Ramon Ramirez was due to get touched up a bit. I haven't seen him pitch more than a few times on the season, but I know the numbers. When you rely on box scores, numbers become deliveries and swings. They define what you remember most about a given player. The guy has been lights out, much like the majority of the Sox bullpen this season. Tonight, he challenged both Damon and Teixeira and gave up two blasts. Francona never flinched, outside of chewing a bit more anxiously than usual. He's not out of the inning yet, but I like sticking with RR here. Anddddddd he's been pulled. Never fails.
Damon is impressive and I wish I didn't have to say that. Banned substance investigation (pending?) aside, he has 13 HR's on the year and he's arguably the MVP of the Yankees this season. I really must say that living outside of my beloved Boston has allowed me to get a totally different perspective on the Yankees (or all sports team, for that matter) and it's kind of a relief. You do lose a lot of the stressful anxiety by removing yourself from the thick of things in Boston; I still love the hometown boys across the board but the placebo effect of surrounding yourself with people who are equally as rabid and excitable as you can be detrimental to one's health and psyche. I'm just saying, it can.
I'm giddy about Buchholz returning to the staff. Speaking of lights out, he has been absolutely dealing (albeit at an affiliate) lately. The Braves may want Penny, the Sox should probably swap him out...On paper, the rotation when all are healthy could be laughable. Beckett, Lester, Matsuzaka, Wakefield, Buchholz/Smoltz. Good gravy. Who matches up in a series? I don't know if the All-Century Team matches up, 1-5. Well, ok...but you get the point. The bullpen isn't anything to sneeze at, either...to say the least. Also, Wake is the MVP to this point for the Sox. Or Co with Youk, injury time included. It's to the point where I focus on Youk's at-bats because he ALWAYS has a good AB. He gets knocked for being a baby when he makes an out, but I think I'd be the same way if I always had quality ABs. Advantage: hitter; in those situations.
Simmons' article on a certain #34 in Boston might have actually worked. He's looking sharper of late...I'll say no more.
I'm saddened by the state of affairs for Glavine and Pedro. These are two of my favorites of all time to have taken the mound and I can't decide if it's more on them or on the teams who aren't interested. It's not quite Favresque, but it's in the same book.
Channing Crowder has inquired about a cage match with Rex Ryan through the UFC. You heard it first here, remember that. Because he did...Crowder. He did. He asked them. Straight up.
Rex Ryan agreed to the match eagerly, based on the assumption that the UFC will allow him to use a chain gun.
7-0.
10 June 2009
09 June 2009
Up For Air
I typically have a very difficult time complying with the occasional assertion that I should be posting more/something/anything. I had no defense of the latest one, as it caused an audible "wow. fuck." Thanks Bowen...very effective words. Maybe...
I have a few announcement to make, thus this entry will be of the chronologically ordered variety. Side note here: I feel as though the chronologically ordered entry is oft ignored and markedly unappreciated.
1. I'm OFF suicide watch. JESUS. It would be this particular barb that catalyzed the "wow. fuck."
2. I'll be the first to admit that I've passed on several opportunities to post in the recent past. Let's see, April 7th was the last post...over two months ago. I really should have written about my Coachella experience, but I read enough reviews and reminiscent euphoria to assure me that my words would never suffice in delivering an appropriate recollection. Seriously, that's not simply an excuse. There's just way too much to cover. My only note is that everyone should try to make it to Coachella for all three days at some point in his or her life. It will change it, if only temporarily. If you have a chance to view any of the Cure videos on YouTube, do so. It's a big part of what I just noted.
3. I moved. Again. I've held more addresses in the past year than your average vagrant. Although, a vagrant doesn't change his address with the USPS and take advantage of the coupons they mail you. Of course, most of them are available in any Sunday paper but still. It's convenient. Shit, anyway...I live across the street from the Staples Center now, in a part of LA that they are desperately and unrelentingly trying to build up and populate. It's kind of working, and they built a veritable Faneuil Hall-on-Steroids next to Staples. Well, maybe not. It's more like Route 1 in Saugus smooshed into a ball.
4. It's true that there are hordes of beautiful women in this city, but the majority of them are about as fun to talk to as LeBron after losing Game 6 to the Magic. It's comical, though...I'll say that. I like to lie to them about who I am and what I do, get them interested in my faux fortune and then invite them to Carl's Jr. for a value meal. I don't get it...Carl's is soo good.
5. I hate the Lakers. I've always hated them, but now it's just beyond any reasonable consideration. It's really more to do with hating Laker fans, though. I'll be the first to praise the historic franchise that is the Lakers, sure. I know what they've accomplished. I remember the 80's (errrr...). How can you pay no love to the Celtics franchise? It's just so absurdly ignorant that I shouldn't waste any emotion on it whatsoever. But it alarms me to no end.
6. I haven't watched much television in the last 6 months and my sports fixes have been few and far between. I had the regional sports package for a while, but the games on NESN were always blacked out. I suppose I could get the MLB package, but I'm not there yet. I've become very close with GameCast, which really isn't that terrible at all, but I miss watching the Sox on weekend afternoons. I'll probably break down and order the MLB package. Anyway, watch "Californication" if you get a chance. Highly entertaining. Duchovny had to go to rehab for booze and sex addictions after shooting Season 2 of the show. I'll say no more.
7. I'll close by saying that you can find a good woman in LA. You should steer clear of Hollywood in order to do so, but there are instances where it's possible to come across a young lady who's "just along for the ride" and prefers a place like the Edison Hotel. If you find yourself in downtown LA, don't miss it. Seriously. Maybe the best place to have a drink in California.
Oh and in case you're wondering what I did with the noose, I gave it to the super. He's a d-bag that suspects I'm gay and makes no effort of discretion in asserting that. His name is Mr. Roper and...did that work? Most assuredly not.
Thanks again, John. Dick.
I have a few announcement to make, thus this entry will be of the chronologically ordered variety. Side note here: I feel as though the chronologically ordered entry is oft ignored and markedly unappreciated.
1. I'm OFF suicide watch. JESUS. It would be this particular barb that catalyzed the "wow. fuck."
2. I'll be the first to admit that I've passed on several opportunities to post in the recent past. Let's see, April 7th was the last post...over two months ago. I really should have written about my Coachella experience, but I read enough reviews and reminiscent euphoria to assure me that my words would never suffice in delivering an appropriate recollection. Seriously, that's not simply an excuse. There's just way too much to cover. My only note is that everyone should try to make it to Coachella for all three days at some point in his or her life. It will change it, if only temporarily. If you have a chance to view any of the Cure videos on YouTube, do so. It's a big part of what I just noted.
3. I moved. Again. I've held more addresses in the past year than your average vagrant. Although, a vagrant doesn't change his address with the USPS and take advantage of the coupons they mail you. Of course, most of them are available in any Sunday paper but still. It's convenient. Shit, anyway...I live across the street from the Staples Center now, in a part of LA that they are desperately and unrelentingly trying to build up and populate. It's kind of working, and they built a veritable Faneuil Hall-on-Steroids next to Staples. Well, maybe not. It's more like Route 1 in Saugus smooshed into a ball.
4. It's true that there are hordes of beautiful women in this city, but the majority of them are about as fun to talk to as LeBron after losing Game 6 to the Magic. It's comical, though...I'll say that. I like to lie to them about who I am and what I do, get them interested in my faux fortune and then invite them to Carl's Jr. for a value meal. I don't get it...Carl's is soo good.
5. I hate the Lakers. I've always hated them, but now it's just beyond any reasonable consideration. It's really more to do with hating Laker fans, though. I'll be the first to praise the historic franchise that is the Lakers, sure. I know what they've accomplished. I remember the 80's (errrr...). How can you pay no love to the Celtics franchise? It's just so absurdly ignorant that I shouldn't waste any emotion on it whatsoever. But it alarms me to no end.
6. I haven't watched much television in the last 6 months and my sports fixes have been few and far between. I had the regional sports package for a while, but the games on NESN were always blacked out. I suppose I could get the MLB package, but I'm not there yet. I've become very close with GameCast, which really isn't that terrible at all, but I miss watching the Sox on weekend afternoons. I'll probably break down and order the MLB package. Anyway, watch "Californication" if you get a chance. Highly entertaining. Duchovny had to go to rehab for booze and sex addictions after shooting Season 2 of the show. I'll say no more.
7. I'll close by saying that you can find a good woman in LA. You should steer clear of Hollywood in order to do so, but there are instances where it's possible to come across a young lady who's "just along for the ride" and prefers a place like the Edison Hotel. If you find yourself in downtown LA, don't miss it. Seriously. Maybe the best place to have a drink in California.
Oh and in case you're wondering what I did with the noose, I gave it to the super. He's a d-bag that suspects I'm gay and makes no effort of discretion in asserting that. His name is Mr. Roper and...did that work? Most assuredly not.
Thanks again, John. Dick.
07 April 2009
This Seventh of April
I guess I have weekly shots of reality, wherein I'll audibly utter an alarmed version of "fuck" wherever I am. Not always an appropriate thing, like the time it happened in front of the avocados at Ralph's on Lincoln. I know, I know. I seldom forget about self-cognizance of little kids, but when it's February and the avocados still just get pumped out in delicious mass quantity...tact escapes me.
My shot of reality arrived at 1:05 pm this afternoon and thankfully I was in the comforts of my own apartment (yes, clothed AND sober). I had anticipated this day for months, but it was actually this day that was supposed occur yesterday. And then something happens that NEVER happens in Boston: inclement weather in April. I'm not sure there's anything worse than an opening day rainout. Disppointment lasts about nine seconds and then sharply breaks into vicious anger, followed by bouts of incredulous eating (note: incredulous eating is when you find yourself eating something you don't want, tastes terrible and makes you lightly ill...and you actually say "why am I eating this?" as you continue to consume) and finally, the inevitable toss of the arms skyward.
Any inkling of resonant anger from yesterday was suffocated the second I heard the sweet baritone of Mr. Don Orsillo. Wait, no. It was the sight of the increasingly attractive Heidi Watney reporting from inside the park. But yeah, Don's voice was cool, too.
I can't say I sat through the whole game because it was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon...there it is. That's the minute I was blasted by the weekly shot of reality. It's 1:05. I'm not watching Sox in 2 or Classic. It's 74 degrees outside. I'm wearing shorts. The avocados. Where am I? Oh, right. I'm LA. I'm watching NESN in fucking California while Joe Maddon dons some kind of earflapped chapeau and Beckett and Shields blow on their pitching hands incessantly. It's not going to get any less shocking any time soon...the whole baseball thing, that is. I had to order my 2009 Sox shirt online instead of taking a stroll onto Yawkey Way. I'm seeing more games in Anaheim and Oakland this season than at Fenway, which is mightily saddening but remarkably exciting at the same time. Not quite equal parts, but close.
My thoughts from the 9 who play 9:
-think Pedroia was pumped about that delivery in his first AB of the season? There's one thing a back-to-back R.O.Y./M.V.P. thinks leading into the season and during that first game or first week or month of the season: make sure you prove it's not a fluke. Maybe that solo shot doesn't make the season, fuck no. But you saw how quickly Pedro got around those bags. Weight lifted for a few days, perhaps. Also, I fucking love Pedroia.
-the pitching displayed precisely what I knew they would. JB was strong, accurate mostly and overall dominating. That's why he's still our number 1. Pap was electric. Oki was...well, Oki in a lot of ways. We all know that he'll give up baserunners, but he's still steady. It took him 2 batters to settle but the Crawford at-bat was vintage. Masterson is really raw. And talented. And his delivery is sick. I hoped to see Ramirez, but we'll be seeing plenty of him this season.
-honestly, I was totally floored when 'Tek homered. I literally expect nothing from him offensively this year. Nothing. So when he offers something, it's magical. Defensively, he was flawless. Naturally.
I guess that's all for now. I thought I had a little more in me for the inaugural baseball post, but overall I'm satisfied. You might not be, but alas, who the fuck are you? If you're my dad, you need not dignify this question. All else: soul-searching time.
My shot of reality arrived at 1:05 pm this afternoon and thankfully I was in the comforts of my own apartment (yes, clothed AND sober). I had anticipated this day for months, but it was actually this day that was supposed occur yesterday. And then something happens that NEVER happens in Boston: inclement weather in April. I'm not sure there's anything worse than an opening day rainout. Disppointment lasts about nine seconds and then sharply breaks into vicious anger, followed by bouts of incredulous eating (note: incredulous eating is when you find yourself eating something you don't want, tastes terrible and makes you lightly ill...and you actually say "why am I eating this?" as you continue to consume) and finally, the inevitable toss of the arms skyward.
Any inkling of resonant anger from yesterday was suffocated the second I heard the sweet baritone of Mr. Don Orsillo. Wait, no. It was the sight of the increasingly attractive Heidi Watney reporting from inside the park. But yeah, Don's voice was cool, too.
I can't say I sat through the whole game because it was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon...there it is. That's the minute I was blasted by the weekly shot of reality. It's 1:05. I'm not watching Sox in 2 or Classic. It's 74 degrees outside. I'm wearing shorts. The avocados. Where am I? Oh, right. I'm LA. I'm watching NESN in fucking California while Joe Maddon dons some kind of earflapped chapeau and Beckett and Shields blow on their pitching hands incessantly. It's not going to get any less shocking any time soon...the whole baseball thing, that is. I had to order my 2009 Sox shirt online instead of taking a stroll onto Yawkey Way. I'm seeing more games in Anaheim and Oakland this season than at Fenway, which is mightily saddening but remarkably exciting at the same time. Not quite equal parts, but close.
My thoughts from the 9 who play 9:
-think Pedroia was pumped about that delivery in his first AB of the season? There's one thing a back-to-back R.O.Y./M.V.P. thinks leading into the season and during that first game or first week or month of the season: make sure you prove it's not a fluke. Maybe that solo shot doesn't make the season, fuck no. But you saw how quickly Pedro got around those bags. Weight lifted for a few days, perhaps. Also, I fucking love Pedroia.
-the pitching displayed precisely what I knew they would. JB was strong, accurate mostly and overall dominating. That's why he's still our number 1. Pap was electric. Oki was...well, Oki in a lot of ways. We all know that he'll give up baserunners, but he's still steady. It took him 2 batters to settle but the Crawford at-bat was vintage. Masterson is really raw. And talented. And his delivery is sick. I hoped to see Ramirez, but we'll be seeing plenty of him this season.
-honestly, I was totally floored when 'Tek homered. I literally expect nothing from him offensively this year. Nothing. So when he offers something, it's magical. Defensively, he was flawless. Naturally.
I guess that's all for now. I thought I had a little more in me for the inaugural baseball post, but overall I'm satisfied. You might not be, but alas, who the fuck are you? If you're my dad, you need not dignify this question. All else: soul-searching time.
Pacific Purification
Swimming in the Pacific is like an enema. It's uncomfortable to the point of tears, the initial shock is enough to send a man's genitals upwards into his body and you find yourself asking why the fuck you are doing such a thing.
However, the aftermath delivers an invigoration and rejuvenation that few other things can afford. I suppose you do kind of waddle around for a while...but it's all part of the experience. Of swimming in the Pacific...not an enema.
18 March 2009
March of Dims
You got it right, dims. As in dimwitted.
I'm pretty sure I first heard the word 'dimwit' from my father. Dad, feel free to refute this allegation. Regardless, I knew that a dimwit was on par with a twit, a numbskull or a turkey. Sure, each has its own little nuances thrown in with the literal meaning, but the commonalities are in the majority. Personally, I can't think of a better way to insult someone than to call him a turkey. It has all the undertones of a 'chicken', but it's faaaaaar worse. Don't just listen to it...hear it ringing in your ears: "You're nothing but a turkey."
I've come upon some unfavorable circumstances since I've been French in LA, or land of a thousand people who think they're really a million but they're really only a five-spot, at best. I'm sorry, I don't know what that means either. And now I'm beginning to get self-conscious about my commas, which isn't good, but isn't necessarily bad, but either way, is bad. Oh, the horror.
Listen, the point of this whole thing is merely to point out the consequences, should you find yourself waffling after calling someone a turkey. What not to do:
Don't start making turkey noises and movements, as if you are indeed a turkey yourself. Don't gobble and pull at the skin-laden portion in the front of your neck. Don't form wings with your arms and flap them while bending slightly forward and jutting your head forward intermittently, yet consistently. And under no circumstances should you engage in the act of laying an egg, although facetiously.
Do not back away, however. Do not utter the word "turkey" in order to offend someone and then just run away in cowardice. If he's indeed a turkey, he must be treated as such. Inspect his rib meat and the fatty parts under the armpits. Ask him about Thanksgiving and if he'd prefer baking slowly at 350 degrees or being tossed in a vat of scalding oil for 45 minutes to and hour, depending on weight. Tell him you like to eat your turkey with a bit of cranberry sauce and oh-so-tiny of a bite of mashed. Paw at his skin and tell him you hope it gets nice and crispy, because that's your favorite part.
Lastly, you should probably refer back to the previous paragraph and do the exact opposite. Run as far and as fast as you fucking can. This isn't the fifties, when you could really insult someone by calling them a butthead or a maroon. Call someone a turkey and you're most likely going to be beaten to death. Bludgeoned. Dental records will not be able to help in identifying your corpse. I feel for you.
Well, I hope this has been informative. Tune in next time, which could very well be in 2011.
I'm pretty sure I first heard the word 'dimwit' from my father. Dad, feel free to refute this allegation. Regardless, I knew that a dimwit was on par with a twit, a numbskull or a turkey. Sure, each has its own little nuances thrown in with the literal meaning, but the commonalities are in the majority. Personally, I can't think of a better way to insult someone than to call him a turkey. It has all the undertones of a 'chicken', but it's faaaaaar worse. Don't just listen to it...hear it ringing in your ears: "You're nothing but a turkey."
I've come upon some unfavorable circumstances since I've been French in LA, or land of a thousand people who think they're really a million but they're really only a five-spot, at best. I'm sorry, I don't know what that means either. And now I'm beginning to get self-conscious about my commas, which isn't good, but isn't necessarily bad, but either way, is bad. Oh, the horror.
Listen, the point of this whole thing is merely to point out the consequences, should you find yourself waffling after calling someone a turkey. What not to do:
Don't start making turkey noises and movements, as if you are indeed a turkey yourself. Don't gobble and pull at the skin-laden portion in the front of your neck. Don't form wings with your arms and flap them while bending slightly forward and jutting your head forward intermittently, yet consistently. And under no circumstances should you engage in the act of laying an egg, although facetiously.
Do not back away, however. Do not utter the word "turkey" in order to offend someone and then just run away in cowardice. If he's indeed a turkey, he must be treated as such. Inspect his rib meat and the fatty parts under the armpits. Ask him about Thanksgiving and if he'd prefer baking slowly at 350 degrees or being tossed in a vat of scalding oil for 45 minutes to and hour, depending on weight. Tell him you like to eat your turkey with a bit of cranberry sauce and oh-so-tiny of a bite of mashed. Paw at his skin and tell him you hope it gets nice and crispy, because that's your favorite part.
Lastly, you should probably refer back to the previous paragraph and do the exact opposite. Run as far and as fast as you fucking can. This isn't the fifties, when you could really insult someone by calling them a butthead or a maroon. Call someone a turkey and you're most likely going to be beaten to death. Bludgeoned. Dental records will not be able to help in identifying your corpse. I feel for you.
Well, I hope this has been informative. Tune in next time, which could very well be in 2011.
18 February 2009
Researching "...For Dummies" Books For Dummies
I'll admit that I own a copy of "Personal Finance For Dummies". At one point in my life, I came to the realization that I was about as responsible with money as Magic Johnson was with his penis. I'm still trying to figure out what it means that I never actually read the book after purchasing it...that's right, bask in the glow of the fucking irony. Mmmm...feels good.
I went to a local Barnes and Noble today with three objectives: buy a map of San Diego, buy some new reading material for my flight to Boston on Sunday and finally, find the most ridiculous Dummies title out there. Not to toot my own (french) horn, but I was wildly successful on all counts. Let me add that these successes were most imperative because I was fresh off a fucking deplorable haircut, courtesy of Liliana at SuperCuts in Marina Del Ray. If you're reading this, Liliana, there's hope for you yet. There's still time to pick up a copy of "Giving Someone A Trim When He Asks For One For Dummies". Take your $20 in tips for the day (I'm being incredibly generous in my estimation here) and go buy it.
In no way am I devaluing these books, because I am fairly certain that myriad individuals have benefited from the likes of these offerings. How am I so certain? Oh, I don't know. Could be the fact that there are such categories as "Happiness" within this line of self-help publications. This tells me that following their initial successes, the publishers of the Dummies books got a little loopy and started to take full advantage of the impressionability of Americans. Side note: right next to "Happiness For Dummies" was "Depression For Dummies". Hooray for product placement! Way to go, guys. Genius.
I spent a good amount of time perusing the Dummies offerings in the self-help section. Two titles in particular struck me. First, Sex For Dummies. I didn't open this one, in fear that I might realize that I've been doing it wrong for the last ten some-odd years. But I'm fairly certain this one included a cartoon-like sketch with arrows and captions like "insert here" and "not so much here". But I wondered if they make such assertions as "sex is reserved for married couples", or "it's not sex if both parties don't reach climax". Well shit, if that's the case I think the lot of us dudes are actually virgins. I may or may not fall into this category...not saying. Sex For Dummies. Are there chapters on ways in which to get your partner in the sack? Do they talk about the wonders of alcohol, or the sweet sounds of Barry White? Do they offer assistance for the occasional awkward locale, like the bathroom at a Howard Johnson's (with a preamble about disinfectants used by the corporation) or the back seat of a Ford Festiva? Wait, does a Festiva have a back seat? (note to self: write "Ford Festivas For Dummies") The final question: who the fuck qualifies him or herself to write such a book? Ahhh, wait. Co-authored by JC himself. Phew.
The second title that drew particular intrigue from me was "Schizophrenia For Dummies". I couldn't figure who they were targeting with this one: those who are living with a schizophrenic or schizophrenics themselves. Look, I know and understand that this is a real and serious condition but isn't there something horribly fucking wrong with a book for Dummies on such a subject? I'll say this. If this book was meant for schizophrenics themselves, I think there's an inescapable paradox here. Which personality is going to read the book? Oh, fuck me...I think I just figured it out. The aim is for all personalities to read it. Then once they all understand the condition, they can work in harmony to rise as one against it. Well, I am impressed, authors of "Schizophrenia For Dummies". Now, if they could only award Noble Prizes to those who truly deserve it, this would be a truly great world. Truly great.
The religious section contained titles on Christianity, Mormonism, the Bible, Buddhism, Judaism...Zoroastrianism...ok, no. I'd have bought that one if it existed (dear Santa...). Does anyone else see some issues with making a conscious decision to purchase a book on a particular religion that also includes the word "dummies"? How do you simplify the Bible? Which bible are they referring to? Although, I suppose that if JC can co-author the Sex edition, he best have been the top advisor to either or both of the one on Christianity or the Bible. I then started to wonder if religious studies classes might be employing these publications as their text of choice. I'm trying to imagine sitting down at my first Sunday School class and instead of receiving a copy of the Bible, Sister Anne slaps down a bright, yellow copy of "The Bible For Dummies". Maybe then she gets up in front of the class of budding Catholics and says something like "ok class, I'll save you all the knuckle lashings when you laugh about the burning bush by giving you this how-to on the holiest book of all." That's the point where I raise my hand and demand an explanation of how she can refer to the Bible as the "holiest" book of all, only to ask that we read a book for Dummies explaining such a book. Hey man, sometimes knuckle lashings are inevitable.
I encourage all of you to venture into your nearest book dealer and take a look for yourself at all the ways in which a total fucking birdbrain can learn about anything he or she can surmise. Be sure to check the shelves in Summer of 2009 for "Admitting To Steroid Use For Dummies". No, A-Roid was not consulted for advisory on this matter.
Zing.
I went to a local Barnes and Noble today with three objectives: buy a map of San Diego, buy some new reading material for my flight to Boston on Sunday and finally, find the most ridiculous Dummies title out there. Not to toot my own (french) horn, but I was wildly successful on all counts. Let me add that these successes were most imperative because I was fresh off a fucking deplorable haircut, courtesy of Liliana at SuperCuts in Marina Del Ray. If you're reading this, Liliana, there's hope for you yet. There's still time to pick up a copy of "Giving Someone A Trim When He Asks For One For Dummies". Take your $20 in tips for the day (I'm being incredibly generous in my estimation here) and go buy it.
In no way am I devaluing these books, because I am fairly certain that myriad individuals have benefited from the likes of these offerings. How am I so certain? Oh, I don't know. Could be the fact that there are such categories as "Happiness" within this line of self-help publications. This tells me that following their initial successes, the publishers of the Dummies books got a little loopy and started to take full advantage of the impressionability of Americans. Side note: right next to "Happiness For Dummies" was "Depression For Dummies". Hooray for product placement! Way to go, guys. Genius.
I spent a good amount of time perusing the Dummies offerings in the self-help section. Two titles in particular struck me. First, Sex For Dummies. I didn't open this one, in fear that I might realize that I've been doing it wrong for the last ten some-odd years. But I'm fairly certain this one included a cartoon-like sketch with arrows and captions like "insert here" and "not so much here". But I wondered if they make such assertions as "sex is reserved for married couples", or "it's not sex if both parties don't reach climax". Well shit, if that's the case I think the lot of us dudes are actually virgins. I may or may not fall into this category...not saying. Sex For Dummies. Are there chapters on ways in which to get your partner in the sack? Do they talk about the wonders of alcohol, or the sweet sounds of Barry White? Do they offer assistance for the occasional awkward locale, like the bathroom at a Howard Johnson's (with a preamble about disinfectants used by the corporation) or the back seat of a Ford Festiva? Wait, does a Festiva have a back seat? (note to self: write "Ford Festivas For Dummies") The final question: who the fuck qualifies him or herself to write such a book? Ahhh, wait. Co-authored by JC himself. Phew.
The second title that drew particular intrigue from me was "Schizophrenia For Dummies". I couldn't figure who they were targeting with this one: those who are living with a schizophrenic or schizophrenics themselves. Look, I know and understand that this is a real and serious condition but isn't there something horribly fucking wrong with a book for Dummies on such a subject? I'll say this. If this book was meant for schizophrenics themselves, I think there's an inescapable paradox here. Which personality is going to read the book? Oh, fuck me...I think I just figured it out. The aim is for all personalities to read it. Then once they all understand the condition, they can work in harmony to rise as one against it. Well, I am impressed, authors of "Schizophrenia For Dummies". Now, if they could only award Noble Prizes to those who truly deserve it, this would be a truly great world. Truly great.
The religious section contained titles on Christianity, Mormonism, the Bible, Buddhism, Judaism...Zoroastrianism...ok, no. I'd have bought that one if it existed (dear Santa...). Does anyone else see some issues with making a conscious decision to purchase a book on a particular religion that also includes the word "dummies"? How do you simplify the Bible? Which bible are they referring to? Although, I suppose that if JC can co-author the Sex edition, he best have been the top advisor to either or both of the one on Christianity or the Bible. I then started to wonder if religious studies classes might be employing these publications as their text of choice. I'm trying to imagine sitting down at my first Sunday School class and instead of receiving a copy of the Bible, Sister Anne slaps down a bright, yellow copy of "The Bible For Dummies". Maybe then she gets up in front of the class of budding Catholics and says something like "ok class, I'll save you all the knuckle lashings when you laugh about the burning bush by giving you this how-to on the holiest book of all." That's the point where I raise my hand and demand an explanation of how she can refer to the Bible as the "holiest" book of all, only to ask that we read a book for Dummies explaining such a book. Hey man, sometimes knuckle lashings are inevitable.
I encourage all of you to venture into your nearest book dealer and take a look for yourself at all the ways in which a total fucking birdbrain can learn about anything he or she can surmise. Be sure to check the shelves in Summer of 2009 for "Admitting To Steroid Use For Dummies". No, A-Roid was not consulted for advisory on this matter.
Zing.
02 February 2009
3rd Floor Cance
I have several partial blogs in my inventory here, so forgive me for posting multiple entries on the same day. And don't forget to read one more down after this one...I just put that one up a minute ago. No, you don't HAVE to read it, I'm just saying...listen, do what you want, man. No need to get flip.
I'd actually suggest reading the previous entry first, since these are chronological and all. I guess reunions are the theme of the day.
I went up to Oakland/San Francisco back on the 29th to see Ponch. I hadn't seen him in a few years, but we'd kept in constant contact for the most part. I had planned on driving up to Hayward to spend a long weekend with him...meet his girl and hang out with his roommates. Basic stuff. What I wasn't prepared for was seeing Jason Burkle, who lived across the hall from me in my freshman year at Umass. Him I hadn't seen since 1999...very little contact as he moved out here right after college, pretty much. It's just amazing how friends can pick up almost directly where they left off after you get the requisite "what have you been up to"s out of the way.
I spent a good part of the weekend with Burkle as Ponch had some school shit to tend to and girlfriend time to partake in. Burkle showed me around Rockridge/North Oakland, Berkeley, a bit of Alameda. We went to a huge flea market/antique show and shot the shit for about 3 hours as we perused other people's old but interesting shit. He collects vintage boomboxes, so there was a bit of an initiative there. Anyway, following the weekend I headed down to Monterey where he lives and spent a couple days there. It was phenomenal. Immaculate coastline with rocky outcroppings, big breaks, lots of surfers and amazing sunsets. We kayaked around the bay on the first day and saw a bunch of seals....one of which followed us nearly the whole trip. It was pretty incredible.
Anyway, enjoy the shots from the weekend below.
I'd actually suggest reading the previous entry first, since these are chronological and all. I guess reunions are the theme of the day.
I went up to Oakland/San Francisco back on the 29th to see Ponch. I hadn't seen him in a few years, but we'd kept in constant contact for the most part. I had planned on driving up to Hayward to spend a long weekend with him...meet his girl and hang out with his roommates. Basic stuff. What I wasn't prepared for was seeing Jason Burkle, who lived across the hall from me in my freshman year at Umass. Him I hadn't seen since 1999...very little contact as he moved out here right after college, pretty much. It's just amazing how friends can pick up almost directly where they left off after you get the requisite "what have you been up to"s out of the way.
I spent a good part of the weekend with Burkle as Ponch had some school shit to tend to and girlfriend time to partake in. Burkle showed me around Rockridge/North Oakland, Berkeley, a bit of Alameda. We went to a huge flea market/antique show and shot the shit for about 3 hours as we perused other people's old but interesting shit. He collects vintage boomboxes, so there was a bit of an initiative there. Anyway, following the weekend I headed down to Monterey where he lives and spent a couple days there. It was phenomenal. Immaculate coastline with rocky outcroppings, big breaks, lots of surfers and amazing sunsets. We kayaked around the bay on the first day and saw a bunch of seals....one of which followed us nearly the whole trip. It was pretty incredible.
Anyway, enjoy the shots from the weekend below.
Me and Burkle at District in San Francisco
Me and Ponch, same locale.
And finally, the three of us back together after 10 years. Weird shit, I'm telling you. But fucking awesome.26 January 2009
Another Country Heard From
Spring of 1999
I returned home following the Fall semester at Umass bearing the knowledge that I would not be welcomed back for the upcoming Spring semester. Apparently, a 20:1 ratio of weed/booze/sleep and actual school work is not conducive to maintaining a (ahem) 2.0 GPA. Some of us learn the hard way, I guess.
The next 8 months would be an amalgam of hauling horsehair plaster for my uncle Don, slinging Big Mouth Burgers at Chili's for my cousin Jeff and hanging out with one of two long-time best friends. Kev and I were both living at home and working for whomever would agree to hire us. On the side, we were playing pool nightly and choking down enough cigarettes to fund 50% of the advertising for Camel. It was the best of times, it was the...ok, OK. I won't complete the thought. But fuck, it was kinda the worst of times, too. I'd lose my job with Uncle Don by way of too many late mornings marred by a hangover. My waiter gig at Chili's would come to a screeching hault as a result of receiving the lowest secret shopper score in the history of the company (42%). I guess swearing at a customer because you forgot to put in his order for an Awesome Blossom is not such a great idea. I was doing that dude a favor though, come on. But I was better off not wearing the bright red polo with the Chili's logo on it. Wrapping my dad's blue volvo sedan around a pole in a parking structure should have been evidence enough, but I was 19. I was living off of double cheeseburgers and Red Stripes from Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square. I had a girlfriend back at Umass, a girlfriend from Chili's and random girls from Tufts that really admired my beirut skills. I was living the college flunkie, pothead, underage alcoholic dream.
Kev and I shared the same ambitions back then. To reiterate: weed, booze and girls. And pool, sure. We had a grand time of it, implanting indelible memories on my mind...such as the time we woke up on couches outside the ZBT house at Tufts. It was visitation weekend for prospective freshmen and Kev, Nate and I were shirtless and still drunk at 8am. The sun was hot, our odor was horrendous and our voices were loud: "Hey! Yeah, send your daughter to Tufts! We'll take good care of her." I wonder if our words were effective...no matter. We did a lot of dumb shit and probably deserved to be either incarcerated or hospitalized on more than three or four occasions, but we endured.
I returned to Umass in the Fall and would eventually finish up my degree. I never really dug out of the academic hole I dug for myself but I managed to do enough to flip my tassle in May of 2002. Kev, on the other hand, hit the road on a pilgrimage to find isolationist respite...at least, that's my take on it. His path would lead him down to the sandy beaches of the eastern Floridian coast and ultimately west to the Californian beaches of Santa Monica. Kev left in 2000 and I hadn't seen him since...until 3 weeks ago.
I got fed up with the lack of email response from over the years. It was sparse at best, and gleaning any pertinent information from him was like defending MJ in the clutch. So I took the path of least resistence. I called him mom and demanded to know where he lived, worked and how I could reach him. Sonofabitch...turns out Kev had been working down the street from where I originally lived upon arriving here in the Golden State. I never had cause to go into the hardware store, though. But on the last Sunday in January I did.
I showed up at his place of work late in the afternoon and walked around a bit until I spotted him. He stood in the back, talking to one of his employees. He looked about the same, aside from the ever-apparent salt and pepper mane he had developed over the years. Kev started going gray at the age of 11, I believe. I stood about 10 feet away for a good 5 minutes until he looked up at me. One take, no reaction. Second take, minimal reaction. Third take, a hard pause and a puzzled look. Fourth take, he looks at me for about 10 seconds and looks floorward, shaking his head and laughing in a way that only Kev could laugh after seeing me after a 9-year hiatus. I threw my arms up as if to say, "are you fucking kidding me, dude?" He put up one finger, telling me to hang on one sec as he finished up with his subordinate. I took that time to peruse the bathroom fixtures...truth be told, I'd feel more acclimated in the Mekong River Delta.
Finally he heads over and we exchange the requisite man hug of a familiar, snapping handshake and quick one-arm embrace. It's a strange feeling...seeing one of your oldest and formerly closest friends after so long a time. But little had changed...his face looked the same, his voice sounded the same. He said I looked taller, then asked if my shoes had lifts in them. He also offered that I looked skinny, but maybe only because I was a bit pudgy when we were 19 and 20. But he had to finish his shift. I took his number and gave him mine and he agreed to come by after work.
And that he did. I made some dinner, we had some beers and began what would turn out to be 8 hours of surface-scratching on the way to getting a combined 18 years of life experience out of the way. And just like old times we headed out to a bar nearby and shot pool, played darts and that quick-shot basketball game. I took particular pride in smoking him at quick-shot, but he made short work of me in the other games...much of the same, as some things just never change. The night would end at 5:30am as it just seemed like a good time to call it. I knew we'd pick it up again soon enough, now that I knew where he worked and lived.
It's a strange thing. You find yourself digging your way out of a cavernous hole in a foreign land where nothing is familiar then all at once, everything is familiar again. Maybe I've mentioned it to Kev by now or maybe I haven't, but reuniting with him after all these years and all the bullshit we've both been through since our last gathering changed everything for me. You meet new people everywhere you go, sure. You forge new relationships and you develop new habits, beliefs, ways of life. But the things you learned with your best friends in your adolescence, when you're most impressionable...those things never leave.
Good to have you back, buddy.
I returned home following the Fall semester at Umass bearing the knowledge that I would not be welcomed back for the upcoming Spring semester. Apparently, a 20:1 ratio of weed/booze/sleep and actual school work is not conducive to maintaining a (ahem) 2.0 GPA. Some of us learn the hard way, I guess.
The next 8 months would be an amalgam of hauling horsehair plaster for my uncle Don, slinging Big Mouth Burgers at Chili's for my cousin Jeff and hanging out with one of two long-time best friends. Kev and I were both living at home and working for whomever would agree to hire us. On the side, we were playing pool nightly and choking down enough cigarettes to fund 50% of the advertising for Camel. It was the best of times, it was the...ok, OK. I won't complete the thought. But fuck, it was kinda the worst of times, too. I'd lose my job with Uncle Don by way of too many late mornings marred by a hangover. My waiter gig at Chili's would come to a screeching hault as a result of receiving the lowest secret shopper score in the history of the company (42%). I guess swearing at a customer because you forgot to put in his order for an Awesome Blossom is not such a great idea. I was doing that dude a favor though, come on. But I was better off not wearing the bright red polo with the Chili's logo on it. Wrapping my dad's blue volvo sedan around a pole in a parking structure should have been evidence enough, but I was 19. I was living off of double cheeseburgers and Red Stripes from Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square. I had a girlfriend back at Umass, a girlfriend from Chili's and random girls from Tufts that really admired my beirut skills. I was living the college flunkie, pothead, underage alcoholic dream.
Kev and I shared the same ambitions back then. To reiterate: weed, booze and girls. And pool, sure. We had a grand time of it, implanting indelible memories on my mind...such as the time we woke up on couches outside the ZBT house at Tufts. It was visitation weekend for prospective freshmen and Kev, Nate and I were shirtless and still drunk at 8am. The sun was hot, our odor was horrendous and our voices were loud: "Hey! Yeah, send your daughter to Tufts! We'll take good care of her." I wonder if our words were effective...no matter. We did a lot of dumb shit and probably deserved to be either incarcerated or hospitalized on more than three or four occasions, but we endured.
I returned to Umass in the Fall and would eventually finish up my degree. I never really dug out of the academic hole I dug for myself but I managed to do enough to flip my tassle in May of 2002. Kev, on the other hand, hit the road on a pilgrimage to find isolationist respite...at least, that's my take on it. His path would lead him down to the sandy beaches of the eastern Floridian coast and ultimately west to the Californian beaches of Santa Monica. Kev left in 2000 and I hadn't seen him since...until 3 weeks ago.
I got fed up with the lack of email response from over the years. It was sparse at best, and gleaning any pertinent information from him was like defending MJ in the clutch. So I took the path of least resistence. I called him mom and demanded to know where he lived, worked and how I could reach him. Sonofabitch...turns out Kev had been working down the street from where I originally lived upon arriving here in the Golden State. I never had cause to go into the hardware store, though. But on the last Sunday in January I did.
I showed up at his place of work late in the afternoon and walked around a bit until I spotted him. He stood in the back, talking to one of his employees. He looked about the same, aside from the ever-apparent salt and pepper mane he had developed over the years. Kev started going gray at the age of 11, I believe. I stood about 10 feet away for a good 5 minutes until he looked up at me. One take, no reaction. Second take, minimal reaction. Third take, a hard pause and a puzzled look. Fourth take, he looks at me for about 10 seconds and looks floorward, shaking his head and laughing in a way that only Kev could laugh after seeing me after a 9-year hiatus. I threw my arms up as if to say, "are you fucking kidding me, dude?" He put up one finger, telling me to hang on one sec as he finished up with his subordinate. I took that time to peruse the bathroom fixtures...truth be told, I'd feel more acclimated in the Mekong River Delta.
Finally he heads over and we exchange the requisite man hug of a familiar, snapping handshake and quick one-arm embrace. It's a strange feeling...seeing one of your oldest and formerly closest friends after so long a time. But little had changed...his face looked the same, his voice sounded the same. He said I looked taller, then asked if my shoes had lifts in them. He also offered that I looked skinny, but maybe only because I was a bit pudgy when we were 19 and 20. But he had to finish his shift. I took his number and gave him mine and he agreed to come by after work.
And that he did. I made some dinner, we had some beers and began what would turn out to be 8 hours of surface-scratching on the way to getting a combined 18 years of life experience out of the way. And just like old times we headed out to a bar nearby and shot pool, played darts and that quick-shot basketball game. I took particular pride in smoking him at quick-shot, but he made short work of me in the other games...much of the same, as some things just never change. The night would end at 5:30am as it just seemed like a good time to call it. I knew we'd pick it up again soon enough, now that I knew where he worked and lived.
It's a strange thing. You find yourself digging your way out of a cavernous hole in a foreign land where nothing is familiar then all at once, everything is familiar again. Maybe I've mentioned it to Kev by now or maybe I haven't, but reuniting with him after all these years and all the bullshit we've both been through since our last gathering changed everything for me. You meet new people everywhere you go, sure. You forge new relationships and you develop new habits, beliefs, ways of life. But the things you learned with your best friends in your adolescence, when you're most impressionable...those things never leave.
Good to have you back, buddy.
08 January 2009
Monsieur Green Thumb
I'm growing a mint plant in my apartment as of Sunday. I must say, I've never really appreciated the process of photosynthesis until now.
I've been watering the thing daily since Sunday but only today did I allow it to have a spot on the window sill amidst a bath of sunlight. Two hours in the sun and there's two inches of new growth on three of the stems.
I don't know how recently markets started peddling Mint plants in mass quantities, but we can thank the rise of the mojito for this. My plant came with a recipe for the classic mojito, only the recipe is for a pitcher of mojitos. Is it not possible that I might be using the mint for something other than an alcoholic beverage? Does it not stand to reason that I could actually be using the mint in my cooking? Maybe I just like the smell, what of it? I guess pretty much everyone is a booze hound these days...these times. The economy is in the crapper, let's get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a libation or two from time to time and I think the mojito is a mighty tasty drink. I just find it humorous that the selling point for a mint plant is that it can be used to help you get drunk in a tastier fashion.
Hey, it's mint. Mint.
I've been watering the thing daily since Sunday but only today did I allow it to have a spot on the window sill amidst a bath of sunlight. Two hours in the sun and there's two inches of new growth on three of the stems.
I don't know how recently markets started peddling Mint plants in mass quantities, but we can thank the rise of the mojito for this. My plant came with a recipe for the classic mojito, only the recipe is for a pitcher of mojitos. Is it not possible that I might be using the mint for something other than an alcoholic beverage? Does it not stand to reason that I could actually be using the mint in my cooking? Maybe I just like the smell, what of it? I guess pretty much everyone is a booze hound these days...these times. The economy is in the crapper, let's get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a libation or two from time to time and I think the mojito is a mighty tasty drink. I just find it humorous that the selling point for a mint plant is that it can be used to help you get drunk in a tastier fashion.
Hey, it's mint. Mint.
28 December 2008
Wait For It...
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
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
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)