The Vengeance Scale...

..as presented by ESPN's Sports Guy Bill Simmons and his readers.

I have only two quibbles with this scale.

Number one: a man who follows 'pro' wrestling has no business - none, zero -refering to The Princess Bride as "a kid's movie."

Number two: Michael Corleone's "settling all family business" at the end of The Godfather clearly should be the sole '10' on the vengeance scale. While The Usual Suspects is a great movie, and Keyser Soze a great character, neither are superior in any way to The Godfather.

Day 2: Hungry Like The Wolf

Tickets in hand, we climbed into the upper reaches of Miller Park. Section 214 located easily enough, there were helpful sings hanging from the concourse above. The Bunny and I strolled over to the first aisle, looking for row 19. Much to our bewilderment, there was no row 19. The last row of seats was clearly marked '18.' We walked over to the aisle bordering the other side of section 214, as if this would somehow magically cause row 19 to materialize. Still nothing.

Feeling rather befuddled we retreated back onto the concourse, casting puzzled looks at section 214.

"What the fuck is up with that," said the Bunny, "there's no row 19. Are we losing our minds?"

I had no valid or even comforting reply. Our tickets said row 19, but clearly there was no row 19.

Unless you count the handicapped row.

Looking again at section 214 I noticed something that my eye-brain connection must have glossed over during the first go-around. The rear border between section 214 and the concourse was marked by a railing. And behind that railing was... a row of folding seats. Over in section 213 I could see a similar row behind the railing, in which one of the folding seats had been moved to make room for a spectator in a wheelchair. Row 19 was the handicapped row for each of these sections.

So we took our seats, and damn good seats they turned out to be. There was a railing for leaning, with a cup holder for beer. Nothing to prevent you from pushing the folding chair back for some more leg room, or even propping you're feet up on the railing. The sightlines to the field were fine, and with no one behind us it was a cinch to get up for refreshments.

Around about the fifth inning, we started to get hungry. Really hungry. You must understand two things here:
1)When the Bunny and I were on the road, we moved. Pitstops were mad dashes for bathroom, gatorade, and gasoline. There were no food breaks; nourishment consisted of handfuls of beef jerky, from a bag that was replaced about every other day.
2) We had spent about 8 hours on the road that day, followed by a brewery tour and then a sprint to the ballpark.

In short, we were starving, and ballpark food wasn't going to cut it. Now Bunny is Germanophile and had been talking for weeks about 'getting some great German food in Milwaukee' so that became our course of action. At this point we had given up any pretence of planning or forethought. We wanted German food. Milwaukee reputedly had German food a-plenty. Ergo, we would point Adelaide at Milwaukee and drive until we came across German food. Trust Baseball Jesus.

Fifteen minutes later we were meandering around downtown Milwaukee when we spotted sign with vaguely Teutonic lettering.

"Think this place has German food?" said the Bunny, who was behind the wheel.
"Pullover," I replied, "I'll hop out and take a look."

I dashed across the street and into the entry way. Now my sum knowledge of German cuisine consisted of the word 'schnitzel' and spotting that, I waved to Bunny on the other side of the street.

"Do they have German food," yelled Bunny, "should I park the car?"
"It's a go," I shouted back. I wasn't exactly sure about that, but my stomach was growling and my brain whispering 'just get him out of the car. Once he's out of the car we're home free.'

Bunny backed Adelaide into a spot and trotted over. After a brief inspection of the posted menu he announced his approval and we walked through the double doors.

And promptly came to a stop. Clearly, we had wandered into someplace.. fancy. Someplace we might be considered a little... underdressed.

We stared at the hostess, standing behind a podium ten feet away, and she stared back at the two grotesque apparitions who had appeared at her door. Two days on the road in an open-top car had left their mark. Our faces were brick red - except where they were burnt brown, or peeled back to reveal new pink skin - all in all giving us a leperous cast. Bunny's left arm and my right arm were burnt right crisply, making us an odd sort of matched set. Our jeans and t-shirts were rumpled, wrinkled and stained from a day of travel under the sun, followed by a brewery tour and a ballgame. Unkempt hair poked from underneath the edges of battered and sweat-stained Red Sox hats. She probably thought we were going to ask her for some spare change.

"Will they let us eat here?" whispered Bunny.
"I dunno. I'll ask."

I approached the hostess hesitantly.

"Can we..uh..we..."

My brain was simultaneously frantic with the desire for protein and unable to clearly communicate that need. My internal compass wildly oscillated between thoughts of clutching the hostess' feet, weeping and begging her for a table, and darker thoughts of menacing looks and vague threats if we were turned away. I forced myself to focus and blurted out my request.

"Can we eat here?"

I will never know whether it was due to pity or the fact the restaurant was nearly empty, but we were quickly ushered to a table, where we ate and drank like kings. The waitress was wonderfully friendly, and even provided us direction to the nearest (cheap) lodging.

We checked into the Ho Jo's, and walked up the street for a couple of late night pints at Mo's. Then, with our bellies filled to capacity, we waddled back to the hotel for a blissful sleep.

But not before staying up another two hours to watch The Birdcage.

Jail House Rock

Sentence has been passed on participants in Saturday's Red Sox-Yankees brawl:

For the Red Sox:
Jason Varitek - suspended 4 games, fined undisclosed amount
Trot Nixon - suspended 3 games, fined undisclosed amount
Gabe Kapler - suspended 3 games, fined undisclosed amount
David Ortiz - fined undisclosed amount
Curt Schilling - fined undisclosed amount

For the Yankees:
Alex Rodriguez - suspended 4 games, fined undisclosed amount
Tanyon Sturtze - suspended 3 games, fined undisclosed amount
Kenny Lofton - fined undisclosed amount

Both Yankees players plan on appealing their suspensions; no word from the Red Sox on this.

Things I'm wondering right now:
1. Who is going to play right field for us?
2. What on earth did Kenny Lofton do to even get ejected, let alone fined?

Book Notes Updated

This series of brief reviews brings the 'Book Notes' posts up to date, as it covers all but the most recent books I've read.

42. See No Evil - Robert Baer

Mike the Cook lent this to me, along with Baer's other book (Sleeping With The Devil) which I haven't gotten around to reading quite yet. Baer was a case officer in the CIA's Directorate of Operations for almost 30 years, spending much of that team in the Middle East and Central Asia. His book has two main themes running through out. One is his autobiographical account of his career in the CIA, from recruit to rookie case officer posted to India, to a veteran operative on the ground in Kurdistan. The second theme is the decay of the CIA in the aftermath of the Cold War, particularly in the field of recruiting and maintaining HUMINT i.e. covert agents who report on the other side's doings. Baer does not blame any political party for the erosion, rather he condemns the entire atmosphere of Washington D.C. for the Agency's decline. In the preface he writes:

The CIA was systematically destroyed by political correctness, by petty Beltway wars, by careerism, and much more. At a time when terrorist threats were compounding globally, the agency that should have been monitoring them was being scrubbed clean instead. Americans were making too much money to bother. Life was good. The White House and the National Security Council became cathedrals of commerce where the interests of big business outweighed the interests of protecting American citizens at home and abroad. Defanged and dispirited, the CIA went along for the ride. And then on September 11, 2001, the reckoning for such vast carelessness was presented for all the world to see.

Anyone interested in a ground soldier's view of the modern day Great Game won't go far wrong by reading this book.

43. You Shall Know Our Velocity! - Dave Eggers

In no way did this book make me regret that I previously not read any of Egger's work. Some have recommended A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius to me; I shall take it under advisement though I'm in no hurry to work through another Egger tome.

44. The Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors - James D. Hornfischer

"This will be a fight against overwhelming odds from which survival cannot be expected. We will do what damage we can."

With the above words to his crew Lt. Commander Robert W. Copeland took his destroyer escort U.S. S. Samuel B. Roberts into action against a fleet of massive capital ships of the Imperial Japanese Navy, in the Pacific waters off of Samar. There are many struggles - the Battle of the Bulge; Iwo Jima; the Alamo - that are famed as instances where American fighting men displayed great courage against tremendous odds. Sadly, the battle off of Samar is not one of them. Roberts and the other ships and crews of Taffy 3 hurled themselves at a far superior force in order to protect Douglas MacArthur's vulnerable invasion fleet. The destroyer escorts and jeep carriers of Taffy 3 combined weighed less than the giant battleship Yamato, the largest ship in the IJN. Well-written and researched, Hornfischer's book is far superior to any of the last few books Ambrose published.

45. The World At Night - Alan Furst

Another historical espionage novel from Furst, and the last one for me to read before I finished up all of his published work. Set in Occupied France during WWII, it's not my favorite of the bunch but it's still a damned good read.

46. Iron Men and Saints - Harold Lamb

The first of two volumes Lamb penned on the Crusade, this book covers a period spanning the from the inception of the First Crusade to the death of the first Crusader lord of Jersusalem. While certain aspects of his scholarship may be dated (he attributes the origin of the Crusades almost entirely to Pope Urban) Lamb's essential facts and chronology are correct. As Lamb was also a pulp writer of the first order, his prose is fast-moving and designed to move the reader, as well as inform.

47. New Spring - Robert Jordan

Some ten years ago, while waiting for a bus in New York I picked up the first of what I thought were three volumes in Jordan's Wheel of Times series of fantasy epics. After finishing the third volume, I discovered that the series continued into an upcoming fourth volume. As I loved the first three, I eagerly awaited the fourth.

Flash forward to 2004. Jordan's opus has marched on, reaching ten (or eleven? I've lost count) volumes and literally thousands of pages. As the series has progressed the volumes have become larger, while somehow covering less plot-wise. I picked his latest in the Wheel of Time saga with some trepidation. I no longer enjoy these books - this has simply dissolved into a grudge match. Mr. Jordan seems to think he can force me to give up on this series by dragging it on and on and on - while I, having waded through thousands of pages, am determined to reach the end and find out what happens. I will not be deterred.

48. The King's Coat - Dewey Lambdin

A sea story in the tradition of O'Brian and Forrester. Except with more sex. Lambdin's books won't win awards for originality, but the idea of making his hero Alan Lewrie a rogue and a dissolute gentleman does make this series (yes, it's a series) stand out somewhat. A decent beach/vacation read, but I doubt I'll read any others.

49. Richard Bolitho, Midshipman - Alexander Kent

A sea story in the tradition of O'Brian and Forrester. And Lambdin too for that matter. (But no sex.) A through-and-through potboiler - if you must give a try, check it out from your local library.

50. Epitaph for a Spy - Eric Ambler

Alan Furst cites Eric Ambler as one of his major influences, so naturally I felt compelled to see what he was about. The main character, Josef Vadassy, is a teacher on holiday in the south of France when he is arrested for a crime of espionage he did not commit. The authorities release him, on the proviso that he assist them in tracking down the real spy. Not full of what many have to expect from spy novels i.e. assassinations, gadgets, beautiful exotic women,Vadassy's quest often takes on overtones of an English 'country house' mystery as he endeavors to determine which of the guests as the small hotel is the real enemy agent.

51. Championship No-Limit & Pot-Limit Hold 'Em - T.J. Cloutier & Tom McEvoy

Much more in depth than the Braid book on Texas Hold 'Em that I read earlier, Cloutier's and McEvoy's book assumes on the part of the reader a knowledge of the rules and basic tactics and strategy of the game. Definitely worth your while if you've been playing regularly for a while and seek to improve your game.

On the Brighter Side

My sister got me a Barnes & Noble gift card for my birthday. Naturally this sort of thing - the promise of free books - burns a whole in my pocket and it didn't me long - a little over 24 hours to be exact - to hit my local B & N.

Now when I receive a gift of this sort my guidelines are to use to purchase only 'worthwhile' book,' which means either a book I've been pining for but previously could not justify buying, or an author whose works I've never read before but who comes highly recommended. In this instance I went the second of the two guidelines, walking out of B & N with a copy of P.G. Wodehouse's The Code of the Woosters. I've long heard the praise of Wodehouse's novels, and I can say I have not been disappointed.

My morning routine runs something like this: stumble out of bed, brush teeth, shave, put coffee on, shower, dress... and then spend a half hour or so easing into the day with a cup of joe and a good book. For the past week I've spent my mornings in the company of Bertie Wooster, Jeeves, and Wodehouse's understated prose. All three go very well with coffee and make my adjusting to being awake (I am not a morning person) much more pleasurable. Though it certainly sounds trite, there's nothing like a good laugh to start off the day. Here's an example of what I mean; Bertie Wooster describing his friend's wife-to-be:

I call her a ghastly girl because she was a ghastly girl. The Woosters are chivalrous, but they can speak their minds. A droopy, soupy, sentimental exhibit, with melting eyes and a cooing voice and the most extraordinary views on such things as stars and rabbits. I remember her telling me once that rabbits were gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen and that the stars were God's daisy chain. Perfect rot, of course. They're nothing of the sort.

Or sample this exchange between Wooster and the above-mentioned fiancee:

"So everything's all right, is it?"
"Everything. I have never loved Augustus more than I do now."
"Haven't you, by Jove?"
"Each moment I am with him, his wonderful nature seems to open before me like some lovely flower."
"Does it, egad?"
"Every day I find myself discovering some new facet of his extraordinary character. For instance... You have seen him quite lately, have you not?"
"Oh, rather. I gave him a dinner at the Drones only the night before last."
"I wonder if you noticed any difference in him?"
I threw my mind back to the binge in question. As far as I could recollect, Gussie had been the same fish-faced freak I had always known.

I am quite enjoying this book. Rather.

I'll Do My Crying in the Rain

And so the Red Sox 'winning streak' of three games came to an end in silence, their bats stifled by Dave Borkowski, who had spent the preceding three years out of the majors. It's safe to say the Orioles own the Red Sox, at this point having won 7 of the 11 games the two teams have played this year.

Did I say owned? The Red Sox are the Orioles' bitches. If they were in jail together, the Red Sox would be wearing dresses and high heels and talking all falsetto like, while the Birds pimped them out for three smokes a go.

Since May I've listened to the Red Sox manager and players alike saying endless variations on a theme: we're better than our record; we're going to get hot. The assumption on everyone's - the team, media, and fans alike - part is that this team hasn't played up to potential, haven't played their best ball.

Last night it occurred to me that maybe they have. Maybe this is their potential - a three game winning streak when they supposedly had momentum, broken up by a team struggling to stay out of last place. Maybe teams that often play defense like the ball is something to be avoided don't win consistently. Maybe teams that refuse to manufacture runs and rely solely on the big innings of a walk, a single and a home run, don't win consistently. Perhaps the Red Sox are performing as well as they are able.

Let's face it - last year spoiled us, despite the heartbreak ending. We became accustomed to winning streaks and improbable come-from-behind wins. When the Red Sox added Schilling and Foulke in the off-season, we expected more of the same except better. Not just a wild card, but the division. In the aftermath of last year's series loss to the Yankees, I recall that Edward of Bambino's Curse wrote something to the effect that it may be a while before the Sox are that close to a World Series again. At the time I thought he was pessimistic. Now his words seem prophetic.

It's Like, How Much More Black Could This Be?

And the answer is none. None more black.

Guess the movie. For ten points.

Beyond the Wall of Sleep

Perhaps a diversion is needed. A diversion to draw your attention away from the fact that I haven't posted anything interesting regarding the Red Sox, the Miracles of The Baseball Jesus, books, movies or any of the other subjects I'm prone to go on and on about. A diversion to draw your eyes away from the hideous mess my template has become.

I submit, for your perusal, an account of the rather strange dream I had last night.

I dreamt that Welcome Back Kotter was on the air, indeed that it had never gone off the air, instead enjoying a triumphant run through season after season. Down through the years, teenage actors and their wisecracking teachers paraded across the screen for our entertainment.

And I dreamt that while Gabe Kaplan was no longer the teacher on the show, he was still contractually obligated to appear on Welcome Back Kotter once a season as a guest star. So I dreamt of an episode of Welcome Back Kotter airing in 2004, in which an inexplicably white-haired Kaplan returned to the classroom to visit his successor.

Make of that what you will; I certainly have no idea what it means.

Lost in a Roman World of Pain

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Again. I am a wee bit stupid today apparently.

UPDATE:

Even stupider than I thought. Haloscan comments seemed to have vanished. So much for their 'autoinstall' feature.

AND AGAIN...

..now the comments are back. Today my blog is the Devil's Triangle.

HEY NOW...

...there's my blogroll again. But still I am confounded by the damnably odd gap that taunts me, across template change and code modifications.

Mistakes Were Made...

...please stand by.

Goddam Blogger

So you may have noticed, my blogroll dropped to the bottom of the page. This was caused, I think, by the width of the image in The Ugly American post. Which was reluctantly deleted. Which did not - as one can plainly see - solve the problem.

I am cranky cranky cranky.

Shagging Flies

So...how 'bout those Red Sox?

I could write about Sunday night's game, but Beth at Cursed and First covered that ground more than adequately.  I will note, however, that I'm not the only one to take exception to the 'quality' of FOX's broadcasters.

Last night the Sox gave the Birds a right kicking, extending their win streak to three.  I will remain skeptical, purely out of self-defence, until the team puts together a length stretch of good baseball, convincing me that the dead-ass play that has plagued for much of this season is a thing of the past.

When exactly did the pod people return Kevin Millar to us?

Some random linkage:

Edward Cossette, arguably the ur-Red Sox blogger, is the subject of an interview at WBUR.

And from ESPN, an article deriding Baltimore as a terrible sports town.

Rumble in Fenway

Welcome back to Boston A-Rod.

I skipped the first 2/3 of the game today, opting to take in The Bourne Surpemacy instead. I needed a break.

But my friends and I walked into the local during a sixth inning that seemed to go on forever, just in time to see the Red Sox mount a comeback, culminating in Mueller's shot into the bullpen off Rivera. So the lads have some fight left in them still, I guess.

I bumped into Paul at the door on the way in, and he gave me the low down on the earlier brawl. "I don't think A-Rod understood this whole rivalry thing," he said, "I think he thought he could just jaw at Varitek and walk away."

Uh...no.

Speaking of the brawl, somebody help me here. I missed the live broadcast, but watched the clip available at Boston Dirt Dogs. Now correct if I'm wrong, but did I hear Tim 'I Love The Yankees' McCarver claiming that Oritz swung on Sturtze? Because I watched that clip at least a half-dozen times and though I saw the Tizzle trying to pull Sturtze off of Kapler, I didn't see him swing.

Maybe McCarver saw something I missed. Maybe McCarver would like to fellate the Yankees starting lineup.

You decide. I hate the sonofabitch either way. Worst. Announcer. Ever.

Come Back Home Kevin...

...all is forgiven.

Yes, I know I've said and thought bad things about your continuing presence in the starting lineup. I'm sorry.

I confess I laughed when someone suggested that you should be shanked in the clubhouse shower for the good of the team. That was wrong and shortsighted.

Tonight Manny went 0 - zero - for 5. The Ortizzle went 1 for 3. Nomar went 1 for 4. Even the well beloved Trot went 1 for 5.

Tonight you started against the MFYs and went 3 for 4.

With 3 homeruns.

Tonight you came to play. Tonight you came to stick that bat up the MFYs' ass. And that you did, despite your team not rising to your level of play. Mike the Cook has soundly mocked me for referring to you as 'The Rally Killer' and I hang my head in shame.

I think I love you. In a strictly manly and platonic kind of way of course.

Would you like a hug? Or maybe a cold adult beverage? First round is on me.

Khaaaaannnn!

From hell's heart, I stab at thee....Yankees.

Derek Jeter...I stab at thee.

Jorge 'Rat Face' Posada...I stab at thee.

Bernie Williams... I stab at thee.

Gary Sheffield... I stab at thee.

Alex Rodriguez... I stab at thee.

"Why does truth call forth hatred?"
-Saint Augustine (1225-1274)

I believe in the code of the feud. I believe in vengeance."
-'Goofy' Hoban (c. 1994)

The Phone's Off The Hook, But You're Not

From today's edition of Dueling Bloggers at Boston.Com, Eric Wilbur writes:

The thing with Schilling is everybody’s sick of him, except for certain online communities where he’s seen as a pied piper. He’s everywhere, from hawking coronary blocking sandwiches to pick-up trucks, you can’t walk a block without seeing his mug on some magazine, billboard, or store window advertisement. He strikes out the opposition. He stops drunk drivers. He legitimizes chat rooms. (Off the record of course. Wink.)

Really? Who's everybody? Either Mr. Wilbur is very out of touch, or I am. I certainly don't get a sense that the fans are 'sick' of Schilling. First of all, he approaches the game with intensity. And he wins. I wish the rest of the team had his drive to win. But hey, maybe I'm biased, since in addition to kicking ass for the Sox Mr. Schilling is also a military history buff and a gaming geek. I can't help but like the guy.

Mr. Wilbur did come up with the following little gem:

I find it hilarious that Yankee fans now hold this grudge against Clemens for coming out retirement to play for the Astros. Oh, woe is you. So wronged. Get real. There are two groups of people: Those who knew Clemens wouldn’t stay retired, and Yankee fans. I mean come on, no press conference, with that ego? You had to be about as gullible as Charlie Brown at a cult recruitment center to believe he was done.

Indeed. I can't comprehend how a Yankees fan could complain about anything - you're living on baseball's Easy Street. Shut up and enjoy.

Once More Into the Breach

I 'borrowed' the above picture from the gentlemen over at Surviving Grady and I'm presenting it here as a service to any of my readers who are:
a) Red Sox fans that...
b) didn't see the game last night and...
c) may not comprehend what the image on the right depicts.

Which would be understandable since the image depicts defense, something the Red sox have been a little short of recently. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yesterday afternoon the Orioles bitchslapped the Red Sox again in the first game of a day/night doubleheader. The Red Sox sent Abe Alvarez to the mound, who according to some posters at Sons of Sam Horn, is legally blind in one eye.

Fuck me if I'm kidding - I couldn't make that shite up. The Red Sox called up a one-eyed pitcher from AA. The results were predictable; Alavarez, who tops out in the mid-eighties and is a control pitcher, was roughed up to the tune of five runs over five innings, with 2 strikeouts and 5 walks. Red Sox batters responded by remaining ineffective, getting only 3 runs from 11 hits, 2 of those RBIs coming from a Millar homer. When Mendoza trotted out of the bullpen, you knew the game was over.

But a funny thing happened in the second game - the Red Sox showed signs of life. Of competitiveness. In the first inning Dave McCarty, throwing from left field, cut down Brian Roberts at home plate. Defense, at last. And for shits and giggles, McCarty went 2 for 3 at bat, driving in 2, while fellow newbie Kevin Youkilis also went 2 for 3, with a homerun for good measure. While the entire top half of the batting order put up a string of 0 fors (though Manny did get his 79th RBI), the bottom half powered the offense. Just the other day my dad was claiming that 'if the Sox get to the World Series it'll be because of a bunch of rookies and unknowns.' I thought the old man was having flashbacks to the Impossible Dream of 67, but maybe he's on to something. I'd certainly like to see more playing time for Kapler, McCarty and Youkilis.

I haven't even touched on Wakefield's performance. I love this guy. He's been around forever, done whatever the team has asked - started, relieved, closed - and seems to have a knack for coming up big when the team needs it. After giving up 10 earned runs in his last two starts (which lasted only a total of 10 innings) Wake held the Birds scoreless for 7 innings yesterday, on a day when the team desperately needed a strong outing from their starter and some rest for their bullpen.

Now the Yankees are in town, and I'm wondering which Red Sox team will show to play - the one that made the most of Wake's start or the one that threw away Arroyo's? Because I know which Yankees team will ahow up. You can hate the Yankees, like I do. You can look at Jeter's cold lifeless eyes and think 'there's a man with a dead hooker in his trunk,' like I do. But if you're the least bit honest, you have to respect the Yankees. They come to play. They come to win. They are professionals, in every sense of the word, a tone that is set by Joe Torre:

Torre can be their friend, but he's their manager first, and everyone knows it. There are no shenanigans in the dugout. Nobody's asking to go home. You don't see A-Rod or Jeter sitting out key games, and both have had legitimate reasons to do so at times this season.

There are rules. There is still no facial hair allowed below the lip. Players and coaches must dress in suitcoats and ties on the road. Torre does not allow music in the clubhouse before or after games.

So let the ancient feud begin yet again. And let us hope that yesterday's performance was not another flash-in-the-pan by a team that has disappointed time and time again this year.

Memorable Movies

I lifted this from Red, who in turn found it courtesy of the Big Stupid One.

1) What moment from what movie still makes you laugh out loud - no matter how many times you see it?

The Mayor's speech in Blazing Saddles: "We'll take the n*****s and the chinks, but We. Won't. Take. The. Irish!"

Louis (Rick Moranis) at Ghost Buster's HQ: "Yes. Have some."

Spinal Tap..all of it I guess.  But the scene at Elvis' grave always come to mind, as well watching the band get lost backstage ("Hello Cleveland!"). And of course...Stonehenge.

The bar scene in The Sure Thing, especially the fat guy trying in vain to engage the waitress in conversation.  Kills me.

The opening scene in Super Troopers: "Candy bars!"

2) What moment from what movie still makes you cry like a baby - no matter how many times you see it?

I can neither confirm nor deny this, but rumor has it that Secondhand Lions may caused a few moments of misty-eyes, along with last stand of Pike and Dutch in The Wild Bunch.

3) What moment from what movie made you actually turn your head from the screen - either in fear, revulsion, or contempt for the fact that you actually paid money to see the film?

Like Red, the Well Girl from The Ring coming out of the TV scare the bejesus out of me.  There's no logical reason for it - it's not like I worry about angry chicks popping out of my TV - but that image just hits home in an entirely visceral way.

For revulsion: the scene in Saving Private Ryan where Pvt. Mellish is knifed to death by SS soldier. I can't think of a more gut churning image of death. The fear and desperation displayed by Adam Goldberg as he pleads for his life is horrifying.

(BONUS) What is one single moment from a film that is indelibly etched in your brain? Not a scene or a sequence exactly, but three or four seconds from a movie that contain an image or phrase or concept that transcends normal movies?  

Darth Vader boarding the captured Rebel Blockage Runner, stepping over the dead and emrging through the smoke.  When I first saw it this brief clip screamed 'bad guy! really bad guy!' to my seven year old brain.

Highlife n' Cake

My good friend (and great cook) Jerry surprised me with a birthday cake at the local last night. Lovely delicious yellow cake, the remains of which await me in my fridge and may possibly serve as tonight's main course. Like Heather, Jerry takes pains to search out unique gifts. Very unique - it's thanks to Jerry that I now own a DVD of Johnny Sokko And His Giant Robot. Maybe not a big deal to you, but to those of us who recall this tragedy of Shakespearean proportions airing on Channel 56's Creature Double Feature ....well, let's just say my cup runneth over. And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, Cass and Jim presented with the two disc DVD of True Romance. Now that just rocks because I am that guy who will watch all the extras and listen to the commentary on any DVD.

I would like to point out that the Bunny penned a tribute to the number 34 in honor of my 34th birthday. I would also like to point to out to Bunny that 34 is also the ounces of beef jerky consumed daily on our recent road trip.

Thank guys!

Rescue Me

I've always rather liked Dennis Leary, both his work and his work for charity. And it's always seemed a shame to me that he never really caught a movie or television role that really worked for him, that made full use of his talent. But now it seems like he's come up with a winner and another show that may make me regret my lack of cable.

Another Damn Personality Test

I found this one at Red's place, and naturally couldn't resist taking it.  Apparently I am a WEDF: a Wacky Emotional Destructive Follower -  very weird since I tend to take exception at being told what to do.  At least the emoitional part fits.  Anyway, the result goes on to say the following:

You are a WEDF--Wacky Emotional Destructive Follower. This makes you a menace to society, depending on how you channel your energies. You chew your fingers and have an addictive personality. Properly guided, you can be enormously productive--otherwise you run amok, stir up trouble, and generally have a hell of a good time.To your friends, you are a source of relentless entertainment. You often get into trouble, but you almost always find a way out. You are strangely popular and feed off others' energy. You live hard, seize the day, and although your more sober friends would like to see you settled down, you generally have fewer regrets and better memories than they do. Your tenet is that, at the end of the day, one regrets only what one didn't try. You are right.You could benefit from outside help in balancing your highs and lows. Or perhaps cutting back on the caffeine.

Ummm....ok. 

Belated Book Notes

Some long overdue comments on some of the books I've read this year.

27. The Elves and the Otterskin - Elizabeth Boyer
A fantasy that leans heavily and outright borrows from Norse mythology. When I was a kid Boyer’s The Sword and the Satchel was a favorite and oft-repeated read. I don’t know if my youth and memory have combined to make that book much better than it actually was, but The Elves and the Otterskin was rather plodding.

28. The Summer of the Great Grandmother - Madeline L'Engle
This is the second of L’Engle’s Crosswicks Journals. A couple of months back there was an article in the New Yorker about L’Engle, in which family members claimed that parts of her Crosswicks Journals were fabrications. That maybe so, but I still really enjoyed this book, and L’Engle’s thoughts on death and the process of dying.

29. Slan - A.E. Van Vogt
A classic from the golden age of science fiction from which I derived little pleasure. Some classics (such as Heinlein’s Starship Troopers) age well. This one did not; in my opinion it comes off as very hokey, much like a black and white episode of Flash Gordon.

30. A Good Life: Adventures in Newspapering - Ben Bradlee
A breezy and easy going autobiography that left little impression in it’s wake. Call it a vacation read. As you might expect, much of the book is devoted to Watergate and the Nixon era.

31. Positively Fifth Street - James McManus
One of my favorites of this year. In 2000 McManus took on assignment from Harpers magazine to go to Las Vegas and cover the World Series of Poker and the Binion murder trial. McManus, a life-long poker player, took things a step further: putting up his advance from Harper’s, he gained a seat in the ‘Big One’ and advanced all the way to the final table. Even if you’ve never played a hand of Hold ‘Em in your life, this make for engrossing reading.

32. Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille - Steven Brust
A novel about a bar and it’s patrons that is regularly catapulted through time and space. There’s not a lot of heavy mental lifting here, but the book is nto a bad way to pass the time if you’re a sci-fi fan in need of a fix.

33. Hard Revolution - George Pelecanos
Crime fiction from a master of the genre. I’ve raved about Pelecanos in this space before, so I"ll simply say go read him.

34. Big Deal - Anthony Holden
Journalist and biographer Anthony Holden’s account of the year he spent as a professional poker player. Holden plays (or at least played) in the same weekly game as A. Alvarez (The Biggest Game in Town) and you could string their two books together along with Positively Fifth Street and come out with damn good poker trilogy. Start with Alvarez’s book though.

35. Retreat, Hell! - W.E.B. Griffin
A potboiler of military/ historical fiction. Skip it unless you’ve followed this series (The Corps) from the beginning.

36. Cicero - Anthony Everitt
A sharp little biography of one of Rome’s greatest statesman. I took a lot away from this book, in large part because my knowledge of the final days of the Roman Republic in general, and Cicero in specific, were pretty spotty going in. Anyone dismayed with the current state of politics should read this book and see how truly bad things can get.

37. Sharpe's Escape - Bernard Cornwell
A formulaic Sharpe book. How formulaic? So formulaic I can barely remember what the plot involved, save that there was a girl to be won, a villain to be overcome, and a battle or two thrown in for good measure. Makes me wonder if Cornwell is losing his fastball, or the Sharpe series is just bereft of new ideas. Next time I need a fix I’ll re-read Sharpe’s Eagle.

38. Last Car to Elysian Fields - James Lee Burke
The latest novel featuring New Orleans detective Dave Robicheaux. Burke’s prose is so damn good, and the themes he explores so compelling, that you can forget that he seems to be recycling plots.

39. The Intelligent Guide to Texas Hold 'Em Poker - Sam Braids
A very basic guide to the game. Ideal for new – and I mean brand spanking new – players; it even explains the rankings of hands for those who don’t know if a strait beats a flush. The book also introduces some elementary concepts of Hold ‘Em strategy and tactics. Experienced players should feel free to pass over this one.

40. Lost Dorsai - Gordon Dickinson
Forgettable military science fiction. This one left me cold.

Coolness

Not only is she a drinking buddy, confidante, wartime consigliore and all around best bud, but Heather has a knack for picking out kickass presents for any occasion.  Many thanks - thou rockest like a hurricane.

I'll be celebrating my 34th birthday - or at least starting the celebration - at lovely Fenway this evening.  Hopefully the Red Sox will cough up a rare and elusive (for them) consecutive win for the occasion.

Day 2: All Skate

By day two the Hello Kitty Mafia was truly sheltered in the palm of Baseball Jesus. At a rest stop somewhere on the flats of Indiana we acquired sun block and toothpaste. (Though we also discovered a tube of sun block that had been with us since Annapolis, cleverly hidden under the driver's seat.) But the power of the Baseball Jesus extended far beyond providing toiletries...

We got lost in Chicago. Badly lost in a bad neighborhood. The stretch of highway we were attempting to take across Chicago on our way to Milly-wah-kay was jammed. Complete gridlock. So we exited the highway, seeking an alternate route. Unfortunately, so did a lot of other folks. Driving in a Porsche two inches off the ground amid a sea of trucks resulted in us missing a turn. Ten minutes later we were somewhere on the south side of Chicago.

Bunny pulled along side a patrol car of the Chicago P.D. and gestured for the officers to roll down their window.

‘Hi! Can you tell us how to get back to 41?’

The two police officers conferred for a moment, and then the driver leaned across the seat to address us.

‘You better follow us. You’ll never find it from here.’

So off we went. The police officers didn’t feel compelled to stop for red lights and stop signs, and since we were told to follow them, neither did we. It was a reverse police chase across the south side of Chicago, made more atmospheric by the Ramstein (‘Du Hast’) blaring from our speakers and the Adam-12 qualities of the Chicago P.D. (derived from the fact that they ride two to a car and wear old school uniforms). We were so far off-track it took them a good while to lead us back to our route, long enough for Bunny to wonder if they still remembered we were following them. But soon enough we were back on track and speeding north, thanks to the Baseball Jesus and the Chicago police.

A quick consultation with Mission Control confirmed that there was no Laverne and Shirley museum of any sort in Milly-wah-Kay. Though this news shocked and dismayed us, we trusted the Baseball Jesus to provide. And He did, big time.

Approaching Milly-Wah-Kay on route 94, Bunny spotted a billboard across the highway. Like a beacon in the night or a buffet newly stocked with bacon, it called to us, called us to… the Miller Brewery, to take a tour and walk amidst Eden. With his well-known two-cobra quickness Bunny grabbed his phone and dialed the number advertised. 1-414-931-BEER. Scant moments later Adelaide swung out into the left lane and began passing car after car. It was 4:00 and the next tour started in twenty minutes.

I’d be lying if I said we didn’t giggle like schoolgirls when the large Miller sign came into view as we crested the rise and dropped down into Miller Valley. Bunny when into convulsions and began honking the horn while I tilted my head back and screamed. Pedestrians stared, but what did we care? The Baseball Jesus was thirsty and so were we. We parked Adelaide and dashed inside to the ticket counter. ‘We’ve traveled many miles to tour your paradise on earth,’ I said, and thumped the counter top for emphasis. The smiling lady slid two tickets (Free no less. Free!) into our greedy monkey hands and told us to enjoy. And so we did, especially the delicious free samples. But we also realized we’d ran smack into another obstacle.

In planning this trip, we’d checked the schedules of ballparks in our line of travel to which teams were home. We paid no attention to which teams were visiting. When it Milly-Wah-Kay specifically we figured why try to get tickets in advance? Surely Miler Park wouldn’t be sold out? Who wants to see the Brewers play?

Twenty thousand-odd rabid Cubs fans, that’s who. The Cubs were in town to play the Brewers, and north side loyalists by the thousands had come to see them play. When the group for our brewery tour assembled I noticed that everyone was wearing Cubs gear. Everyone. I wondered out loud about our ability to get tickets, but Bunny was nonchalant. ‘We’ll just have to get them from scalpers.’

After the tour and a brief sojourn in the beer garden addressing free postcards* we hopped back into Adelaide and headed for Miller Park. The gift shop would have to wait until tomorrow; there was simply too much Miller merchandise for us to process before the shop closed for the day. It was t-shirt overload.

The first thing we noticed about Miller Park: not only can you drink beer in the parking lots, they sell beer in the parking lots. This only served to reinforce our already glowing feeling about this city. We strolled up to the ticket window on the off chance that some had become available at the last minute, once more trusting in the Baseball Jesus.

‘We need two tickets, anywhere in the park,’ said Bunny.

The clerk called up some data on his computer and replied, ‘I have two for $75 each, in this section behind home plate.’

Bunny and looked at each other for moment, silently reaching consensus, then Bunny turned back to the clerk.

‘We need two of your other tickets.’

Moments later we strolled away with two tickets, reasonably priced, for Section 214, Row 19. However finding the seats proved to be a trifle problematic.

*Actual text: We love you all but we’re never coming home. Send all Red Sox news c/o Miller Beer Garden. Don’t cry for us, we have found our bliss. P.S. Send women.

What Rough Beast

He pitched for seven innings, allowing three hits and one earned run.  He racked up twelve strikeouts, including eleven in a row.
 
Do you think Bronson Arroyo woke up this morning wondering what ancient and malevolent deity he must propitiate in order to record a win?
 

Hating the Rocket

Apparently this gentleman does not think highly of Roger Clemens:
 

Hey, don't think I'm done with you, Clemens. What about this: Not only do you have no fans, you have no team. You don't travel with the Astros unless you have to, and then you go all by yourself. What's with that? If you could, I'm certain you'd hire yourself out, start by start, to the highest bidder. You whore.

 

Day 1: Alice's Restaurant

In the early evening of July 5th we motored into Cleveland, singing aloud to the joyous noise that is Poison. Truly we didn't need nothing but a good time and momma's fallen angels were planning on winning big. Or at least scoring beer, food, and some tickets to the evening's game. Ah Cleveland, I won't forget you...but every rose has it's thorn.

In short order Adelaide was stashed in a shady garage and tickets were secured. Now for nourishment. Across the street from the Jake was an establishment proclaiming itself as 'Cooperstown.' Aha! we thought, a baseball-themed joint - clearly the Baseball Jesus wanted us to break bread here. He did - but for reasons of His own.

I began to understand the mysterious workings of the Baseball Jesus while I looked for the men's room. I passed a series of framed posters hanging from the wall, posters that appeared to be not baseball but rock n' roll memoribilia. A closer inspection revealed that the fact that they all featured Alice Cooper, from all stages of his career. 'Damn this is strange,' I thought, ' who would decorate a sports bar by hanging Alice Cooper stuff in the men's room?' Clearly the sun had addled my brain - it wasn't until I was walking back to the table that I made the connection. This wasn't Cooperstown as baseball's hall of fame but Cooperstown as in welcome to my nightmare. The Baseball Jesus had led us to Alice Cooper'stown. Glancing the menu only confirmed this: selections ranged from No More Mr. Nice Pie (pizza) to Alice's Fresh Veggies.

A brief aside to Ted Nugent: I don't know why you gave one of your gold records to Alice Cooper, and he did hang it in his restaurant like he presumably promised - but he stuck the thing waaaay in the corner, underneath the overhanging television. Are you guys quarreling?

The game itself was satisfactory and we had good seats back of home plate. I'll leave the full-fledged analysis of Jacob's Field to the Bunny and merely note some highlights:

• Cup holders for your beer. I was to learn that just about every park except Fenway has these.
  
• Slider and the Sliderettes. Heh.
  
• Fireworks after the game
  

After the game we motored on to Toledo before stopping for the night. Once holed up in our motel room we began to surf the cable. Neither Bunny nor myself have cable - were unable to pass up the opportunity to graze channels. Which explains why we were up until 4 in the morning watching CHIPs of all things.

Hey, it was a good episode. You know, the one where Ponch's car - his beloved Detriot Iron - gets stolen, and the culprit turns out to be the chick in his apartment complex that he was kind of sparking. And at the end, when he catches her, there's this scene where Ponch is all like 'why'd you do it baby?' and she's explaining the pressures that drove her into a life of grand theft auto and then Ponch shakes his head at the tragic waste of it all, because even though he's a veteran of the CHP and he's seen it all before, the pathos never fails to touch him.

While I'm on the subject of Ponch, how on God's green earth did Erik Estrada make his way into the Angel's dugout!? I was watching the game without sound (at the local) - was there any explanation for this? The average Angels player was what..five years old the last time ole Erik was on prime time? Do they even know who he is?

Day 1: Black Hole Sun

On Monday morning at 11 AM we stepped out of Bunny's apartment and walked down Fleet Street towards Adelaide, to stow our gear and begin our epic journey.  While Bunny put the top down  I stood looking into the sky, feeling the heat already pressing down and thinking of the burn I'd acquired while displaying my past white torso on the boat the previous Saturday.
 
'You know what,' I began, 'we're going to need...'
 
'Some sun block,' Bunny finished.
 
Now two sensible lads would have sent one of their number to the general store around the corner, to acquire some sun block before rolling west. But we are not sensible lads, so we decided we'd get some sun block 'on the way.'
 
Four hours later we were cooking like bacon on an open flame.  'On the way' apparently suffered from a serious dearth of available sun block.  Our foreheads felt like century old leather and our respective trucker's tans, from dangling opposite arms over the door, were morphing into trucker's severe burns.  We could've put the top back up - but that would've been smart, and why have a convertible Boxster if you're going to ride with the top up in the summer? Our clever stop-gap measure was to drap hats over the most egregious damge done by the sun.  Like Gollum, we were learning to hate the Yellow Face.
 
Such was the situation when the highway choked off to one lane and traffic began to slow, somewhere in the mountains of western Pennsylvania.  This was not good; the whole purpose of this trip was to move and move fast and the black couds gathering above only reinforced this urge.  We needed to get further west, back on an open and free-flowing road and out from under the threat of rain.  Traffic continued to slow, and we rolled by a hand-lettered sign nailed to tree.
 
Trust Jesus.
 
Yes indeed! Clearly this missive was aimed at us. Trust Jesus...the Baseball Jesus. He would see us through this crisis, past this weird junction in the high country where the highway inexplicably came to a stop at a traffic light. A looong traffic light...but our new found faith saw us through, back to high speed driving and un-rained upon.
 
There would be no sun block that day, and unpacking for the night we discovered that neither had thought to pack tooth paste*, but we felt a turning point had been reached.  Baseball could test our faith - we would remain steadfast and trust in His guidance to see us through the trials ahead.
 
*Did I mention the lack of planning associated with this venture? At times 'lack of planning' crossed over into 'shouldn't be allowed to roam about unsupervised' territory.
 

A Tribute To Ned Martin

This is a beautiful piece.
 
It's also the current headline at Boston Dirt Dogs.
 
Go read it.
 

Third Verse, Same As The First

There's not much for me to say about last night's game that hasn't already been said elsewhere.  I didn't even watch the whole thing; what with the west coast start and all there was no way I was going to stay up into the small hours of the morning, just to watch Derek Lowe do his kooky freakout dance. Again.
 
And we'll get to see it again since Chauncey the Manager...I mean Terry Francona has seen fit to set the rotation such that Lowe, not Pedro, will start against the Yankees in the upcoming series.
 
(Sigh). I am pondering the mystery of Terry Francona.  Is he The Mole, a deep-cover agent provocateur in the employ of our enemies? Is the Rainman of managers? ("Definitely Millar. Definitely. He's very sparkly.") What on God's green earth is driving his decision making process?
 
From the useless-fact crowded nether regions of my mind, I seem to recall something Bill Lee said about Don Zimmer managing the Red Sox back in the late 70's.  Something to the effect that the team had the talent to win and didn't need a manager, that it would be simpler to designate Ted William's shirt (or some such inanimate object) as manager and simply send the same lineout out on the field every game.*
 
Apparently nothing changes around here.

Day 1: Trust Jesus... Baseball Jesus.

The first thing you need to know about Operation: Roaddogs is that there was little done by way of planning. We had an itinerary, based on what teams were playing at home that week, a couple of planned meetings with friends on the way, two packed bags, one road map atlas, a fast car, and that was it. No tickets purchased in advance, no hotel reservations, no real idea about what we would do beyond see some baseball games.

The second thing you need to know about Operation: Roaddogs is that we received a message from God. Taking pity on our poor souls, He contacted us through the medium of a humble road side sign - Trust Jesus. We responded, by accepting the Baseball Jesus as our Lord and Savior, and He provided. 'Trust Baseball Jesus' became our mantra, the Roaddog's Creed. And so game tickets, fancy restaurants, Miller Valley and many other great and wondrous things were delivered unto us.

But first the Baseball Jesus tested our faith.

The Scribblings Say

I have a notebook, that is never very far from my reach. It's about 2 inches wide by 4 tall, leather bound with a leather tie. It contains, first and foremost, many lists, of books and CDs I've slated for future purchase and consumption. You can also find within: various phone numbers and email addresses; Christmas lists from years past; directions to random places from here to Chicago; planing notes from Heather's bachelorette; and notes on my recent trip. Many of these will be expanded into longer entries in the future, so for now I will simply note the following:

The final entry from Day Three is the word 'absorb,' penned in a drunken scrawl. Absorb? What the hell was I thinking? Absorb more beer? Absorb the moment, that finite point in time? Absorb the remains of egg yolk with my toast? What the fuck was my then-self trying to communicate with my now-self?

I am haunted by this mystery.

And scanning my miscellaneous observations from Day Four, I now recall that we (that being Snuggles, The Bunny and I) were dubbed "The Hello Kitty Mafia."

Man we're baaaaaad.

Home is the Hunter

Well, I'm back.

Of course I have many tales to tell: of the paradise-on-earth known as Miller Valley in exotic Milly-wah-kay; of Eddie the Navajo Marine and Rio the Viking Bartender; Roger and the Yankee Brewmaster; Alice Cooper's Restaraunt, the smallBar and the Billy Goat Tavern; and why the Foxtail boys give the Chicago P.D. two thumbs up.

And baseball too. We did see some ballgames amidst everything else, employing our unique and soon to be patented ballpark rating system at the Jake, Miller Park, U.S. Cellular, and whatever they're calling the new park in Philly.

All coming your way in the future. Stay tuned.

The Foxtail Boys...

...have arrived in Chicago. Kicked it South Side style last at New Comiskey* night; now we're off downtown for a bit o' culture.

*Yes I now it's really called U.S. Cellular or some damn thing, but I refuse to call it that.

Comfortably Numb, or...

...Milwaukee: City on the Edge of Forever.

Last night's loss didn't bother me quite as much as the previous two. Perhaps because it was a damn exciting game in which the Red Sox played hard and committed no errors.

Or maybe I've just gone numb.

Although watching shortstop/serial killer Derek Jeter make an outstanding play was painful, more beer cured ailment.

Regardless, there won't be any Red Sox for me over the next ten days. Instead I'll be watching baseball in strange and far away places like Milwaukee, a city forever linked in my mind to Alice Cooper due to that Wayne's World segment. Odds are 10-to-1 that at some point while sojourning there I use the Cooperian pronunciation - Milly-wah-kay - and annoy some local.

Packing was done last night. Ten minutes to pack for ten days away..except the crucial decision regarding what reading material to bring. I have a deep and abiding fear of being caught somewhere, sometime without something to read. No doubt when I am punished in the afterlife for my many sins, my particular hell will resemble The Waiting Room of the Damned: where the doctor never calls for you, and the only periodicals to read are seven year old issues of People magazine and three issues of Highlights with Goofus and Gallant torn out.

Litany of the Saints

The Litany of the Saints - sung/recited at the Easter Vigil by dutiful Catholics:

Saint Perpetua and Saint Felicity,
Pray for us.
Saint Agnes,
Pray for us.
Saint Gregory,
Pray for us.
Saint Augustine,
Pray for us.
Saint Athanasius,
Pray for us.
Saint Basil,
Pray for us.

Naturally, the Church of Baeball has it's own Litany of Saints, that I'm invoking for good karma on the coming road trip.

Catfish, Mudcat, Ducky, Coot.
The Babe, The Barber, The Blade, The Brat.
Windy, Dummy, Gabby, Hoot.
Big Train, Big Six, Big Ed, Fat.

Greasy, Sandy, Muddy, Rocky.
Bunions, Twinkletoes, Footsie, The Hat.
Fuzzy, Dizzy, Buddy, Cocky.
The Bull, The Stork, The Weasle, The Cat.
Schoolboy, Sheriff,
Rajah, Duke,
General, Major,
Spaceman, Spook.

The Georgia Peach, The Fordham Flash,
The Flying Dutchman. Cot.
The People's Cherce, The Blazer. Crash.
The Staten Island Scot.
Skeeter, Scooter,
Pepper, Duster,
Ebba, Bama, Boomer, Buster.

The Little Professor, The Iron Horse. Cap.
Iron Man, Iron Mike, Iron Hands. Hutch.
Jap, The Mad Russian, Irish, Swede. Nap.
Germany, Frenchy, Big Serb, Dutch,
Turk. Tuck, Tug, Twig.
Spider, Birdy, Rabbit, Pig.

Fat Jack, Black Jack, Zeke, Zack. Bloop.
Peanuts, Candy, Chewing Gum, Pop.
Chicken, Cracker, Hot Potato, Soup.
Ding, Bingo.
Hippity-Hopp.

Three-Finger, No-Neck, The Knuck, The Lip.
Casey, Gavvy, Pumpsie, Zim.
Flit, Bad Henry. Fat Freddie, Flip.
Jolly Cholly, Sunny Jim.
Shag, Schnozz,
King Kong, Klu.
Boog, Buzz,
Boots, Bump, Boo.

King Carl, The Count. The Rope, The Whip.
Wee Willie, Wild Bill, Gloomy Gus. Cy.
Bobo, Bombo, Bozo. Skip.
Coco, Kiki, Yo-yo. Pie.
Dinty, Dooley,
Tuffy, Snuffy,
Stubby, Dazzy,
Daffy, Duffy.

Baby Doll, Angel Sleeves, Pep, Sliding Billy,
Buttercup, Bollicky, Boileryard, Juice.
Colby Jack, Dauntless Dave, Cheese,
Gentle Willie,
Trolley Line, Wagon Tongue, Rough,
What's the Use.

Ee-yah,
Poosh 'Em Up,
Skoonj, Slats, Ski.
Ding Dong,
Ding-a-Ling,
Dim Dom, Dee.

Famous Amos. Rosy, Rusty.
Handsome Ransom. Home Run, Huck.
Rapid Robert. Cactus, Dusty.
Rowdy Richard. Hot Rod, Truck.
Jo-Jo, Jumping Joe,
Little Looie,
Muggsy, Moe.

Old Folks, Old Pard, Oom Paul. Yaz.
Cowboy, Indian Bob, Chief, Ozark Ike.
Rawhide, Reindeer Bill. Motormouth. Maz.
Pistol Pete, Jungle Jim, Wahoo Sam. Spike.
The Mad Hungarian.
Mickey, Minnie.
Kitten, Bunny.
Big Dan, Moose.
Jumbo, Pee Wee; Chubby, Skinny.
Little Poison.
Crow, Hawk, Goose.

Marvelous Marv.
Oisk, Oats, Tookie.
Vinegar Bend.
Suds, Hooks, Hug.
Hammerin' Hank.
Cooch, Cod, Cookie.
Harry the Horse.
Speed, Stretch, Slug.

The Splendid Splinter. Pruschka. Sparky.
Chico, Choo Choo, Cha-Cha, Chub.
Dr. Strangeglove. Deacon. Arky.

Abba Dabba. Supersub.
Bubbles, Dimples, Cuddles, Pinky.
Poison Ivy, Vulture, Stinky.
Jigger, Jabbo
Jolting Joe
Blue Moon
Boom Boom
Bubba
Bo

Pray for Us.

Roaddogs Itinerary

The schedule has been set. The weekend will be spent in Annapoplis: Bunny will chase skirts and I will eat and drink in great quantities and throw him the bloop pitches a proper wingman should. Plus we'll avoid a lot of traffic (our advance agents specifically wanred us away from St. Louis this weekend). Then - the open road beckons...

July 5 Cleveland
July 6 Milwaukee
July 7 Chicago
July 8 Chicago
July 9 OPEN (possible Cooperstown visit)
July 10 Philly
July 11 Baltimore

No Mas

Red is visited by the ghost of Butch Hobson and basically says it better.

You'll be back. This is your cocaine, my boy. You can't resist. Pedro goes nine tomorrow night and you'll be blabbering on at the office about how this is the year and how the Yanks are toast. The foam hand will be out. The Schilling jersey on your back. You're hooked, buddy.