one of the great eaters of our time and i respect that. i also can't discount the consistency of her wagging tail, which greets me every morning with a metronome-like pounding on the floor.
i give thanks to the simple foods that are newly established staples in my diet. v8, hummus and cottage cheese. for the most part, this is my lunch daily. i may only weigh a scant 157 pounds these days but these tasty morsels are packed with the necessaries of any sustainable diet and for that, i am thankful. although, v8 has way too much fucking sodium. this most likely accounts for my constant dry mouth.
i give thanks to the fashion of los angeles because without it, i may not have much left to laugh about. last night i was having a tall budweiser with my new buddy colin and he was preparing to go out for a night on the town. he asked if i would be interested in coming and i remarked that my flip-flops would probably hinder my ability to get in anywhere. he then sauntered out of his room wearing a pinkish-orange knit scarf and peacoat, noting that showing up with that exact garb would undoubtedly attract various women to his side. i held in my uproarious laughter in favor of keeping my beer in my mouth, but it made me very thankful for my own fashion sense. more power to these people out here, man. i left my scarves in boston for a good reason.
i probably have much more to give thanks for but my back hurts from this back-less chair i'm sitting on. so i wish you all a very happy thanksgiving and may you all have tons to be thankful for.
thanksgiving...a truly american holiday, if ever there was one. sure, you'll argue that independence day is the one truly american holiday, simply based on the spirit and enthusiasm of the day coupled with the meaning. but we're talking 1776. i'm talking about 1620, or thereabouts. plymouth rock, the mayflower, pilgrims, native americans, corn...perhaps turkey, ok. that shit is american. it's north american. it's...well, it's basically a cartoon, in my opinion. i don't know about you, but i have this image of a cartoon turkey running in circles around a bunch of pilgrims in golden belt buckles and those top hat things; they're all trying to corral our friend tom, but even the turkey himself is kind of smiling. the cartoon eventually leads to a slaughtering, defeathering and beheading and finally, a roasting in some pilgrimesque oven or some shit. everyone eats, pilgrims and indians alike clink versions of cups, they reminisce about how a close indian relative was scalped by thomas j pilgrim but everyone stops laughing when chief gone-too-far makes a comment about said scalped indian relative's sexual carnival with thomas j's virgin wife-to-be. it's your standard t-day table talk.
this will be my first californian thanksgiving. i will be amongst another version of family and the person who i love the most and i hope to enjoy some white meat and several starchy options. i will miss my immediates and the table they sit at, which is all i really know to this point. it's got me thinking...something i've been doing a lot of, but not of subject matter that happens to be blog appropriate. well, i reckon it's time to pen down. i give thanks everyday, but today i will do it cyber-publicly.
i give thanks to the hardly variable pacific coast weather. granted the last few days have brought something called rain and sub 70-degree weather, but it sure as shit beats the ball-shriveling cold of the northeast. i don't miss red ears and runny noses, nor do i miss getting to work with hathead. that's a bit funny, though. i now 'show up' to work with bedhead, wearing nothing but mesh shorts and some eye crusties, but i'm warm. i win.
i give thanks to my new family out here who have treated me with love and kindness from the start. in this same light, i give thanks to my closest friend these days who happens to be a mutt named roxie. she's my only company on most days and while she can't speak or really fend for herself, she's one of the great eaters of our time and i respect that. i also can't discount the consistency of her wagging tail, which greets me every morning with a metronome-like pounding on the floor.
i give thanks to the simple foods that are newly established staples in my diet. v8, hummus and cottage cheese. for the most part, this is my lunch daily. i may only weigh a scant 157 pounds these days but these tasty morsels are packed with the necessaries of any sustainable diet and for that, i am thankful. although, v8 has way too much fucking sodium. this most likely accounts for my constant dry mouth.
i give thanks to the fashion of los angeles because without it, i may not have much left to laugh about. last night i was having a tall budweiser with my new buddy colin and he was preparing to go out for a night on the town. he asked if i would be interested in coming and i remarked that my flip-flops would probably hinder my ability to get in anywhere. he then sauntered out of his room wearing a pinkish-orange knit scarf and peacoat, noting that showing up with that exact garb would undoubtedly attract various women to his side. i held in my uproarious laughter in favor of keeping my beer in my mouth, but it made me very thankful for my own fashion sense. more power to these people out here, man. i left my scarves in boston for a good reason.
i probably have much more to give thanks for but my back hurts from this back-less chair i'm sitting on. so i wish you all a very happy thanksgiving and may you all have tons to be thankful for.
04 November 2008
When Do We Let Go?
Don't worry. I'm not going to post about letting go of anything significant. At least, not to me anyway. I want to know when it's okay to let go of old t-shirts that once had some kind of meaning. There's got to be some parameters set here, because I have so many fucking t-shirts that it's ridiculous. True, I request t-shirts from occasional travelers like my folks and friends. Well, I have...maybe not so much lately (except for this summer when I asked for a t-shirt from Mt Rushmore since my folks were visiting...I had to settle for a postcard which really isn't the same but hey, you can't hang a t on the fridge) but as a result of this and a former addiction to t-shirts, I have managed to stockpile enough t-shirts to outfit a small village in the Congo.
I figure there's gotta be some categorical listing for the types of t-shirts that I have, so I will break them down into various groups as follows.
1, Jerseys
I used to have a ton of jerseys, and by jerseys I mean replicas of pro athletes either past of present. Over the years, I've had Jalen Rose's Michigan jersey, his Nuggets jersey and his Pacers jersey; Steve Francis' Rockets jersey; Todd Collins Michigan jersey; a Brady Pats jersey which has mysteriously vanished sometime recently; Charles Woodson's Michigan jersey...that might be it. I have zero now. I know where two of them are because I gave them away to Ponch and his brother Scwartz for sentimental reasons. So I know they're in good hands. However, it is not my nature to throw jerseys away. I just remembered that I was coaxed into giving my Jalen Nugs jersey to another college roommate who was in love with weed. He figured wearing a shirt that read "Nuggets" would further his display of affection for marijuana. Anyway, I digress. This category need not be mentioned since I have none of these to sift through. Moot point. For the record though, the Woodson jersey is the best one in this group.
2. Number tees
Any t-shirt that represents a team from my past has been kept. I cannot part with these, at least not in terms of throwing them out. For some reason I feel it necessary to wear a t-shirt from a team that went 0-8 in college flag football. I just can't get rid of them unless they are passed on. Between Nate, Josh, Ponch and myself, I have to think we've cycled through upwards of 50 of these things over the course of 15 years. They're keepsakes, aren't they? Yeah, keepsakes. That's the one.
3. Old Championship tees
Examples in my drawer right now: 2004 ALCS Champions T-shirt and a C's 2008 NBA Champions T-shirt. I've honestly done work to whittle down this collection over time, and now I'm a little upset that I did. Occasionally I'll see someone with an '85 AFC Champions tee or a really old school C's NBA Champs tee. They're vintage and they're awesome. I'm not sure why I hold onto the '04 ALCS tee and in fact, I think that's gonna go in my next batch of donated clothes. I guess these need to be determined on a case-by-case basis.
4. Random team tees
I feel as though these always have a place in my drawer because for the most part, I bought these kinds of tees on location. For instance, from our voyage cross the motherland I picked up a KU tee, a San Francisco Giants tee and a Vail, CO tee. I know, the Vail tee has no sports meaning but still. I like to wear it because my resident headmaster Neal will call me an elitist yuppie when he sees it. I have to laugh, since we stayed there off season and on a Hotwire.com rate at the Lodge. Economy lodging, bro. If I'm an elitist, then I just voted for McCain. I also have a few USC tees courtesy of the headmaster and his son's status as a matriculator there, and a few NYU tees for the same reason. I don't think I'll find cause to part with these; at least, I hope not. Obligatory plug for Lauren here: hi baby.
5. Gym tees
Generally my gym tees are those of the ripped sleeve variety. I'd like to say that I do this because it's easier to move my arms without the sleeves, but that's a bunch of boloney. Or bologna. How the fuck do we get bah-low-nee from that? Anyway, I like to see my muscles at work at the gym, even though I'm a super far cry from being "big". It makes me feel like I'm making progress. So I have about four or five of these and they're on rotation. They'll hopefully always have a spot in my drawer.
6. Plain tees
Due to the poorboy price points of H&M, I've added 6 colored tees in recent times. I can't seem to pass up a $5 tee, and they're very comfortable. I also have about 12 others from various shops and they have no expiration date. I've also found that a plain tee and a pair of jeans is kind of the unwritten law of the male wardrobe out here in LA. It's acceptable to "dress up" out here in the aforementioned attire, which is pretty great. So as far as I can tell, this ever-growing staple in my wardrobe may never cease.
All of this having been said, I had a problem justifying the conglomeration of tees today. I parted with a dozen or so tees that probably fit into one or two of these categories, but I hadn't worn them since I've been here and more than likely, I haven't worn them in years. That's grounds for dismissal.
---
On the odds-n-ends front, I noticed last night while watching the Office that 'Scranton' backwards spells 'not narcs'. Kinda weird.
I figure there's gotta be some categorical listing for the types of t-shirts that I have, so I will break them down into various groups as follows.
1, Jerseys
I used to have a ton of jerseys, and by jerseys I mean replicas of pro athletes either past of present. Over the years, I've had Jalen Rose's Michigan jersey, his Nuggets jersey and his Pacers jersey; Steve Francis' Rockets jersey; Todd Collins Michigan jersey; a Brady Pats jersey which has mysteriously vanished sometime recently; Charles Woodson's Michigan jersey...that might be it. I have zero now. I know where two of them are because I gave them away to Ponch and his brother Scwartz for sentimental reasons. So I know they're in good hands. However, it is not my nature to throw jerseys away. I just remembered that I was coaxed into giving my Jalen Nugs jersey to another college roommate who was in love with weed. He figured wearing a shirt that read "Nuggets" would further his display of affection for marijuana. Anyway, I digress. This category need not be mentioned since I have none of these to sift through. Moot point. For the record though, the Woodson jersey is the best one in this group.
2. Number tees
Any t-shirt that represents a team from my past has been kept. I cannot part with these, at least not in terms of throwing them out. For some reason I feel it necessary to wear a t-shirt from a team that went 0-8 in college flag football. I just can't get rid of them unless they are passed on. Between Nate, Josh, Ponch and myself, I have to think we've cycled through upwards of 50 of these things over the course of 15 years. They're keepsakes, aren't they? Yeah, keepsakes. That's the one.
3. Old Championship tees
Examples in my drawer right now: 2004 ALCS Champions T-shirt and a C's 2008 NBA Champions T-shirt. I've honestly done work to whittle down this collection over time, and now I'm a little upset that I did. Occasionally I'll see someone with an '85 AFC Champions tee or a really old school C's NBA Champs tee. They're vintage and they're awesome. I'm not sure why I hold onto the '04 ALCS tee and in fact, I think that's gonna go in my next batch of donated clothes. I guess these need to be determined on a case-by-case basis.
4. Random team tees
I feel as though these always have a place in my drawer because for the most part, I bought these kinds of tees on location. For instance, from our voyage cross the motherland I picked up a KU tee, a San Francisco Giants tee and a Vail, CO tee. I know, the Vail tee has no sports meaning but still. I like to wear it because my resident headmaster Neal will call me an elitist yuppie when he sees it. I have to laugh, since we stayed there off season and on a Hotwire.com rate at the Lodge. Economy lodging, bro. If I'm an elitist, then I just voted for McCain. I also have a few USC tees courtesy of the headmaster and his son's status as a matriculator there, and a few NYU tees for the same reason. I don't think I'll find cause to part with these; at least, I hope not. Obligatory plug for Lauren here: hi baby.
5. Gym tees
Generally my gym tees are those of the ripped sleeve variety. I'd like to say that I do this because it's easier to move my arms without the sleeves, but that's a bunch of boloney. Or bologna. How the fuck do we get bah-low-nee from that? Anyway, I like to see my muscles at work at the gym, even though I'm a super far cry from being "big". It makes me feel like I'm making progress. So I have about four or five of these and they're on rotation. They'll hopefully always have a spot in my drawer.
6. Plain tees
Due to the poorboy price points of H&M, I've added 6 colored tees in recent times. I can't seem to pass up a $5 tee, and they're very comfortable. I also have about 12 others from various shops and they have no expiration date. I've also found that a plain tee and a pair of jeans is kind of the unwritten law of the male wardrobe out here in LA. It's acceptable to "dress up" out here in the aforementioned attire, which is pretty great. So as far as I can tell, this ever-growing staple in my wardrobe may never cease.
All of this having been said, I had a problem justifying the conglomeration of tees today. I parted with a dozen or so tees that probably fit into one or two of these categories, but I hadn't worn them since I've been here and more than likely, I haven't worn them in years. That's grounds for dismissal.
---
On the odds-n-ends front, I noticed last night while watching the Office that 'Scranton' backwards spells 'not narcs'. Kinda weird.
31 October 2008
Halloweenies
Since I might have the distinct pleasure of handing out candy to the children in my new neighborhood, I'm thinking about boiling a bunch of hot dogs and serving them up on buns with orange mustard. I'll answer the door and say "Hey! Who wants a Halloweenie?" I wonder how many parents would promptly instruct their kids to get the hell away from me and further, how many would call me a sick bastard? I don't know, Halloweenies sound pretty fucking good to me. They'd be turkey dogs, first off. You'd think that with all that candy and general sugar running through the systems of these trick-or-treaters, they'd be relieved to come to a house that's offering a meal of sorts; a break from the rigors of chewing Sugar Daddies and various forms of nougat and caramel. Either that, or there will be that one kid who sort of straggles along at the back of the pack. His dad didn't want to come and his mom left town years ago. Most of the kids don't like him because he wears the same yellow sweatpants every day, but he's got every XBox 360 ever made, so they keep him around. He doesn't really like candy because he has been brought up to think that candy will turn him into lump of shit, so he takes the hot dog from me and thanks me for dinner. He's a good kid, leave him alone.
I've got more gym stories today, although they're now a week old. No matter, they're just as pathetic.
Lauren had two days of training down in Manhattan Beach last week, so we stayed in a hotel down there to avoid getting up painfully early to fight traffic two days in a row. It turned into two nights since we wanted to try and enjoy to the hotel a little bit before leaving town. The training was held at the flagship branch of her healthclub, which happens to be Spectrum. This place was ridiculous. In comparison to the club that Lauren has to sell for, this place is PS3 and her club is Coleco Vision.
The first day there, I was immediately drawn to the ball courts on site, also home to the Clippers as their practice facility. Awesome. There's Clipper logos all over the court and huge banner announcing the court's status as their second home. What this also meant was that the 3-point line was the NBA 3-point line. No college line in sight, and that does not bode well for me. I can hit college threes at maybe a 35-40% clip when completely unguarded at standing at my favorite spot in the floor. I took 30 NBA threes on day one, and I hit 4. 4-for-30. And I was dog-fucking-tired after this little exercise, because it's damn far to the hoop from that line. I had also never taken an NBA three before; at least not knowingly. Disaster.
As I'm shooting my threes, another dude was taking jumpers and free throws at one of the side hoops nearest me. A few minutes after I finished my comedy act, he challenged me to a game of horse. My first mistake was accepting. My second mistake was admitting that my achilles heel is the NBA three.
We stayed even through H-O, and then the rains came. He began banking threes from all angles and put me away in a very quick and quiet fashion. Well, quiet minus the squeals I was making as I heaved up every three I took. It was a bad scene overall, but he was a good sport. His name was Tony and he was probably in his late 50's or early 60's. I promised him I'd get him next time, but that promise was about as empty as the one Anthony Smith made last year before the Patriots played the Steelers.
Day two at the gym: 2-for-20 from beyond the arc. Talk about an exercise in futility. It's just too far, and quite frankly, I'm just not a very good basketball player. I've always played, but in high school I was the guy they put in for defense. I have zero handle, not having benefitted from the tutelage of Ponch back in my UMass days. However, there will just always be something inherently fun about shooting around and playing horse. I just have to lay off the NBA threes.
Here's wishing all of you a safe and happy halloween, especially those taking their little ones out to build their empires of candy. Gilbert, don't eat too much of Joey's candy, bro. You can do without it.
I've got more gym stories today, although they're now a week old. No matter, they're just as pathetic.
Lauren had two days of training down in Manhattan Beach last week, so we stayed in a hotel down there to avoid getting up painfully early to fight traffic two days in a row. It turned into two nights since we wanted to try and enjoy to the hotel a little bit before leaving town. The training was held at the flagship branch of her healthclub, which happens to be Spectrum. This place was ridiculous. In comparison to the club that Lauren has to sell for, this place is PS3 and her club is Coleco Vision.
The first day there, I was immediately drawn to the ball courts on site, also home to the Clippers as their practice facility. Awesome. There's Clipper logos all over the court and huge banner announcing the court's status as their second home. What this also meant was that the 3-point line was the NBA 3-point line. No college line in sight, and that does not bode well for me. I can hit college threes at maybe a 35-40% clip when completely unguarded at standing at my favorite spot in the floor. I took 30 NBA threes on day one, and I hit 4. 4-for-30. And I was dog-fucking-tired after this little exercise, because it's damn far to the hoop from that line. I had also never taken an NBA three before; at least not knowingly. Disaster.
As I'm shooting my threes, another dude was taking jumpers and free throws at one of the side hoops nearest me. A few minutes after I finished my comedy act, he challenged me to a game of horse. My first mistake was accepting. My second mistake was admitting that my achilles heel is the NBA three.
We stayed even through H-O, and then the rains came. He began banking threes from all angles and put me away in a very quick and quiet fashion. Well, quiet minus the squeals I was making as I heaved up every three I took. It was a bad scene overall, but he was a good sport. His name was Tony and he was probably in his late 50's or early 60's. I promised him I'd get him next time, but that promise was about as empty as the one Anthony Smith made last year before the Patriots played the Steelers.
Day two at the gym: 2-for-20 from beyond the arc. Talk about an exercise in futility. It's just too far, and quite frankly, I'm just not a very good basketball player. I've always played, but in high school I was the guy they put in for defense. I have zero handle, not having benefitted from the tutelage of Ponch back in my UMass days. However, there will just always be something inherently fun about shooting around and playing horse. I just have to lay off the NBA threes.
Here's wishing all of you a safe and happy halloween, especially those taking their little ones out to build their empires of candy. Gilbert, don't eat too much of Joey's candy, bro. You can do without it.
18 October 2008
The Weighting Is The Hardest Part
A weird thing happened on the way to the free weights this morning. As I prepared for a standard workout, this dude asked me to give him a spot on the bench. Now, this particular dude is someone I don't usually see at the gym. He's about 5'7 and very stocky. He's almost totally bald with the exception of a rather mangy band of hair around the bottom half of his dome. He appears almost completely out of shape and overweight, but after one look at the plates on his bench bar, it's clear that he only works his chest at the gym.
The man had three plates on each side and a 25lb weight as well; so 365lbs. This was quite alarming to me. As I approached him to help him out, he instructed me to add a 10lb weight to the side I was nearest, which would up to the total to 385lbs. Trying to make light of the situation, I joked that it was a lot of weight. Bald dude not amused. He ignored my comment and told me that he was going to count to 3 and then I should lift up and guide him forward. He said he was only looking for one rep. Sounds easy enough.
So he counts to 3, and I lift. Now, I am not the strongest guy out there. Let's face it, I go to gym with the hope of some muscular definition as well as an with the initiative of staying in shape. I probably shouldn't have accepted the invitation to spot the stocky, bald man but spotting isn't supposed to be a crazy, difficult task. Anyway, the first try was wildly unsuccessful. I didn't get the weight out far enough for the guy be clear of the racks, so he put it back. And it felt like I was lifting all the weight myself, which was not only an incredible struggle, but also pretty fucking painful. After the weight was settled, I told the guy that he probably should ask another dude to help him, since I was not having an easy go of it. But he didn't think it was necessary.
"I want you to ease the weight up. It's only 20lbs. heavier than the previous weight I had on there, and I can get that up on my own. So you're only helping me with 20lbs."
Great. Make me feel like a pussy, you bald d-bag. I decided it wasn't the best time to tell him that my arm hurt from the first attempt.
Second attempt...3-2-1...and UP! Except, up was a shaky endeavor at best. I was literally quivering at the sheer mass of this lift and the second attempt failed to clear the racks again. Bald d-bag is now looking mildly perturbed and this time, he stands up to instruct me on the spot.
"You're shaking. It's throwing me off when I go to control the weight. Just lift up and push out lightly...I'll be doing most of the work, so you really don't have to work so hard."
Pearls of wisdom from the petulant puffball. Once again, I offer that he really won't be offending me if he was to relieve me of my spotting duties in favor of a one of the three other dudes in our general vicinity...all of whom were visibly buffer than I. But no, baldy wanted to stick with me, for whatever disturbingly unobvious reason. On to attempt number 3...and UP! It's up this time, and I'm guiding it outward to clear the racks. This time, he utters "nope, nope" and we set the bar back down. He rises again, this time to remind me that if I don't release the weight simultaneously with both hands, it will throw off his balance and he'll drop the weight. I salivate at the thought. At this point, my left arm is throbbing and shaking, I'm sweating profusely and panting and this bowling ball with arms is just bullish about me getting this weight in proper position. I started to wonder if this was some kind of covert exam and maybe he's recruiting men for a secret society. Surely I had failed at this point, so why not let me go about my business? What possible, sane, credible reason could this asshead have for making me be his spotter?
Attempt 4...I lift up, I push out, it's smooth and I release the weight. Stay Puft eases it down and completes one rep, then puts the bar back on the racks, only he misses one of them. There sits the weight now, awkwardly hanging down on one side with me pathetically trying to support it so it doesn't come crashing down on something or someone. Thankfully, one dude had been watching this humiliation the whole time and he ran over to grab the bar and help me put it on the other rack. Totally exasperated and exhausted, I tell the bald man that he did a good job on the lift and that I was done. As I walk away, the dude who helped me with bar tells me to get some water, take a rest and go on to my next exercise, as he is assured that I have just endured a very difficult arm set. He laughs at my futility and I offer a wry smile. I want to say something horribly offensive, maybe about his wristbands or his white tube socks but I remind myself that I am not in any place to be a nuisance. Lauren's place of work and all...bad idea. Plus, what am I gonna do, fight the guy? That's a resounding no.
I'm not sure what lesson is to be learned here, but I guess I should have politely turned the bald man down when he asked me to spot him. I'll know better next time.
The man had three plates on each side and a 25lb weight as well; so 365lbs. This was quite alarming to me. As I approached him to help him out, he instructed me to add a 10lb weight to the side I was nearest, which would up to the total to 385lbs. Trying to make light of the situation, I joked that it was a lot of weight. Bald dude not amused. He ignored my comment and told me that he was going to count to 3 and then I should lift up and guide him forward. He said he was only looking for one rep. Sounds easy enough.
So he counts to 3, and I lift. Now, I am not the strongest guy out there. Let's face it, I go to gym with the hope of some muscular definition as well as an with the initiative of staying in shape. I probably shouldn't have accepted the invitation to spot the stocky, bald man but spotting isn't supposed to be a crazy, difficult task. Anyway, the first try was wildly unsuccessful. I didn't get the weight out far enough for the guy be clear of the racks, so he put it back. And it felt like I was lifting all the weight myself, which was not only an incredible struggle, but also pretty fucking painful. After the weight was settled, I told the guy that he probably should ask another dude to help him, since I was not having an easy go of it. But he didn't think it was necessary.
"I want you to ease the weight up. It's only 20lbs. heavier than the previous weight I had on there, and I can get that up on my own. So you're only helping me with 20lbs."
Great. Make me feel like a pussy, you bald d-bag. I decided it wasn't the best time to tell him that my arm hurt from the first attempt.
Second attempt...3-2-1...and UP! Except, up was a shaky endeavor at best. I was literally quivering at the sheer mass of this lift and the second attempt failed to clear the racks again. Bald d-bag is now looking mildly perturbed and this time, he stands up to instruct me on the spot.
"You're shaking. It's throwing me off when I go to control the weight. Just lift up and push out lightly...I'll be doing most of the work, so you really don't have to work so hard."
Pearls of wisdom from the petulant puffball. Once again, I offer that he really won't be offending me if he was to relieve me of my spotting duties in favor of a one of the three other dudes in our general vicinity...all of whom were visibly buffer than I. But no, baldy wanted to stick with me, for whatever disturbingly unobvious reason. On to attempt number 3...and UP! It's up this time, and I'm guiding it outward to clear the racks. This time, he utters "nope, nope" and we set the bar back down. He rises again, this time to remind me that if I don't release the weight simultaneously with both hands, it will throw off his balance and he'll drop the weight. I salivate at the thought. At this point, my left arm is throbbing and shaking, I'm sweating profusely and panting and this bowling ball with arms is just bullish about me getting this weight in proper position. I started to wonder if this was some kind of covert exam and maybe he's recruiting men for a secret society. Surely I had failed at this point, so why not let me go about my business? What possible, sane, credible reason could this asshead have for making me be his spotter?
Attempt 4...I lift up, I push out, it's smooth and I release the weight. Stay Puft eases it down and completes one rep, then puts the bar back on the racks, only he misses one of them. There sits the weight now, awkwardly hanging down on one side with me pathetically trying to support it so it doesn't come crashing down on something or someone. Thankfully, one dude had been watching this humiliation the whole time and he ran over to grab the bar and help me put it on the other rack. Totally exasperated and exhausted, I tell the bald man that he did a good job on the lift and that I was done. As I walk away, the dude who helped me with bar tells me to get some water, take a rest and go on to my next exercise, as he is assured that I have just endured a very difficult arm set. He laughs at my futility and I offer a wry smile. I want to say something horribly offensive, maybe about his wristbands or his white tube socks but I remind myself that I am not in any place to be a nuisance. Lauren's place of work and all...bad idea. Plus, what am I gonna do, fight the guy? That's a resounding no.
I'm not sure what lesson is to be learned here, but I guess I should have politely turned the bald man down when he asked me to spot him. I'll know better next time.
17 October 2008
Ray of Might
You know the old adage in sports. We all know it. And that would be that when you have a team on the ropes, you have to go for the jugular and put them away. When you have a team pinned after a flying suplex (little help here...wrestling terminology not my strong suit) and they're unconscious and barely breathing, you break the windpipe and erase all doubt.
The only problem with this analogy in relation to last night's epic cage match between Boston and Tampa Bay is that Tampa didn't exactly let up. You could make the argument that their pitching failed them a little bit, but JP Howell and Dan Wheeler have been lights out all season and all through the playoffs. They were victimized not by errors, necessarily. Longoria's error was big but it wasn't ultimately the deciding blow in this game. They were victimized by something that has fueled this Sox team all season and helped them get to where they are. Red Sox hitters are very patient in most cases, but more importantly they are patient when it matters most. The most beautiful thing in the game of baseball is the epic battle between pitcher and hitter...when the count runs full but seems to never end...when pitch after pitch is fouled off, only prolonging the inevitable. Coco Crisp's at-bat in the eighth last night was a great example of this scenario, though he didn't need a dozen pitches to get to Dan Wheeler. I feel like I can tell when a guy is locked into a pitcher in an at-bat. The way Coco was fouling off high fastballs indicated that he knew what Wheeler was coming with, no matter what. Before long, he had to throw something over the plate to get him out. If you're Wheeler, you'd much rather pitch to Coco in that situation than Pedroia.
So eventually, the patience paid off and you know what happens next. And while most people watching this game thought Coco made a mistake by going to second on the play, that was the best decision he could have made in that situation. By doing this, he not only forces Pena to cut off the throw and enable the run to score (which was a terrible throw, mind you). He also opens the possibility of getting into scoring position for the go-ahead run. And if he's thrown out, tie game and the Sox hit in the ninth with Pedroia, Ortiz and Youkilis. It's a win-win and a great decision by Crisp in the right situation. Veteran guys who have been there before and know the game and all the little nuances make plays like this. Tampa doesn't really have the quote-unquote veteran guys who have been there and seen this stuff before. That's a big deal; a really big deal.
So now what? Back to the Trop for Game 6 tomorrow night. Beckett against Shields, which is now looking like a much better matchup for Boston than Beckett against Kazmir. Tampa used its bullpen a lot last night, as did the Sox. However, this is huge for the psyche of the Sox moreso than for the psyche of Tampa. This marks the first time that 'pen has shown signs of fatigue and beatability, if you will. And those Tampa relievers have now got to be thinking that they're not bulletproof anymore. Because you know full well that this victory shot a much needed dose of adrenaline into the hearts of those Sox and you also know that they cannot wait to get back on the field on Saturday and let loose.
We know this much...Game 6 is going to be fun to watch, no matter where you're sitting.
13 October 2008
Game 3 Journal
2:38pm: It's the bottom of the third inning at Fenway and the Rays just went up 5-0 in the top of the inning. I'm getting a late start on this running journal but maybe I can start to change the face of this game. Notes from the first 2.5 innings: they'll have to wait. Craig Sager sighting...another ghastly sport coat selection from the king of cheesy blazers. Sager is a renaissance man. He kinda dresses like Richard Dawson, circa 1975.
2:41: Ellsbury continues to struggle and hit the ball in the air. He's got to get on track and get on base. Manufactured runs start with Jacoby in this lineup. He's now 0-for-his-last-19. Maybe a bunt next time.
2:42: Pedroia hammers another one off the wall. It still baffles me that pitchers continue to challenge Petey with fastballs. He's becoming one of the best fastballs hitters in the game. 2 for 2, both fastballs that were absolutely hammered. Here's where we need Ortiz to lock in and make Garza work.
side note: I feel like they can get to Garza with patience. He can get wild and if they can work some counts and scratch together some hits, they can get back in this game quickly. Nice, it's now 3-0 to Ortiz.
2:47: Ortiz is in a full count but he's fouling off pitches and making Garza work. I like it. Now there's a towering, fading foul ball that Longoria makes a great effort to get...he misses. Longoria is a great looking, young player.
2:48: Ortiz pops out to shallow center. He missed a fat breaking ball that was left over the heart of the plate. As has been clear for some time, he's just not the same hitter we're used to here in Boston (or LA).
2:50: On a replay of Youk's check swing, I see something strange in the seats...a fan is wearing what appears to be a sock on his head. I think it's a mechanism to keep his ears and head warm, but I can't be sure. I'm not familiar with such a thing.
2:52: Youk strikes out on his third check swing of the at-bat. It's looking like Game 3 might be a long one for Sox fans, and an equally long one for readers of It's All French To Me. I fear the game log that Simmons does so well might turn out to be incredibly and painfully boring a la French.
3:03: Lester gets out of the 4th rather easily...one hit but he makes Iwamura look silly on a curve for strike three and the third out. The Sox have to plate two in the bottom of the 4th and build a little momentum.
3:06: Just talked to my dad who is listening to the game on ESPN Radio 710AM. He gets Vin Scully, I get three boneheads on TBS who suck at their jobs. I miss Remy and Orsillo. Oh, my father also offered his obligatory "the Sox suck" just now. I'm sure he hopes as well I do that he'll eat those words.
3:11: Kotsay smokes another Garza offering for his second hit of the night. I wish I had even the slightest modicum of confidence in Jason Varitek. I'm predicting a strikeout.
3:12: Ok, it was a popout to first and boos are starting to come out at Fenway. Really? Boos? It's the fourth inning of Game 3 of ALCS, people. Calm down and have a little hope, would you? This isn't Wrigley.
3:16: Upton singles and the Rays have the leadoff man on for the fourth straight inning.
3:17: Pena bunts, a beauty away from the shift. Youk has no play, except Upton rounds second and Youk throws him out...Cora lays down the tag. I'm reminded how young the Rays are and I'm also reminded that something as small as that play could light a fire.
3:20: "If this was the NBA, the Red Sox would need a :20 timeout." I don't know which announcer it was and I don't care. I only wish I wasn't listening when he said it.
3:25: Lester is through five and at the very least, he's saved some of the bullpen by not folding after his early inning issues. The Sox have 15 more outs and they have to score in this inning. They need to get men on in front of Pedroia and with Cora leading off the fifth, Pedroia is due third. No better time than now.
3:31: Cora grounded out and once again, Ellsbury lifts a fly ball for out number two. Petey hits again with no one on and two out. If the Sox have any thoughts of a comeback, it's not showing in their offense...no energy and no urgency...yet. I'm beginning to get bored with my own writing. This promises to be a great blog entry at this point.
3:40: Top six and Lester k's Aybar for out number one. All things considered I like how Lester has settled down and managed this game after such a rocky start. When it comes down to it, if your team isn't scoring at all, it doesn't matter how many runs you've given up. But Lester hasn't folded and somehow I still feel like the Sox are still in this game. Then again, I also still believe that Brady will be back by the end of the season to commandeer the Pats into and through the playoffs. No, I haven't started drinking yet but perhaps it's time.
3:44: Lester's night is over after 5 2/3. He gives way to Paul "Swinging" Byrd who has serviced this team well in eight starts since coming over from Cleveland. I only wish he batted more often so that I could hear "Byrd flies out" once in a while.
3:46: Byrd gets the third out and the Rays are retired in the sixth. The Sox have to score here in the...you know what, fuck it. I sound like a broken record. Yes, they need to score at least five times over the next three-and-a-half innings.
side note: I got a really bad haircut this weekend at SuperCuts in Santa Monica. I know it's bad because Lauren typically has no response to my haircuts unless they're really bad or really short. This time it was something like "what the hell happened to your hair?" I would have been better served to stand near an open flame and hope for the best. Stay away from Laura at SuperCuts in Santa Monica.
3:51: Garza is still dealing and looking tough. Youk grounded out to begin things here in the sixth and Drew is behind 1-2.
3:52: And Drew just looked silly on a three-quarter swinging third strike. I give him props for running out the dropped strike, though. Way to go, JD. You'll get 'em next time.
4:00: After a walk to Bay, Kotsay works the count full but flies out to Upton in center. I'm annoyed.
4:01: My annoyance level has just gone through the roof after the Nikon commercial with Asthon Kutcher taking pictures at a wedding. I recently found out that he coaches high school football out here in California. Riveting.
4:19: Bottom seventh now...I've attended to some other things since the last useless update. After walking Tek, Garza gives up a bounding single down the first base line to my man AC. Tek goes to third, Garza goes to the bench. I mentioned before the fact that the Sox need to get some men on in front of Pedroia and this could be the right time. Ellsbury needs to put his last 20 at-bats behind him and make something happen here. It'll be against JP Howell who has been very effective in both the regular and postseason.
4:23: Ok, a sac fly from Ellsbury is as productive an at-bat as we could have hoped for. Shutout averted, Pedroia now has to...not hit into a double play, which is exactly what he did. So much for getting men on in front of DP. Shit.
4:32: With first and third and nobody out, Pedroia fields a sharp grounder off Navarro's bat and fires home...Crawford bangs into Tek, but he holds onto the ball and gets the out. Keeping this a four-run game is a small victory in this situation, especially since there were no outs with men on the corners.
4:35: Baldelli just blasted a 3-run job off the Sports Authority sign. Well, this has been fun. Except no, it hasn't.
2:41: Ellsbury continues to struggle and hit the ball in the air. He's got to get on track and get on base. Manufactured runs start with Jacoby in this lineup. He's now 0-for-his-last-19. Maybe a bunt next time.
2:42: Pedroia hammers another one off the wall. It still baffles me that pitchers continue to challenge Petey with fastballs. He's becoming one of the best fastballs hitters in the game. 2 for 2, both fastballs that were absolutely hammered. Here's where we need Ortiz to lock in and make Garza work.
side note: I feel like they can get to Garza with patience. He can get wild and if they can work some counts and scratch together some hits, they can get back in this game quickly. Nice, it's now 3-0 to Ortiz.
2:47: Ortiz is in a full count but he's fouling off pitches and making Garza work. I like it. Now there's a towering, fading foul ball that Longoria makes a great effort to get...he misses. Longoria is a great looking, young player.
2:48: Ortiz pops out to shallow center. He missed a fat breaking ball that was left over the heart of the plate. As has been clear for some time, he's just not the same hitter we're used to here in Boston (or LA).
2:50: On a replay of Youk's check swing, I see something strange in the seats...a fan is wearing what appears to be a sock on his head. I think it's a mechanism to keep his ears and head warm, but I can't be sure. I'm not familiar with such a thing.
2:52: Youk strikes out on his third check swing of the at-bat. It's looking like Game 3 might be a long one for Sox fans, and an equally long one for readers of It's All French To Me. I fear the game log that Simmons does so well might turn out to be incredibly and painfully boring a la French.
3:03: Lester gets out of the 4th rather easily...one hit but he makes Iwamura look silly on a curve for strike three and the third out. The Sox have to plate two in the bottom of the 4th and build a little momentum.
3:06: Just talked to my dad who is listening to the game on ESPN Radio 710AM. He gets Vin Scully, I get three boneheads on TBS who suck at their jobs. I miss Remy and Orsillo. Oh, my father also offered his obligatory "the Sox suck" just now. I'm sure he hopes as well I do that he'll eat those words.
3:11: Kotsay smokes another Garza offering for his second hit of the night. I wish I had even the slightest modicum of confidence in Jason Varitek. I'm predicting a strikeout.
3:12: Ok, it was a popout to first and boos are starting to come out at Fenway. Really? Boos? It's the fourth inning of Game 3 of ALCS, people. Calm down and have a little hope, would you? This isn't Wrigley.
3:16: Upton singles and the Rays have the leadoff man on for the fourth straight inning.
3:17: Pena bunts, a beauty away from the shift. Youk has no play, except Upton rounds second and Youk throws him out...Cora lays down the tag. I'm reminded how young the Rays are and I'm also reminded that something as small as that play could light a fire.
3:20: "If this was the NBA, the Red Sox would need a :20 timeout." I don't know which announcer it was and I don't care. I only wish I wasn't listening when he said it.
3:25: Lester is through five and at the very least, he's saved some of the bullpen by not folding after his early inning issues. The Sox have 15 more outs and they have to score in this inning. They need to get men on in front of Pedroia and with Cora leading off the fifth, Pedroia is due third. No better time than now.
3:31: Cora grounded out and once again, Ellsbury lifts a fly ball for out number two. Petey hits again with no one on and two out. If the Sox have any thoughts of a comeback, it's not showing in their offense...no energy and no urgency...yet. I'm beginning to get bored with my own writing. This promises to be a great blog entry at this point.
3:40: Top six and Lester k's Aybar for out number one. All things considered I like how Lester has settled down and managed this game after such a rocky start. When it comes down to it, if your team isn't scoring at all, it doesn't matter how many runs you've given up. But Lester hasn't folded and somehow I still feel like the Sox are still in this game. Then again, I also still believe that Brady will be back by the end of the season to commandeer the Pats into and through the playoffs. No, I haven't started drinking yet but perhaps it's time.
3:44: Lester's night is over after 5 2/3. He gives way to Paul "Swinging" Byrd who has serviced this team well in eight starts since coming over from Cleveland. I only wish he batted more often so that I could hear "Byrd flies out" once in a while.
3:46: Byrd gets the third out and the Rays are retired in the sixth. The Sox have to score here in the...you know what, fuck it. I sound like a broken record. Yes, they need to score at least five times over the next three-and-a-half innings.
side note: I got a really bad haircut this weekend at SuperCuts in Santa Monica. I know it's bad because Lauren typically has no response to my haircuts unless they're really bad or really short. This time it was something like "what the hell happened to your hair?" I would have been better served to stand near an open flame and hope for the best. Stay away from Laura at SuperCuts in Santa Monica.
3:51: Garza is still dealing and looking tough. Youk grounded out to begin things here in the sixth and Drew is behind 1-2.
3:52: And Drew just looked silly on a three-quarter swinging third strike. I give him props for running out the dropped strike, though. Way to go, JD. You'll get 'em next time.
4:00: After a walk to Bay, Kotsay works the count full but flies out to Upton in center. I'm annoyed.
4:01: My annoyance level has just gone through the roof after the Nikon commercial with Asthon Kutcher taking pictures at a wedding. I recently found out that he coaches high school football out here in California. Riveting.
4:19: Bottom seventh now...I've attended to some other things since the last useless update. After walking Tek, Garza gives up a bounding single down the first base line to my man AC. Tek goes to third, Garza goes to the bench. I mentioned before the fact that the Sox need to get some men on in front of Pedroia and this could be the right time. Ellsbury needs to put his last 20 at-bats behind him and make something happen here. It'll be against JP Howell who has been very effective in both the regular and postseason.
4:23: Ok, a sac fly from Ellsbury is as productive an at-bat as we could have hoped for. Shutout averted, Pedroia now has to...not hit into a double play, which is exactly what he did. So much for getting men on in front of DP. Shit.
4:32: With first and third and nobody out, Pedroia fields a sharp grounder off Navarro's bat and fires home...Crawford bangs into Tek, but he holds onto the ball and gets the out. Keeping this a four-run game is a small victory in this situation, especially since there were no outs with men on the corners.
4:35: Baldelli just blasted a 3-run job off the Sports Authority sign. Well, this has been fun. Except no, it hasn't.
Fast Fingers Freddy
Yesterday was an eventful day for me. My parents met Lauren's grandparents and a host of other people somehow related to the Goldstein-Greenberg clan at a very nice dinner hosted by the aforementioned grandparents. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of eating and a healthy amount of drinking as well...all good things. Unfortunately the defining moment of the evening came at the expense of two cupcakes.
We know where we made our critical error. Lauren and I bought a fine selection of eight gourmet cupcakes to serve as part of dessert, and they were displayed on a crystal cupcake platter as you might find at a nice family dinner. However, we failed to remove this display from the dinner table prior to sitting down for the meal itself. Typically you don't put dessert on the table until the dinner part of the meal is finished, but then again, you don't expect that anyone besides a undisciplined child would actually make a move for a cupcake until dinner was over and everyone else was ready to eat dessert. Let me set the scene here:
The majority of the group sat the large dining table in the kitchen of Lauren's grandparents house, a table that seats 10-12 depending on the seating chart. Last night it was 10. As it was, the dinner was buffet style and everyone grabbed their plates of food prior to picking a seat at the table. All was well and good until about 15 minutes into the meal when Lauren tapped me on the arm. Next to her sat Freddy, a long-winded, grandstanding man with a penchant for the dramatic. Lauren and I had endured a painful session with Freddy before dinner, as he rambled his way through some truly uninspiring and monotonous stories about a football game, a wedding and something about a company in LA that I have yet to determine what in the sam hell he was actually talking about. I digress...after the arm tap, I looked over at Freddy and didn't immediately notice what had caused Lauren to direct my attention his way. She finally alerted me that a cupcake was indeed missing from the tray (which sat about eight inches in front of Freddy), and there sat Fred, furiously devouring a cupcake as if his life depended on it. Further, it was the one cupcake the Lauren had hoped would be available to her when it was time for dessert. No sale.
For a few minutes, we both confusedly tried to make sense of the situation. First off, it was the best cupcake on there and I felt bad that my lady wouldn't be able to enjoy even a taste of it. Second, the plan was to cut the cupcakes into sections so that everyone could try a bit of each if desired. Now we were down to 7. At this time, it was clear that our diversion from Freddy to discuss the hilarity/horror of his thievery was our second and perhaps most damaging mistake.
The second tap on the arm was doubly as appalling as the first. I peered over at Freddy a second time, and there sat the ingrate, halfway into cupcake #2. Yeah, that's right. Not satisfied with just one, he had helped himself to a second and as luck would have it, it was Lauren's hopeful second choice of cupcake after losing the battle for her first choice. Talk about ruining a girl's night. To top off this cupcake circus, it then became apparent that Freddy's wife had gone ahead and joined her husband in his tomfoolery by helping herself to a cupcake. She showed some sense of control by taking only half of a cupcake but SHIT MAN. Who the hell do these people think they are? You don't eat a quarter of the cupcake allotment DURING DINNER unless you're either a) a dog or b) insane. I guess I've solved that mystery.
What made this scenario even funnier was when Lauren actually cut up the cupcakes to serve to the guests, Freddy's wife came over a exclaimed "ooohh, look at the pretty cupcakes!" This kinda set me off. I wanted to ask her if they looked any different from a few minutes ago, when her and Freddy decided to pig out and consequently ruin our evening. She would later contend that the dessert portion of the meal was indeed a "cupcake orgy". I know her and Freddy were satisfied, but I can assure you that Lauren and I were not.
I later found out than Freddy had recently lost his job and ten days ago had removed all the alcohol from his house in order to support his newly christened sobriety. Perhaps the cupcakes had provided him with a little happiness but at what price? It's rumored that Freddy has just rid his house of all cupcakes and then promptly headed to a C.A. meeting downtown. Yes, that would be Cupcakes Anonymous.
Line of the night provided by Lauren's grandfather, Dick:
(referring to my mom) "Your mom is very attractive. Does she fool around?"
We know where we made our critical error. Lauren and I bought a fine selection of eight gourmet cupcakes to serve as part of dessert, and they were displayed on a crystal cupcake platter as you might find at a nice family dinner. However, we failed to remove this display from the dinner table prior to sitting down for the meal itself. Typically you don't put dessert on the table until the dinner part of the meal is finished, but then again, you don't expect that anyone besides a undisciplined child would actually make a move for a cupcake until dinner was over and everyone else was ready to eat dessert. Let me set the scene here:
The majority of the group sat the large dining table in the kitchen of Lauren's grandparents house, a table that seats 10-12 depending on the seating chart. Last night it was 10. As it was, the dinner was buffet style and everyone grabbed their plates of food prior to picking a seat at the table. All was well and good until about 15 minutes into the meal when Lauren tapped me on the arm. Next to her sat Freddy, a long-winded, grandstanding man with a penchant for the dramatic. Lauren and I had endured a painful session with Freddy before dinner, as he rambled his way through some truly uninspiring and monotonous stories about a football game, a wedding and something about a company in LA that I have yet to determine what in the sam hell he was actually talking about. I digress...after the arm tap, I looked over at Freddy and didn't immediately notice what had caused Lauren to direct my attention his way. She finally alerted me that a cupcake was indeed missing from the tray (which sat about eight inches in front of Freddy), and there sat Fred, furiously devouring a cupcake as if his life depended on it. Further, it was the one cupcake the Lauren had hoped would be available to her when it was time for dessert. No sale.
For a few minutes, we both confusedly tried to make sense of the situation. First off, it was the best cupcake on there and I felt bad that my lady wouldn't be able to enjoy even a taste of it. Second, the plan was to cut the cupcakes into sections so that everyone could try a bit of each if desired. Now we were down to 7. At this time, it was clear that our diversion from Freddy to discuss the hilarity/horror of his thievery was our second and perhaps most damaging mistake.
The second tap on the arm was doubly as appalling as the first. I peered over at Freddy a second time, and there sat the ingrate, halfway into cupcake #2. Yeah, that's right. Not satisfied with just one, he had helped himself to a second and as luck would have it, it was Lauren's hopeful second choice of cupcake after losing the battle for her first choice. Talk about ruining a girl's night. To top off this cupcake circus, it then became apparent that Freddy's wife had gone ahead and joined her husband in his tomfoolery by helping herself to a cupcake. She showed some sense of control by taking only half of a cupcake but SHIT MAN. Who the hell do these people think they are? You don't eat a quarter of the cupcake allotment DURING DINNER unless you're either a) a dog or b) insane. I guess I've solved that mystery.
What made this scenario even funnier was when Lauren actually cut up the cupcakes to serve to the guests, Freddy's wife came over a exclaimed "ooohh, look at the pretty cupcakes!" This kinda set me off. I wanted to ask her if they looked any different from a few minutes ago, when her and Freddy decided to pig out and consequently ruin our evening. She would later contend that the dessert portion of the meal was indeed a "cupcake orgy". I know her and Freddy were satisfied, but I can assure you that Lauren and I were not.
I later found out than Freddy had recently lost his job and ten days ago had removed all the alcohol from his house in order to support his newly christened sobriety. Perhaps the cupcakes had provided him with a little happiness but at what price? It's rumored that Freddy has just rid his house of all cupcakes and then promptly headed to a C.A. meeting downtown. Yes, that would be Cupcakes Anonymous.
Line of the night provided by Lauren's grandfather, Dick:
(referring to my mom) "Your mom is very attractive. Does she fool around?"
09 October 2008
Anything But Baseball
I'm torn here, I really am. I have a split audience (of roughly 6 people) that offer differing opinions on subject matter in this blog. My Aunt Gloria, who has suggested that my brain has turned to mush since being in LaLaLand (due to the lack of blogging) has insisted upon some good, old fashioned Sox talk. I delivered. The honorable James Hammen concurs, as does the Captain of the Chuckwagon. Lauren might say she's impartial on the subject, but she much prefers my non-sporting sputterings. Same goes for my sister-in-law, Jen, and Gilbert.
So where do I go from here? I've been finding it quite the grind just to simply string together some coherent thoughts, let alone get them on paper. Perhaps my brain is somewhat mushy, AG. But that happened long ago, like maybe on or around the 5th of July, 1979. I've considered starting a new blog about just baseball, but then I remember how much effort that would take and I'm immediately discouraged. And almost in the same breath, I remember that I just started a new blog about my daily frustrations. Two entries and one month later, I have come to grips with the fact that this new blog is a failure. So how could starting yet another blog be a good, solid idea? I don't think it is.
I guess I've decided that I'm not going to interrupt anything that decides it's ready to come tumbling out of the mush upstairs, whether it be about baseball, anger, toilets, food, Lauren, whatever. And I'm not really sure why I dedicated three paragraphs to the delivery of this news, but hey. These are the malfunctions I speak of, my friends.
My friends. I am John McCain. You are all my friends. I will be referring to you as my friends each and every time I speak to "you", the public. "You" are my friends, fellow Americans. I'm really hoping that over time, I will make my way into your heart as your true friend because, after all, you wouldn't choose not to vote for your friend, right? It's my only shot at this upcoming election. Ok, it's me again...French. I don't claim to know very much at all about the upcoming election. My default I've watched the debates, partially. I know that I can't take Sarah Palin seriously, but not because she's a woman. I just don't particularly care for her. But I don't have any true conviction behind that. I know that McCain is lax on immigration and tends to like the way Iraq has been handled. And I know he's in favor of stem cell research. As for Obama, I know he also supports stem cell research. I know he wants our troops the fuck out of Iraq...he's pro-choice, pro-death penalty and big on education.
I agree with both candidates on certain issues. But I don't like how McCain constantly says "my friends". It makes me angry. Yes, I'm voting for Obama. But I swear it's not because of the "my friends" thing. I swear. And all those issues I listed in the above paragraph are things I just read about after googling "Obama/McCain platforms". Sue me.
I found this interesting this morning: I was driving back from dropping Lauren off at work and "Hypnotize" by Biggie came on the radio. The word "sex" was dubbed over, yet the word "ass" was not. What? Really? Is "sex" a bad word? I don't think so. Are we protecting the ears of our children from this word because we don't want them to have sex before a certain age? Right, I'm sure bleeping out the word "sex" in a Biggie song is helping. Ridiculous.
So where do I go from here? I've been finding it quite the grind just to simply string together some coherent thoughts, let alone get them on paper. Perhaps my brain is somewhat mushy, AG. But that happened long ago, like maybe on or around the 5th of July, 1979. I've considered starting a new blog about just baseball, but then I remember how much effort that would take and I'm immediately discouraged. And almost in the same breath, I remember that I just started a new blog about my daily frustrations. Two entries and one month later, I have come to grips with the fact that this new blog is a failure. So how could starting yet another blog be a good, solid idea? I don't think it is.
I guess I've decided that I'm not going to interrupt anything that decides it's ready to come tumbling out of the mush upstairs, whether it be about baseball, anger, toilets, food, Lauren, whatever. And I'm not really sure why I dedicated three paragraphs to the delivery of this news, but hey. These are the malfunctions I speak of, my friends.
My friends. I am John McCain. You are all my friends. I will be referring to you as my friends each and every time I speak to "you", the public. "You" are my friends, fellow Americans. I'm really hoping that over time, I will make my way into your heart as your true friend because, after all, you wouldn't choose not to vote for your friend, right? It's my only shot at this upcoming election. Ok, it's me again...French. I don't claim to know very much at all about the upcoming election. My default I've watched the debates, partially. I know that I can't take Sarah Palin seriously, but not because she's a woman. I just don't particularly care for her. But I don't have any true conviction behind that. I know that McCain is lax on immigration and tends to like the way Iraq has been handled. And I know he's in favor of stem cell research. As for Obama, I know he also supports stem cell research. I know he wants our troops the fuck out of Iraq...he's pro-choice, pro-death penalty and big on education.
I agree with both candidates on certain issues. But I don't like how McCain constantly says "my friends". It makes me angry. Yes, I'm voting for Obama. But I swear it's not because of the "my friends" thing. I swear. And all those issues I listed in the above paragraph are things I just read about after googling "Obama/McCain platforms". Sue me.
I found this interesting this morning: I was driving back from dropping Lauren off at work and "Hypnotize" by Biggie came on the radio. The word "sex" was dubbed over, yet the word "ass" was not. What? Really? Is "sex" a bad word? I don't think so. Are we protecting the ears of our children from this word because we don't want them to have sex before a certain age? Right, I'm sure bleeping out the word "sex" in a Biggie song is helping. Ridiculous.
08 October 2008
Issuance of Gag Order
I wrote this entry yesterday but lost it during the transfer of my laptop from house to coffee shop. I'm pissed because I know there was some stuff in there that I'm not capable of coming up with two days in a row, but who's to say that some new stuff won't spew out of me during this attempt at literary greatness? That's a rhetorical question.
John Lackey and Torii Hunter are frustrated with losing to the Red Sox. They're probably the only 2 Angels that can back up their verbal assaults of late, since both played very well in this series. Unfortunately, they didn't have the full compliment that they were accustomed to all season long as the Angels carved out the best record in baseball. For some reason, the rest of the Angels roster chose the worst possible time of year to play subpar baseball and for that, they'll be sitting at home watching another chapter of the Rays-Sox Choose Your Own Adventure. So relax John and Torii. Pop open a few suds, put your feet up and enjoy the ALCS. And please, shut the hell up.
Both Lackey and Hunter were quoted as saying that the better team didn't win this series and I beg to differ. I don't care what your team does in the regular season because once October hits and the clutter gets swept into anonymity, we're left with a new season and clean slates. The Angels won 5 more games than the Sox during the regular season, playing in arguably the weakest division in baseball. True, they lambasted the Red Sox in the season series but this just further proves that regular season baseball matters not when October hits. Both teams made the playoffs. End of story.
The better team plays better baseball when it matters. Looking inside the numbers of this series, the Angels were simply outplayed and outmanaged.
The Red Sox committed one error to the Angels three and if you remember, Jed Lowrie's error in Game 1 hurt at the time, but it was erased by an offensive comeback later in the game. The Angels weren't so lucky with their errors, as they all hurt and helped in determining the outcome of the games in which they were committed. Case in point: better teams overcome mistakes.
The Red Sox left 36 men on base in this series, including 16 that were in scoring position with 2 outs. The Angels left 43 men on and 21 with 2 out that were in scoring position. Case in point: better teams get it done with men on, men in scoring position and in clutch situations such as when there are 2 outs.
The Angels were ultimately plagued by several boneheaded plays in this series and that is not the mark of a better team. A lazy fly to center by Jacoby Ellsbury plates three runs because Torii Hunter and Howie Kendrick didn't call it. This is Hunter's fault entirely as it's the centerfielder's call on these types of balls. Either way, it was a huge mistake that playoff teams cannot afford to make if they expect to win. Ironically, the Angels ended up winning this game, but still. Vlad Guerrero's baserunning blunder was just plain ridiculous in Game 1. This from a veteran who should know better in tight situations, but it was a bad decision that cost them dearly. And finally the suicide squeeze attempt in Game 4 was perhaps the worst managerial decision of Mike Scoscia's tenure in Anaheim. You've got a guy in Aybar who won Game 3 for you. He's a contact hitter, up 2-0 in the count. Based on the first two offerings from Manny Delcarmen, one can only surmise that Francona and the Sox knew what was coming. Things like this are part of the reason why the Sox are back in the ALCS for the third time in five seasons. And the Angels are going home, again.
Lackey commented that Pedroia acted as if he did something good following his wall-ball double in Game 4 that plated Jason Varitek. He also remarked that this is an out in any other ballpark. Well John, this theory doesn't really hold any water in my book. You play to what the park gives you, and in Boston, that wall gives hitters another option as they know that sending a ball in the air to left leaves open the possibility of banging off the wall. Pedroia is a great pull hitter and he did what he had to do in that situation. He pumped his fist after reaching second because he did something good for the first time in that series and it couldn't have come at a better time. The Angels, on the other hand, were let down by the meat of their order except for Hunter. They couldn't produce when it mattered most. I'll give some credit to Mike Napoli who single-handedly beat Josh Beckett and the Sox in Game 3. Outside of that, it was an utter failure by a unit that came into this series as the scariest lineup in baseball. Not so scary now.
John Lackey and Torii Hunter are frustrated with losing to the Red Sox. They're probably the only 2 Angels that can back up their verbal assaults of late, since both played very well in this series. Unfortunately, they didn't have the full compliment that they were accustomed to all season long as the Angels carved out the best record in baseball. For some reason, the rest of the Angels roster chose the worst possible time of year to play subpar baseball and for that, they'll be sitting at home watching another chapter of the Rays-Sox Choose Your Own Adventure. So relax John and Torii. Pop open a few suds, put your feet up and enjoy the ALCS. And please, shut the hell up.
Both Lackey and Hunter were quoted as saying that the better team didn't win this series and I beg to differ. I don't care what your team does in the regular season because once October hits and the clutter gets swept into anonymity, we're left with a new season and clean slates. The Angels won 5 more games than the Sox during the regular season, playing in arguably the weakest division in baseball. True, they lambasted the Red Sox in the season series but this just further proves that regular season baseball matters not when October hits. Both teams made the playoffs. End of story.
The better team plays better baseball when it matters. Looking inside the numbers of this series, the Angels were simply outplayed and outmanaged.
The Red Sox committed one error to the Angels three and if you remember, Jed Lowrie's error in Game 1 hurt at the time, but it was erased by an offensive comeback later in the game. The Angels weren't so lucky with their errors, as they all hurt and helped in determining the outcome of the games in which they were committed. Case in point: better teams overcome mistakes.
The Red Sox left 36 men on base in this series, including 16 that were in scoring position with 2 outs. The Angels left 43 men on and 21 with 2 out that were in scoring position. Case in point: better teams get it done with men on, men in scoring position and in clutch situations such as when there are 2 outs.
The Angels were ultimately plagued by several boneheaded plays in this series and that is not the mark of a better team. A lazy fly to center by Jacoby Ellsbury plates three runs because Torii Hunter and Howie Kendrick didn't call it. This is Hunter's fault entirely as it's the centerfielder's call on these types of balls. Either way, it was a huge mistake that playoff teams cannot afford to make if they expect to win. Ironically, the Angels ended up winning this game, but still. Vlad Guerrero's baserunning blunder was just plain ridiculous in Game 1. This from a veteran who should know better in tight situations, but it was a bad decision that cost them dearly. And finally the suicide squeeze attempt in Game 4 was perhaps the worst managerial decision of Mike Scoscia's tenure in Anaheim. You've got a guy in Aybar who won Game 3 for you. He's a contact hitter, up 2-0 in the count. Based on the first two offerings from Manny Delcarmen, one can only surmise that Francona and the Sox knew what was coming. Things like this are part of the reason why the Sox are back in the ALCS for the third time in five seasons. And the Angels are going home, again.
Lackey commented that Pedroia acted as if he did something good following his wall-ball double in Game 4 that plated Jason Varitek. He also remarked that this is an out in any other ballpark. Well John, this theory doesn't really hold any water in my book. You play to what the park gives you, and in Boston, that wall gives hitters another option as they know that sending a ball in the air to left leaves open the possibility of banging off the wall. Pedroia is a great pull hitter and he did what he had to do in that situation. He pumped his fist after reaching second because he did something good for the first time in that series and it couldn't have come at a better time. The Angels, on the other hand, were let down by the meat of their order except for Hunter. They couldn't produce when it mattered most. I'll give some credit to Mike Napoli who single-handedly beat Josh Beckett and the Sox in Game 3. Outside of that, it was an utter failure by a unit that came into this series as the scariest lineup in baseball. Not so scary now.
26 September 2008
And?
Blood is red
Smurfs are blue
I've been a bit terse
What the hell's it to you?
I've received some complaints due to my lack of flow here on the ye olde blog. And to be quite frank, I really don't care. I haven't had anything that I care to write about as of late and that's a whole bunch-a fine, in my mind. A whole bunch-a fine.
Here's something for you to chew on...
http://thechuckwagonjournal.blogspot.com
Once again, this is the blog of my folks, Chuck and Kathy, who are currrently ensconced in a westward movement of epic proportions. They're having the time of their lives and as you'll read, they haven't once thought of killing each other over the course of the three months they've been travelling...methinks this a boldface lie, but hey. Who knows.
I promise to be more proactive on my blog. Jabroni.
Smurfs are blue
I've been a bit terse
What the hell's it to you?
I've received some complaints due to my lack of flow here on the ye olde blog. And to be quite frank, I really don't care. I haven't had anything that I care to write about as of late and that's a whole bunch-a fine, in my mind. A whole bunch-a fine.
Here's something for you to chew on...
http://thechuckwagonjournal.blogspot.com
Once again, this is the blog of my folks, Chuck and Kathy, who are currrently ensconced in a westward movement of epic proportions. They're having the time of their lives and as you'll read, they haven't once thought of killing each other over the course of the three months they've been travelling...methinks this a boldface lie, but hey. Who knows.
I promise to be more proactive on my blog. Jabroni.
11 September 2008
Something New
I started a new blog.
http://goaheadifuckingdareyou.blogspot.com/
I've decided that a lot of my colorful ranting about little things that really, really bother me deserve their own blog.
What you can expect: some questionable language. Well probably a lot of questionable language. If you're not one to take too kindly to a smattering of cuss words, go read http://thechuckwagonjournal.blogspot.com. Actually, do read this one. It's my parents' chronicle of their own cross country journey in real time...unlike mine. They're on day 10 right now and should be somewhere in Wyoming.
Inevitably, something gets under my skin each and every day. If you care to know what that might be on a given day, read this blog. Go ahead. I fucking dare you.
See what I did there?
http://goaheadifuckingdareyou.blogspot.com/
I've decided that a lot of my colorful ranting about little things that really, really bother me deserve their own blog.
What you can expect: some questionable language. Well probably a lot of questionable language. If you're not one to take too kindly to a smattering of cuss words, go read http://thechuckwagonjournal.blogspot.com. Actually, do read this one. It's my parents' chronicle of their own cross country journey in real time...unlike mine. They're on day 10 right now and should be somewhere in Wyoming.
Inevitably, something gets under my skin each and every day. If you care to know what that might be on a given day, read this blog. Go ahead. I fucking dare you.
See what I did there?
10 September 2008
What WILL They Think of Next?
Ever have those moments where you say that to yourself? I had one last night as I watched the new JJ Abrams drama, Fringe (hooked me instantly, by the way). It was a commercial for one of the newest diabetes monitors to hit the market and the come in 4 fashionable colors so you can personalize your diabetes. I had many thoughts flood my brain after this commercial. For one, I wish they had Wilford Brimley do this ad. "Check your blood sugar; check it often. And pimp your diabetes monitor; pimp it hard. You have diabetes...there's just no reason for you to not be cool and have diabetes." I wonder if they'll come out with covers for the monitors so you can be moody with it. Don't want your monitor to be blue today? Fine, use the black cover. Or the yellow one. You have options...you may have diabetes, but you have options with your monitor and its color. Don't let diabetes run your life, and don't let your diabetes monitor leave you in a fashion conundrum. There's just no reason not to have a cool diabetes monitor.
Why have we not seen the pimped out wheelchair or motorized scooter yet? With all the shootings we hear about on the news and all the gang-related shit out here in LA, there's got to be a market for wheelchairs with 36" rims and spinners to boot. What about a lowrider wheelchair? Or one with fucking hydraulics?? So you can't walk, fuck it. Blast Dre and bump down that sidewalk. I know someone could make money doing this. Could give new meaning to the term 'ambulance chaser'...not just for lawyers anymore.
I also don't feel like we're doing enough with the keychain. People of the 80's had some serious issues with the janitor-style keychain...unless this was only a symptom of my aunt Joanie and her daughters. I recall shit like bandannas on there, like forty-six some-odd keys of various uses, a few mini, stuffed cats, a Vegas-themed thing and some other shit. Nowadays, the keychain is reserved for cards that link us to various clubs. CVS. Stop & Shop or Ralph's or whatever your local grocer is. The gym. Petco. What have you. Most people have a car device on there that locks and unlocks. My dad has always been a proponent of the mini Swiss Army knife on his and I think this is one of the best ideas ever. You have a small blade, a file, a screwdriver and a toothpick at all times. Beauty. But this is what I mean...shouldn't we be taking greater advantage of the one part of us that never leave home without? Shouldn't there be an iPod that hooks to our keys? It would have to be tiny like the Shuffle, of course. I'm always wishing I had tic tacs, but I know if those bastards made a container that attached to my keychain, I'd buy them more often. Same with gum. I don't know, it just seems like we need more from our keychains.
Wow, a remake of Tainted Love just came on in Coffee Bean. It's one I haven't heard yet and it's pretty nice. Anyone know who this might be? On other musical fronts, I'm due some congratulatory remarks on account of finally downloading iTunes to my laptop. I no longer have to screw up my lady's iTunes with my devil music.
Why have we not seen the pimped out wheelchair or motorized scooter yet? With all the shootings we hear about on the news and all the gang-related shit out here in LA, there's got to be a market for wheelchairs with 36" rims and spinners to boot. What about a lowrider wheelchair? Or one with fucking hydraulics?? So you can't walk, fuck it. Blast Dre and bump down that sidewalk. I know someone could make money doing this. Could give new meaning to the term 'ambulance chaser'...not just for lawyers anymore.
I also don't feel like we're doing enough with the keychain. People of the 80's had some serious issues with the janitor-style keychain...unless this was only a symptom of my aunt Joanie and her daughters. I recall shit like bandannas on there, like forty-six some-odd keys of various uses, a few mini, stuffed cats, a Vegas-themed thing and some other shit. Nowadays, the keychain is reserved for cards that link us to various clubs. CVS. Stop & Shop or Ralph's or whatever your local grocer is. The gym. Petco. What have you. Most people have a car device on there that locks and unlocks. My dad has always been a proponent of the mini Swiss Army knife on his and I think this is one of the best ideas ever. You have a small blade, a file, a screwdriver and a toothpick at all times. Beauty. But this is what I mean...shouldn't we be taking greater advantage of the one part of us that never leave home without? Shouldn't there be an iPod that hooks to our keys? It would have to be tiny like the Shuffle, of course. I'm always wishing I had tic tacs, but I know if those bastards made a container that attached to my keychain, I'd buy them more often. Same with gum. I don't know, it just seems like we need more from our keychains.
Wow, a remake of Tainted Love just came on in Coffee Bean. It's one I haven't heard yet and it's pretty nice. Anyone know who this might be? On other musical fronts, I'm due some congratulatory remarks on account of finally downloading iTunes to my laptop. I no longer have to screw up my lady's iTunes with my devil music.
08 September 2008
A Very Brady Sequel
Blog world is quiet thus far...quiet for the Monday following a potential career-ending injury to Tom Terrific. Although now, he's more like Tom Troubled, or Tom Too Bad. I'm not trying to make light of this in any way, shape or form but I will say this: I am so thankful that I am not in the city of Boston right now.
I've been chatting with a few of the guys I used to work with in Boston and all reports are the same: people are totally out of it today. Women have shed tears, men are pissed off and little babies are spitting up all over their #12 bibs. I get it, I do. He's the face of the franchise and the face of the NFL, for all intents and purposes. He absorbed what many are alleging to be a cheap shot and from what I know as of right this second (which equates to little more than zilch), he's probably mangled his ACL/MCS/knee thing-a-majig.
The response out here is something I never thought I'd see as a Patriot fan. People actually laughed at the news report during the early games yesterday. You see, it's funny to outsiders who see the Patriot conglomerate/juggernaut as merely a black mark on the league due to the bullshit with Spygate or whatever you want to call it. Apparently this injury to the formerly Favre-esque Brady is payback...a little karma action, as Earl might contend. My question is, how are Pat fans panicking at this point? Isn't there some pretty pertinent precedent here? Didn't we all shake in our shoes collectively when Mo Lewis all but decapitated Drew Bledsoe back in 2001? Yeah, we did. Now we're here, without even the slightest aftertaste of Bledsoe bitterness and two rings...not to mention a perfect regular season. Wait a second here...what's really at work?
The Patriots manage to blow a perfect season at the hands of the (gulp) Eli Manning-lead New York (gasp!) Giants, finishing a deplorable 18-1*. Hilarious, right? Yeah, ok. But this happens in the wake of this taping scandal and suddenly black clouds start to roll in on this once marveled and oft admired picture of hard work and coaching. Belichick is a bozo, a cheat. Now the Pats are the Evil Empire of the NFL and they have haters in more places than the Sox have fans across the globe. And now, in the first quarter of the first game of the 2008 season, the poster boy of all poster boys goes down with a career-threatening knee injury. Gene Upshaw is rolling over in his grave (whatever that means...what does that mean? Rolling over? Not banging his fists? Spewing cuss words all over? Crossing him arms and pouting?). I find the timing of all this to be very, very interesting.
How insane would it be if the Jets are now captained to the AFC crown by Brett fucking Favre? Is this a joke, people? The Jets are suddenly looking pretty damn good to contend for the division, like it or not. I still tend to believe that the Patriots will win it, seeing as though Tony Eason could probably win the AFC East with the likes of Moss, Welker, that O-line and that D-line. Cassel will be fine if they don't do something ridiculous and hand things over to a Chris Simms or Tim Rattay. Look at this scenario for a second. Cassel is a huge man with a big arm and a brain. He knows the system as well as Brady if not better and now he's in charge. If he's given some time to sit in the pocket and do what good pocket passers do, Moss will have another 20 TD grabs and the Patriots will win 11 or 12 games and be back in the playoffs. But you have to be intrigued by the possibility of the Favre Jets to be there in January. He's slingin' it again...in case you missed the 4th-and-13 that he willed into the arms of one of his receivers to basically win the game. How long until the Madden 2009 covers are all reproduced with Favre in a Jet jersey? Make the originals collectors items and sell new ones with him on the cover as a Jet. It'll be a new Madden curse, only this time it will involve a seemingly washed up, wily veteran who will retire, then unretire, and take his team to the promised land. Madden 2010 will feature Warren Moon, who will unretire to lead the QB-desperate Chiefs back to glory.
I've been chatting with a few of the guys I used to work with in Boston and all reports are the same: people are totally out of it today. Women have shed tears, men are pissed off and little babies are spitting up all over their #12 bibs. I get it, I do. He's the face of the franchise and the face of the NFL, for all intents and purposes. He absorbed what many are alleging to be a cheap shot and from what I know as of right this second (which equates to little more than zilch), he's probably mangled his ACL/MCS/knee thing-a-majig.
The response out here is something I never thought I'd see as a Patriot fan. People actually laughed at the news report during the early games yesterday. You see, it's funny to outsiders who see the Patriot conglomerate/juggernaut as merely a black mark on the league due to the bullshit with Spygate or whatever you want to call it. Apparently this injury to the formerly Favre-esque Brady is payback...a little karma action, as Earl might contend. My question is, how are Pat fans panicking at this point? Isn't there some pretty pertinent precedent here? Didn't we all shake in our shoes collectively when Mo Lewis all but decapitated Drew Bledsoe back in 2001? Yeah, we did. Now we're here, without even the slightest aftertaste of Bledsoe bitterness and two rings...not to mention a perfect regular season. Wait a second here...what's really at work?
The Patriots manage to blow a perfect season at the hands of the (gulp) Eli Manning-lead New York (gasp!) Giants, finishing a deplorable 18-1*. Hilarious, right? Yeah, ok. But this happens in the wake of this taping scandal and suddenly black clouds start to roll in on this once marveled and oft admired picture of hard work and coaching. Belichick is a bozo, a cheat. Now the Pats are the Evil Empire of the NFL and they have haters in more places than the Sox have fans across the globe. And now, in the first quarter of the first game of the 2008 season, the poster boy of all poster boys goes down with a career-threatening knee injury. Gene Upshaw is rolling over in his grave (whatever that means...what does that mean? Rolling over? Not banging his fists? Spewing cuss words all over? Crossing him arms and pouting?). I find the timing of all this to be very, very interesting.
How insane would it be if the Jets are now captained to the AFC crown by Brett fucking Favre? Is this a joke, people? The Jets are suddenly looking pretty damn good to contend for the division, like it or not. I still tend to believe that the Patriots will win it, seeing as though Tony Eason could probably win the AFC East with the likes of Moss, Welker, that O-line and that D-line. Cassel will be fine if they don't do something ridiculous and hand things over to a Chris Simms or Tim Rattay. Look at this scenario for a second. Cassel is a huge man with a big arm and a brain. He knows the system as well as Brady if not better and now he's in charge. If he's given some time to sit in the pocket and do what good pocket passers do, Moss will have another 20 TD grabs and the Patriots will win 11 or 12 games and be back in the playoffs. But you have to be intrigued by the possibility of the Favre Jets to be there in January. He's slingin' it again...in case you missed the 4th-and-13 that he willed into the arms of one of his receivers to basically win the game. How long until the Madden 2009 covers are all reproduced with Favre in a Jet jersey? Make the originals collectors items and sell new ones with him on the cover as a Jet. It'll be a new Madden curse, only this time it will involve a seemingly washed up, wily veteran who will retire, then unretire, and take his team to the promised land. Madden 2010 will feature Warren Moon, who will unretire to lead the QB-desperate Chiefs back to glory.
06 September 2008
Final Destination
Stage VI, Parts II & III
We departed San Francisco with slightly heavy hearts, as we could not stay in this wonderful city any longer. But we'll be back. We would our way down to Santa Cruz and the home of the banana slugs...also known to Lauren as home for a few years of college. I don't know why anyone would want to attend college anywhere else other than the University of California at Santa Cruz. Campus lends itself to a national forest which happens to border the ocean. Come on. COME ON.
We walked amongst the girthy sequioas and under the circling hawks that protect the campus. I felt a sense of peace about the place as we trapsed about the campus...Lauren told me about the system of grading without actual letter grades and about the regularity of hippies that attend the school. I could only imagine how this place is a veritable haven for pot smokers of the collegiate age, given the natural beauty of the campus and the feeling like you're in some protective community where anything goes and nothing goes beyond the gates of the campus.
Anyway, please enjoy some more of my lovely Lauren's photo journalism, Santa Cruz and Gilroy style.
Cowell College...one of the eight or nine colleges that are a part of the system at UCSC and the college that Lauren attended while she was there. Cowell is the Liberal Arts college and it overlooks the ocean, as you can see here. You know, maybe I'll just go back to school at UCSC and start over. It's not like I learned anything from my 5 years at UMass, anyway. 
Expansive fields on which one can play various sports and the backdrop is, as I may have mentioned, the ocean. Pretty sweet deal.
More from the fields o'er the ocean.
And finally, the Gilroy Garlic Festival. Without expectations, this place blew our minds. Who knew that a celebration of garlic could produce such a mass of food and shit to see. We should have come earlier and spent the entire day, but we didn't know what we were coming into. Instead, we spent a few hours here in Gilroy, we ate jalapeno poppers, garlic ice cream, garlic potato chips, buffalo wings and...beer. We drank some beers which tasted glorious in the 98 degree heat. We took this photo in front of a giant, burning clove of garlic. We then returned to our vehicle for the remaining 4.5 hours of driving that would land us in Los Angeles to find that some dipshit had left the passenger's side window down. Yes, with all of my belongings atop the car, in the car and about the car as well as Lauren's bag, wallet, cell phone and my cell phone, iPod, GPS, etc etc etc...I left the passenger's window open. For three some odd hours. Amongst a slew of garlic-seeking stragglers from all over. It could have been a disastrous climax to a long and arduous journey of 4000 miles, but no one took our stuff. They probably walked by and figured, hey, why fuck over someone who stinks of garlic and beer? 
I almost forgot...Bowen, we did happen upon a banana slug, seen here on his laptop. He was too busy to take a picture with us...turns out he was spoofing the biographical Tupac movie with a version of his own called "Slug Life". He was surpisingly trendy with his D&G shades and Uggz knockoffs...yeah, called Sluggz. Ripoffs. But apparently they do indeed exist and they are intelligent creatures. They just don't care to take photographs with humans.
05 September 2008
Stage VI, Part One
Our last leg of the trip...finally. In my opinion this was the best leg simply because of all the stuff we got to do/see/eat/smell. Here's how it went:
Part I: downtown San Francisco. Awesome city. It's widely known that Bostonians love San Francisco and I guess I now know why. You get some of the same feels, only over a much grander sprawl. Unfortunately for us, we were only in the city for a handful of awake hours so our exposure was quite limited. But I'd say that we made the best use of our time that was possible. Enjoy.
Bay Bridge from the car. 
AT&T Park, Home of the San Francisco Giants.
More AT&T...
...and one more...AT&T & Me. Aesthetically, this is a beautiful park. I've always been a jealous fan of McCovey Cove. I want to blast an opposite field homer into the ocean, don't you?
Dottie's Cafe on Geary St. Place is UNREAL. We had the pleasure of sitting at the countertop, due to the fact that we were in line at 7:10am for a 7:30 opening. We watched the grillmaster/owner flip flapjacks, spin out omelettes and scrambles, hash out the potatoes and poach eggs for benedicts. It was awesome, the food was insanely good and I even admitted that the dude made a better scramble than I do. Listen, you can't fuck with my breakfast prowess. I'll spin you off a scramble with spinach, mushrooms, shrimp, goat cheese and hot sauce that'll have you singing my name all the way to bottom of your plate. I digress...Dottie's is a MUST GO if you're in San Fran. I recommend the smoked trout scramble.
Financial District
Golden Gate Bridge
Me and Lauren at the park that precedes the wharf. You can't see them in the photo, but Danny Tanner is behind us, picnicking with Michelle and DJ. Stephanie couldn't make it because she was on the phone with a boy. How rude.
The start of the wharf with the Bay Bridge in the backdrop.Part's II and II of the Final Stage are to follow very shortly, so check back if you have any interest in seeing UC Santa Cruz or a lovely photo from the Gilroy Garlic Festival.
03 September 2008
Red Means Stop, Green Means Go. Yellow Means...
Please enjoy the following account for how my brain reacts to seeing a traffic light turn yellow as I approach an intersection.
Light is green, brain is set to easy, comfy mode. Foot remains lightly pressed on the gas pedal, speed in maintained, passenger (Lauren) in a stationary and apparently content state.
Light turns yellow, brain immediately pukes out a command to my right foot to jerkedly depress the brake in one, quick motion. Speed drops considerably, car jolts a bit, passenger jerks forward then back, looks considerably annoyed and kinda pissed.
Light remains yellow, just a split second after it turned at this point. Brain flip flops, pukes out another genius command to jam on the gas. Speed increases significantly, car jolts a lot and passenger's head hits the headrest rather impactfully. Passenger totally pissed, starts to offer audible complaints/barbs in my direction.
Light turns red as car approaches intersection, brain sends final command to foot to apply enough pressure to the brake pedal to break human bones if they were underneath. Car comes to a screeching halt, passenger jerks forward with great force, settles back into seat and begins to shower me with insults and more barbs, asks what the hell is wrong with me.
I don't know why this happens every time I see yellow light.
Light is green, brain is set to easy, comfy mode. Foot remains lightly pressed on the gas pedal, speed in maintained, passenger (Lauren) in a stationary and apparently content state.
Light turns yellow, brain immediately pukes out a command to my right foot to jerkedly depress the brake in one, quick motion. Speed drops considerably, car jolts a bit, passenger jerks forward then back, looks considerably annoyed and kinda pissed.
Light remains yellow, just a split second after it turned at this point. Brain flip flops, pukes out another genius command to jam on the gas. Speed increases significantly, car jolts a lot and passenger's head hits the headrest rather impactfully. Passenger totally pissed, starts to offer audible complaints/barbs in my direction.
Light turns red as car approaches intersection, brain sends final command to foot to apply enough pressure to the brake pedal to break human bones if they were underneath. Car comes to a screeching halt, passenger jerks forward with great force, settles back into seat and begins to shower me with insults and more barbs, asks what the hell is wrong with me.
I don't know why this happens every time I see yellow light.
02 September 2008
Overheard
This is unreal. I'm sitting here at Kinko's in Santa Monica and currently, this is what I'm overhearing. I'm trying to keep up with this one-sided phone conversation. But I'm laughing so hard that it's extremely difficult. Incorporate about a 10 second pause between each statement you read.
"David Hansen told me that his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen had a party thirty years ago that I went to with Mark Jackson. There was alcohol there but I didn't drink any of it."
"It was David Hansen's party. It was here that David Hansen told me his father is Jewish. There was a lot of alcohol there but I didn't have any. You can ask Mark Jackson, I bet he'd tell you."
"I went to Westminster Elementary with Mark Jackson. We've been friends for thirty years. Westminster Elementary is on Abbot Kinney and some other street. But I went to a party at David Hansen's with Mark Jackson many, many years ago and there was a lot of alcohol there. I didn't have any alcohol though. You can probably call Mark Jackson and ask him."
"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen had a party in Santa Monica that I went to with Mark Jackson. I didn't know whose party it was until I got there, but once I got there I learned it was David Hansen's house. David Hansen had the party and there a bunch of kids from Santa Monica High School there, drinking alcohol. I didn't drink alcohol there, though. Mark Jackson will tell you that if you call him."
"I saw David Hansen on the 3rd St. Promenade and he told me that his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."
I can't keep up with this anymore. It's too much. Who is this guy talking to? He sounds like a fucking parrot, for Pete's sake. David Hansen's father is Jewish. He told me that. David Hansen told me that. I didn't drink any alcohol at David Hansen's party. You can ask Mark Jackson.
"David Hansen told me that his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen had a party thirty years ago that I went to with Mark Jackson. There was alcohol there but I didn't drink any of it."
"It was David Hansen's party. It was here that David Hansen told me his father is Jewish. There was a lot of alcohol there but I didn't have any. You can ask Mark Jackson, I bet he'd tell you."
"I went to Westminster Elementary with Mark Jackson. We've been friends for thirty years. Westminster Elementary is on Abbot Kinney and some other street. But I went to a party at David Hansen's with Mark Jackson many, many years ago and there was a lot of alcohol there. I didn't have any alcohol though. You can probably call Mark Jackson and ask him."
"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen had a party in Santa Monica that I went to with Mark Jackson. I didn't know whose party it was until I got there, but once I got there I learned it was David Hansen's house. David Hansen had the party and there a bunch of kids from Santa Monica High School there, drinking alcohol. I didn't drink alcohol there, though. Mark Jackson will tell you that if you call him."
"I saw David Hansen on the 3rd St. Promenade and he told me that his father is Jewish."
"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."
I can't keep up with this anymore. It's too much. Who is this guy talking to? He sounds like a fucking parrot, for Pete's sake. David Hansen's father is Jewish. He told me that. David Hansen told me that. I didn't drink any alcohol at David Hansen's party. You can ask Mark Jackson.
26 August 2008
Park City, Utah
Stage V: Park City, UT
Here's the long and the short of it:
Long was the drive to Park City, short was our stay. More of a true winter resort ONLY, we arrived at the deserted Canyons Resort in Park City late in the afternoon on Thursday, July 23rd. And for the first time on our journey, Hotwire failed us. There was no reservation at the resort under either name so we had no room at first. After an hour or so at the front desk things were cleared up and we had our room. It's amazing how little fight I had in me following 2100 miles of driving prior to landing in Park City. As much as I wanted to lay into the Hotwire rep for embarrassing me at the front desk at the resort, I just didn't have it in me. Sure, I wanted free shit as a result of the mishap. I wanted a deal, man. We booked every room on that trip with those fuckers, they owed us. But I was subdued by my fatigue and yearning for a square meal.
The greatest part of this stop was the tub in our hotel room. I can't tell you how much we valued the jacuzzi-style, giant bath tub that lay waiting for us in the bathroom. So following a suprisingly elegant and gourmet dinner (Lauren had a nice piece of tuna and I had a game bird meatloaf sandwich...tremendous), we relegated ourselves to the confines of this tub and sort of just melted into it. Our bones were tired as we made a lifeless human stew. After our glorious soak, we had all we could do to climb into bed and rest our heads. Sleep came quickly, but not as quickly as 5am. Friday would be our longest day of driving, through the deplorable wasteland that is Nevada and ultimately over the border into California, landing in San Francisco.
I wish I had more to say about Park City but like I said, this stop on the tour was much more of a rejuventing rest (all be it a short one) than anything else. Plus, as I mentioned, there wasn't SHIT to do up there. Alas, there are photos.
The Canyons Resort, Park City, UT. Here's where you valet your car for free, but then pay $18 for the garage. I guess this is more acceptable than the $49 charge for parking in Chicago and San Francisco. I should mention that at 5am, it was only about 55 degrees in Park City. The lowest temperature we encountered on the trip was 48 degrees as we wound through the Rockies. Conversely, the highest temp was 104 degrees in beautiful Fort Hays, KS. That was recorded about three hours before the 48 degree reading, marking a 56 degree change over a three hour span. I was very excited about this.
Here's the long and the short of it:
Long was the drive to Park City, short was our stay. More of a true winter resort ONLY, we arrived at the deserted Canyons Resort in Park City late in the afternoon on Thursday, July 23rd. And for the first time on our journey, Hotwire failed us. There was no reservation at the resort under either name so we had no room at first. After an hour or so at the front desk things were cleared up and we had our room. It's amazing how little fight I had in me following 2100 miles of driving prior to landing in Park City. As much as I wanted to lay into the Hotwire rep for embarrassing me at the front desk at the resort, I just didn't have it in me. Sure, I wanted free shit as a result of the mishap. I wanted a deal, man. We booked every room on that trip with those fuckers, they owed us. But I was subdued by my fatigue and yearning for a square meal.
The greatest part of this stop was the tub in our hotel room. I can't tell you how much we valued the jacuzzi-style, giant bath tub that lay waiting for us in the bathroom. So following a suprisingly elegant and gourmet dinner (Lauren had a nice piece of tuna and I had a game bird meatloaf sandwich...tremendous), we relegated ourselves to the confines of this tub and sort of just melted into it. Our bones were tired as we made a lifeless human stew. After our glorious soak, we had all we could do to climb into bed and rest our heads. Sleep came quickly, but not as quickly as 5am. Friday would be our longest day of driving, through the deplorable wasteland that is Nevada and ultimately over the border into California, landing in San Francisco.
I wish I had more to say about Park City but like I said, this stop on the tour was much more of a rejuventing rest (all be it a short one) than anything else. Plus, as I mentioned, there wasn't SHIT to do up there. Alas, there are photos.
The Canyons Resort, Park City, UT. Here's where you valet your car for free, but then pay $18 for the garage. I guess this is more acceptable than the $49 charge for parking in Chicago and San Francisco. I should mention that at 5am, it was only about 55 degrees in Park City. The lowest temperature we encountered on the trip was 48 degrees as we wound through the Rockies. Conversely, the highest temp was 104 degrees in beautiful Fort Hays, KS. That was recorded about three hours before the 48 degree reading, marking a 56 degree change over a three hour span. I was very excited about this.
The gondola, which had taken the night off on Thursday. Had we more time, we could have taken this bitch to the top of the mountain and had lunch for a mere $40 a person. And I'm pretty sure the lunch was pb&j's. Hey, it's all about the views, man. The views. Look at that sun rise.
This is kind of a shitty photo...one that I took, undoubtedly. I believe this to be our resort from afar with the mountain behind it. Yes, that mountainous, cone-shaped mass behind the resort is in fact a mountain.
Sunrise in Park City...
And finally, Chad and Lauren, pre-coffee at 5:30am as we prepare to depart Park City. She looks cute at this time of day. I look like a fucking idiot.
And the final stage of the trip shall follow shortly.
25 August 2008
To Know A Vail
Stage IV: Vail, Colorado
I know, I should have wrapped up this trip wrap-up long ago. It's not like I'm pressed for time to write out here.
To me, the last two legs of the trip offered some of the best and some of the worst of our journey. The 500 miles or so between Lawrence, KS and Vail, CO presented the most boring, mentally challenging stretch of drive that I ever hope to encounter. In fact, I can't imagine a more monotonous ride than that, except maybe 98% of Canada by car. There is nothing- and I repeat: NOTHING- between Lawrence and eastern Colorado. I had to check my sanity several times as Lauren snoozed away comfortably in the passenger's seat, never having noticed my newly created imaginary friend Dierks, a miniature dodo bird who liked to entertain. I discarded him just outside of Denver, when his services were no longer in demand. I wish him well.
I will say that the trek across Kansas became well worth it as we wound our way through a suburb of Denver in search of dinner, aka Buffalo Wild Wings. Aside from the abdominal failure that I experienced halfway through our meal (side note here: BWW was redoing one of the bathrooms at the time and therefore, it had to be shared between the sexes. Upon my exit from said bathroom, a woman sat in waiting with a look of fear on her face. I can't say I blame her.) we enjoyed our feast of bird. They let us try all all the flavors by way of a true pallet of sauce and while the Blazin' beat my ass pretty good, we loved their medium hot sauce and thus purchased a bottle to go. Also well worth it? Seeing the Rockies for the first time, and by that I don't mean the Coors Field Nine. I felt like a little boy when those fuckers finally peaked over the horizon and introduced themselves.
I have more of a pictorial theme for this particular stage, chiefly because of the sheer beauty of Vail, Colorado and the majesty of the Rocky Mountains. Please enjoy my lovely girlfriend's photography and further French commentary on the scenery.
This is where one might buy a lift ticket (imagine!!) in the winter. Picture lots of people in hats and scarves, some with poles even. I hear people like to ski here when it snows.
For some reason I was overly excited about these tunnels that burrow through the mountains. To me, there's nothing like a highway that digs right into the base of a mountain and carries you right through to the other side. Ahh, the marvels of human evolution and the DPW. 
More from the streets of the village...
Still to come: Park City, San Francisco, Santa Cruz and the Gilroy Garlic Festival.
I know, I should have wrapped up this trip wrap-up long ago. It's not like I'm pressed for time to write out here.
To me, the last two legs of the trip offered some of the best and some of the worst of our journey. The 500 miles or so between Lawrence, KS and Vail, CO presented the most boring, mentally challenging stretch of drive that I ever hope to encounter. In fact, I can't imagine a more monotonous ride than that, except maybe 98% of Canada by car. There is nothing- and I repeat: NOTHING- between Lawrence and eastern Colorado. I had to check my sanity several times as Lauren snoozed away comfortably in the passenger's seat, never having noticed my newly created imaginary friend Dierks, a miniature dodo bird who liked to entertain. I discarded him just outside of Denver, when his services were no longer in demand. I wish him well.
I will say that the trek across Kansas became well worth it as we wound our way through a suburb of Denver in search of dinner, aka Buffalo Wild Wings. Aside from the abdominal failure that I experienced halfway through our meal (side note here: BWW was redoing one of the bathrooms at the time and therefore, it had to be shared between the sexes. Upon my exit from said bathroom, a woman sat in waiting with a look of fear on her face. I can't say I blame her.) we enjoyed our feast of bird. They let us try all all the flavors by way of a true pallet of sauce and while the Blazin' beat my ass pretty good, we loved their medium hot sauce and thus purchased a bottle to go. Also well worth it? Seeing the Rockies for the first time, and by that I don't mean the Coors Field Nine. I felt like a little boy when those fuckers finally peaked over the horizon and introduced themselves.
I have more of a pictorial theme for this particular stage, chiefly because of the sheer beauty of Vail, Colorado and the majesty of the Rocky Mountains. Please enjoy my lovely girlfriend's photography and further French commentary on the scenery.
This is where one might buy a lift ticket (imagine!!) in the winter. Picture lots of people in hats and scarves, some with poles even. I hear people like to ski here when it snows. 
Mickey's Piano Bar inside The Lodge at Vail. Mickey owns the bar and still plays here every night, as he's been doing for thirty years. Seeing as Lauren and I were the only couple under 50 in this place, he took a liking to us and made the night we spent there very enjoyable. He played me some Scott Joplin which was awesome and he took a few other requests from us as well. The only thing I regret is mixing scotch, beer and gin over the course of the 3 hours we spent there. I paid dearly for that one the next day.
Mountains n'avec pas le neige.
And mountains avec le neige.
For some reason I was overly excited about these tunnels that burrow through the mountains. To me, there's nothing like a highway that digs right into the base of a mountain and carries you right through to the other side. Ahh, the marvels of human evolution and the DPW. 
The first shot of the village at Vail, but notice how Lauren captured the flight of this hawk just before he dives below the horizon. Elusive he tried to be but ohh, the crafty hawk was outsmarted on this day.
More from the streets of the village...
The one shot I took.
Still to come: Park City, San Francisco, Santa Cruz and the Gilroy Garlic Festival.
15 August 2008
Que, Si?
Stage III: Kansas City, MO/Lawrence, KS
Ahh yes, the halfway point of the trip. Chicago to Kansas City is roughly another 500 miles through the rest of Illinois and then the length of Missouri. One stop in Mexico, MO for gas and a McDonald's sundae/grilled chicken sandwich (the only McD's stop on the trip mind you...Subway, as I mentioned, was our provision of choice). Missouri provided Lauren and with our first glimpse of the mightly Mississippi River (seen below).
Sure, these are taken from a moving vehicle but all things considered, the quality is right there.
We arrived in downtown KC late Tuesday afternoon and I put in the call to a one James Hammen. We agreed that he would pick us up at the hotel and take us on a mini tour of the city (also known as the direct route to the restaurant) and eventually to dinner where Alex would meet us after class. Let it be known that upon entering Jimbo's blue Element, the iPod mounted on the dash was playing Zeppelin's Going to California. And it was apparently purely coincidental. This is the stuff that dreams are made of, my friends.
Shortly thereafter, we (me, Lauren, Hammen and Alex) would be sitting in Manny's Mexican Restaurant drinking Corona's, margueritas and sampling the diablo sauce that was reported to be very hot. It was not, but I did encounter an internal battle the next day due to excessive consumption of el diablo. Anyway, aside from getting cozy with el diablo at Manny's, I also learned of Hammen's blatant fear of tequila. I brought two shots of Patron back to the table at one point and I got the Hammen Heisman...he deferred to Alex. Just pointing this out is all.
So we wrapped up at Manny's and decided that Lauren and I needed to see Lawrence the next day. Breakfast in downtown Lawrence was a real treat, at Milton's Cafe. Really good stuff. I had a particular appreciation for the self-service coffee bar. all for $1. Nothing like small town prices, either. We loved Lawrence. It would have been a great place to go to college, as the town itself was really cool. Interesting shops (that we couldn't go into because it was ass early) and a Jimmy John's that apparently gives out free sub samples on occasion. Let it also be noted that throughout the outdoor breakfast we enjoyed, there sat a box of Jimmy John's loaves on a bench adjacent to our table. Just pointing that out. Here's us at Milton's.
So we concluded this leg of the trip with an escorted ride to KU (thanks Alex), where we would shop the bookstore for a long time. That place is huge, by the way and how one can choose a single t-shirt to purchase is beyond me. I eventually did, and Lauren found some sweet red shorts with 'Rock Chalk' across the ass. Very nice.
Thanks for Hammen and Alex for a great time in Kansas. Unfortunately Lawrence is the only good thing about Kansas, as you'll learn when I post about stage IV of the trip...Western Kansas to Vail, Colorado. Little place called Fort Hays, KS in the western part of the state...place I'll never forget.
14 August 2008
LA King
Read this: http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/columns/story?columnist=stark_jayson&page=rumblings
I'm not quite sure what to make of the whole thing, really. I was a Manny apologist for a long time, along with a lot of friends and some family members. It's hard not to be when talking about not only the best player on your town's team but arguably one of the best players to ever don the Boston uniform. I once wrote into Gordon Edes of the Boston Globe (one of my favorite sports writers along with the aforelinked Stark) suggesting that Manny is one of the top three right-handed hitters of all-time in the history of baseball. It's not that big of a stretch to lump him in that category, really. Back then I didn't care about all the antics that came along with having Manny Ramirez on the Sox roster. I guess I kind of care now.
I read this article and I too wonder about the makeup of Dodger fans. Don't get me wrong, I think it's fantastic that they are now poised to take the NL West and return some sense of pride to this city that hasn't been realized since the days of Gibby. 20 years is tough, I know. Try 86 on for size. I also know for a fact that there are some diehard Dodger fans who love the game, continue to support their boys year in and year out and those people, some of whom I've conversed with at the gym, aren't applauding Manny and his suddenly workmanlike ways in Dodger blue. They're wowing Jason Bay and Kevin Youkilis for "existing without Manny". Interesting. Your Dodgers are rejuvenated, playing great ball and most importantly, in first. You probably should be saying things like "thanks for Manny", or "think the Sox will be fine without Manny?" It's nice to not hear those types of questions, because the Sox are fine without Manny and Boston is better off.
Maybe Kevin Youkilis isn't doing anything new, because he's not. In Youkilis, the Sox have a guy who cares more about one, single swinging strike than Manny ever cared about an entire season of baseball. Youkilis may be a pain in the ass in terms of his emotions and dramas on the field, but it's merely because he loves to play, hates to lose and more importantly, LOVES to win. I'm not sure Manny ever cared about losing. I know that Manny had some kind of problem with Youkilis, displaying some his ability to slap a man with a backhand much like the famed "bitchslap" we've all come to know. Impressive. And from what I know of that situation (hearsay, mind you) it had to do with Youkilis getting on Manny a little bit for not caring enough and Manny felt as though Youk perhaps was taking a game scenario a little too seriously. Case in point. Doesn't every game count? A loss in May could very well come back to haunt a team in the playoff hunt in late September just as easily as a loss in...well...late September. They all matter in some regard.
I tend to wonder how D Lowe, Nomar and others in LA that have worn the navy and red cap in the Fens feel about having Manny back on a common roster. Nomar and D Lowe both alluded to him being a great hitter and a powerful presence in any lineup. True. I will never discount Manny's ability to change the face of a team, a game or a season for that matter. He's one of the greatest hitters of all time and apparently he works harder off the field than most. He likes to keep that under his cap for whatever reason. I guess I'll give Manny credit for not caring what anyone thinks of him. Clearly he couldn't have cared less about the feelings of others in Boston. Reportedly, 24 of 25 Sox on the Manny-included roster thought it was time to go. The one who didn't? Not surprisingly David Ortiz, his best friend.
I don't know about you, but I'm happy about the Jason Bay era in Boston. Through the looking glass that is my laptop and Sportscenter, he looks like a likable guy. He hits, he fields and all fingers point to him being a good clubhouse guy. Plus, he's 29. Of course you lose something in terms of power and production but I'm willing to bet that it turns out to be minimal at worst, especially when you take into account that an unhappy Manny in Boston was often times an unproductive and cancerous Manny. As the season trudges on, the Sox making the playoffs won't be about just Jason Bay's bat, or Jon Lester's arm or Jacoby Ellsbury's legs. It'll be about the team effort and unity of a clubhouse that would appear to a happy place once again.
Side note: if Jed Lowrie gets benched when Lugo returns from the DL, it'll be a travesty. There's another guy I want in the Sox lineup every night. I think he already might have more hits in two months than Lugo has had all season. And we ALL know the errors are down with Lowrie at short.
Side note II: my rainless streak in LA is officially over, and it lasted 20 days. It rained for five minutes on my way home from the gym today. Waaaaaaaaaaaaah.
I'm not quite sure what to make of the whole thing, really. I was a Manny apologist for a long time, along with a lot of friends and some family members. It's hard not to be when talking about not only the best player on your town's team but arguably one of the best players to ever don the Boston uniform. I once wrote into Gordon Edes of the Boston Globe (one of my favorite sports writers along with the aforelinked Stark) suggesting that Manny is one of the top three right-handed hitters of all-time in the history of baseball. It's not that big of a stretch to lump him in that category, really. Back then I didn't care about all the antics that came along with having Manny Ramirez on the Sox roster. I guess I kind of care now.
I read this article and I too wonder about the makeup of Dodger fans. Don't get me wrong, I think it's fantastic that they are now poised to take the NL West and return some sense of pride to this city that hasn't been realized since the days of Gibby. 20 years is tough, I know. Try 86 on for size. I also know for a fact that there are some diehard Dodger fans who love the game, continue to support their boys year in and year out and those people, some of whom I've conversed with at the gym, aren't applauding Manny and his suddenly workmanlike ways in Dodger blue. They're wowing Jason Bay and Kevin Youkilis for "existing without Manny". Interesting. Your Dodgers are rejuvenated, playing great ball and most importantly, in first. You probably should be saying things like "thanks for Manny", or "think the Sox will be fine without Manny?" It's nice to not hear those types of questions, because the Sox are fine without Manny and Boston is better off.
Maybe Kevin Youkilis isn't doing anything new, because he's not. In Youkilis, the Sox have a guy who cares more about one, single swinging strike than Manny ever cared about an entire season of baseball. Youkilis may be a pain in the ass in terms of his emotions and dramas on the field, but it's merely because he loves to play, hates to lose and more importantly, LOVES to win. I'm not sure Manny ever cared about losing. I know that Manny had some kind of problem with Youkilis, displaying some his ability to slap a man with a backhand much like the famed "bitchslap" we've all come to know. Impressive. And from what I know of that situation (hearsay, mind you) it had to do with Youkilis getting on Manny a little bit for not caring enough and Manny felt as though Youk perhaps was taking a game scenario a little too seriously. Case in point. Doesn't every game count? A loss in May could very well come back to haunt a team in the playoff hunt in late September just as easily as a loss in...well...late September. They all matter in some regard.
I tend to wonder how D Lowe, Nomar and others in LA that have worn the navy and red cap in the Fens feel about having Manny back on a common roster. Nomar and D Lowe both alluded to him being a great hitter and a powerful presence in any lineup. True. I will never discount Manny's ability to change the face of a team, a game or a season for that matter. He's one of the greatest hitters of all time and apparently he works harder off the field than most. He likes to keep that under his cap for whatever reason. I guess I'll give Manny credit for not caring what anyone thinks of him. Clearly he couldn't have cared less about the feelings of others in Boston. Reportedly, 24 of 25 Sox on the Manny-included roster thought it was time to go. The one who didn't? Not surprisingly David Ortiz, his best friend.
I don't know about you, but I'm happy about the Jason Bay era in Boston. Through the looking glass that is my laptop and Sportscenter, he looks like a likable guy. He hits, he fields and all fingers point to him being a good clubhouse guy. Plus, he's 29. Of course you lose something in terms of power and production but I'm willing to bet that it turns out to be minimal at worst, especially when you take into account that an unhappy Manny in Boston was often times an unproductive and cancerous Manny. As the season trudges on, the Sox making the playoffs won't be about just Jason Bay's bat, or Jon Lester's arm or Jacoby Ellsbury's legs. It'll be about the team effort and unity of a clubhouse that would appear to a happy place once again.
Side note: if Jed Lowrie gets benched when Lugo returns from the DL, it'll be a travesty. There's another guy I want in the Sox lineup every night. I think he already might have more hits in two months than Lugo has had all season. And we ALL know the errors are down with Lowrie at short.
Side note II: my rainless streak in LA is officially over, and it lasted 20 days. It rained for five minutes on my way home from the gym today. Waaaaaaaaaaaaah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)