Angels With Dirty Faces

Saturday evening, sitting at the Trinity Brewhouse, grabbing a bite and a beer before picking up the Bunny at the airport. Naturally the Red Sox are on playing on both TVs above the bar. Everyone is watching; the bartenders and are I chattering intermittently about the Sox while they serve up beers. The younger of the two (or is it three? It's hard to tell, the bartenders keep coming and going from behind the bar) stops in front me. He's putting some clean glasses away, and he grins insanely at no one in particular.

"I hate the Red Sox," he says. He's joking; he's smiling so much I can tell he's a die-hard fan. He's sharing an inside joke. Of course he doesn't hate the Sox. Nobody in here hates the Red Sox. not tonight. The very thought is so ridiculous that he finds it hilarious to even give voice to the notion. I grin back at him.

"Really? You hate the Red Sox? You've barely been able to tear yourself away from the TV all evening."

That from one of the gaggle of girls down to my left.

"Yes, I do. I really hate the Red Sox."

He cackles out loud and walks away, down to the service station at the end of the bar.

A man walks in and takes a seat three bar stools down from me, striking up a conversation with the bartender. I can hear stray bits of their discussion - the stranger is from out of town, and expressing surprise that the Olympics are not on either TV. I can't help but join in...

"The Olympics? You're in New England now. It's all about the Red Sox."

And starting tonight, it certainly is all about the Red Sox. Curt Schilling takes the mound against the Angels tonight, for the first of nine games against Boston's chief rivals for the post-season berth: Anaheim, Texas and Oakland. The Red Sox are hot, posting an AL-leading record of 20-7 in August (.731 winning percentage), but Anaheim (.720) and Oakland (.620) are not far behind. The days of beating up sub-.500 teams are over for the moment; now the Sox come up against the teams that stand between them and the Wild Card.

And the Yankees still loom ahead. Or as some would have it, The Evil Empire.

Lock S-Foils Into Attack Positions!

And so Red Squadron begins their attack run down the Death Star trench, pursued by Tie-fighters from the western teams, clinging to a narrow lead in the Wild Card race and hoping to drop a photon torpedo square in the exhaust port of the Bronx Star.

Why not?

Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright

I have not written of the Red Sox lately, but (of course) they have been very much on my mind. Borrowing that trusty sportswriter's crutch, here are some random thoughts on the Olde Towne Team...

Derek Lowe has clearly benefited from Nomar trade; his record since then has been 3-1. But his record of utter suckitude during the earlier parts of the season left me with an abnormally high level of frustration with him. Very unfair on my part perhaps, but every time Lowe gives up a run I simultaneously cringe with apprehension and sputter with rage, thinking 'here we go again - he's going to cough this one up.'

I will not to succumb to the fear that we will lose Manny for a length period of time. I will not to succumb to the fear that we will lose Manny for a length period of time. I will not to succumb to the fear that we will lose Manny for a length period of time. (Take deep breath. Repeat as necessary.)

The Timlinator has returned to the deadly form that made him so effective during the homestretch last year. I'm not the only one who thinks he looks like a hard-ass on the mound; plenty of folks are coming to view him as the Luca Brazi of the Sox bullpen. I do, however, think Timlin's intimidation quotient could be greatly increased. Perhaps you recall the post-apocalyptic epic we call The Road Warrior? And if so, maybe you also recall the chief baddie of the film, a giant iron hockey-mask wearing thug known as The Humungus? Good..still with me? Right then, in the movie The Humungus was chauffeured about in a mean-looking dune buggy-like contraption, driven by a chained gimp of some sort? Well... I think the Timlinator merits such a vehicle to serve has his 21st century bullpen cart. Complete with gimp. That would be an intimidating entry, especially if Timlin wore the hockey mask. Maybe the leather codpiece too - but I doubt MLB would allow that. Even better, do you recall the scene in The Road Warrior where The Humungus chains prisoners to his hoopty, to taunt and intimidate his foes? I bet you do, and I know you'll agree with me when I say the Timlinator should follow suit. Imagine the excitement of the crowd as Mad Mike rolls in from the bullpen, yelling threats over a bullhorn, while the enemy batters chained to his 'cart' wail for mercy. Dig it.

I haven't had (much) cause to complain about Francona lately. In fact, I could resign myself to his presence if they'd just stop showing close-ups of him in the dugout. Unlikely to happen - he is the manager after all - but I'd rather not see certain things. First of all - the rocking back and forth. Some call it a sign of autism; I find it sinister. The rocking starts, and suddenly I hear Dueling Banjos. And then there's the chewing tobacco. Though it's rampant in MLB, I had the other night what some might refer to as a 'searing' experience. The camera was zoomed in on Tito when suddenly viewers were treated to the spectacle of this huge brown mass forcing it's way past Tito's lips. Oh the horror! I nearly fell off my barstool; it looked he was trying to defecate throug his mouth. Truly awful.

More Tigers-Red Sox action tonight. Freaking everybody won last night, including the Yanks, so the Sox need to contiue their blistering pace. Think sweep folks, think sweep.

Not For Real

The Tarantino blog is a fake. Oh well.

Summer Lovin'

Nothing says summer fun like a good ole fashioned mullet contest, now being hosted by Bruce at mASS BACKWARDS.

Dead Man Blogging

Fascinating. Our Cultural Attache in Charm City sends word tha Adndy Kaufman has returned from the dead.

The world waits for Elvis...

Minutiae

Being a record of a dialogue with (mostly) myself while wandering through Stop n' Shop...

It's cold in here.
Called air conditioning, bud.
I know. I just don't think I should have to get all Mr. Rogers to avoid chilblains.

That woman isn't wearing a bra.
Obviously. Avert your eyes pig.
Obviously is right. Does she know how pointy she is?
Move along. You've business to attend to.

You need razorblades. You're almost out.
I know. They don't have the kind I need though.
True. They have all the knew stuff. For the Mach 3.
'Mach 3' my ass. Why is Gillette fucking with my head? Why do I need a three-bladed razor? Two blades work fine.
Remember what you heard that dude saying? This one has an electric current that lifts up your hairs. For a closer shave.
It electrifies my cheeks? I don't that need that. I'm kicking it alte schule with my Sensor. This is just a ploy to get me to buy something expensive that I don't need.
Like DVDs?
Shutup.
You'll get a closer shave if you switch.
A closer shave? How much closer could I shave? Who notices these things? Closer? Why don't they just invent a razor that peels off your top layer of skin?
Because then you'd resemble The Red Skull. People would cower. Children would scream. Bad scene that.
Whatever. Forget it. I'll get razorblades next time.

You don't need toothpaste. You just bought some last week.
I know. But at look at all these kinds of toothpaste, there's...hundreds of them. How do people choose? How do they make an informed decision about toothpaste?
It's toothpaste dumbass. Nobody makes 'informed' decisions about toothpaste. Except dentists. Everyone else just personal preference.
Well how could you know which one you prefer? There's so many to try. You could spend a life time... damn, look at all that fucking shampoo! Same thing.
Ummm, you can't even handle tomatoes dude; I wouldn't waste anytime freaking out over toiletries.
The tomato problem is solved. I can handle tomatoes my friend.
Right. This from the guy who presented a girlfriend with a scallion like it was the winning lottery ticket.
Hey - I got the right mushrooms that time too. And I have a procedure for tomatoes.
You have a Tomato Procedure?
Yes. An official Tomato Procedure. Red. Round. No bigger than my fist.
What about the yellowish ones?
Stop it.
Or the cherry tomatoes?
Stop it! You know I pretend not to see those.
Allright then. You've mastered tomatoes. I notice you never go to the deli counter though.
Fuck the deli counter. Waaaaayyy too complicated.
You are such the gourmand. It's impressive. Really.
Why do you think they have a whole aisle dedicated to pasta? And canned soup. All in one aisle. For people like me. I don't need the deli counter. It's fascist.
You're lucky you don't think out loud.

Where the hell are the Q-tips?
Not in this section. You've been up and down these aisles four times.
Well, they should be here! This is where the bathroom stuff is. Logically, Q-tips should be here.
Clearly they're not.
Clearly Stop n' Shop is hiding the Q-tips. They treat Q-tips like that mad wife bricked up behind the wall.
You scare me.
Never mind. This guy works here. I'll ask him. Excuse me, can you tell me what aisle Q-tips are in?

Q-tips? Umm... you know, cotton swabs?

Donde este la Q-tips?

That's ok. Thanks anyways.
I cannot believe you said that.
Why? That sounded like Spanish he was speaking.
How the hell would you know? You don't speak Spanish. He could be Haitian for all you know.
He's sooo not Haitian. Haitians speak French. I speak French. I would know if he was speaking French.
You most emphatically do not speak French.
Huh? I studied French. For years.
You dropped French. You switched majors because you didn't want to take anymore French.
Nevermind. And bugger the Q-tips.
Forget the Q-tips eh? So you've been here 20 minutes and have...?
Milk. This container of milk.

Why is there no pita bread to be had? A whole wall of bread..but no pita!
It's probably in another aisle. Try foreign foods.
Again, this is insane. Who designs these layouts? Who makes these decisions? Rainman?

Look there. See? Q-tips.
I see. Right next to the baby formula. First place I'd look.
Makes sense. Babies need Q-tips
It makes no mind of sense. Q-tips are for everyone.

Lookee here. People magazine says Lindsay Lohan is 'Young, Rich and in Love."
Hah. She's eighteen. She wouldn't know love if it jumped up and bit her on her ludicrous breasts. What the hell are her parent doing?
They're busy pimping her out.

That lady keeps bumping into me.
She's too busy talking on her cellphone to notice.
I notice. It's annoying.
Stay cool. The cashier is almost done.
I am cool. But that lady should put the phone away.
Why?
Her child is eating some sort of packaging material.

For Real?

I have no idea if this a hoax or not, but this blog supposedly belongs to Quentin Tarantino. Very cool, if true.

In the first entry he talks about his current project Inglorious Bastards:

Truth is it's gonna be something like you've never seen in a war movie before -- there isn't going to be as much fighting and shit as there will be focus on the characters. It's my stab at THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY (my pick for best-directed film of all time), which used the Civil War as a backdrop. WWII is going to be my backdrop here.

Whoa. I thought Kill Bill 2 had Leone stamped all over it. How much more Leone-esque can you get?

Not that too much Leone is ever a bad thing.

Incidentally - I found the Tarantino link at Retro-boy's place; apparently Retro stumbled here via the 'next blog' button Blogger placed on the new tool bar folks are adding. Anyone else getting lots (lots meaning for me five or six) of hits from this feature?

There are two kinds of people in the world...

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is one of the select films on Dan's Top Ten Films; it's the apex of the spaghetti western and Eli Wallach (as Tuco) is the perfect foil for Clint Eastwood. Indeed, I think Wallach is the true star of the movie; he really steals the show from Eastwood.

I learned of images courtesy of Red. There's all sorts on interesting articles there, including an interview with Eli Wallach.

And I enjoyed working with Clint, who said to me, "When I finish this picture, I’m not gonna make any more Italian movies. I’m gonna make my own." So, for thirty some odd years, he’s been making his own, and I’ve not been in one of them! But I like him.

Scientists Pick Sci-Fi

From the Guardian - the "the world's best scientists nominate their favourite authors."

It's hard to quarrel with their choices overall; though I would rate Phillip K. Dick and Frank Herbert much higher. Dune (Herbert) and The Man in the High Castle (Dick) are great favorites of mine that I'd recommend to anyone - even folks who generally don't like science fiction.

The Dave Matthews Band Stinks

From Yahoo news:

The state of Illinois has filed a lawsuit against the Dave Matthews Band for allegedly dumping up to 800 pounds of liquid human waste from its tour bus into the Chicago River earlier this month.

And that was bad news for Chicago's First Lady, a passing tour boat filled with 100 people on an architecture sightseeing cruise that was doused by the falling excrement.

Two things occur to me after reading this:
1. I'm glad that my visit to Chicago, and excursion on an architecture tour, did not coincide with Dave Matthews' visit.
2. It's most unfortunate that the Dave Matthews Band were not dumping 800 pounds of their awful CDs.

Judgement Day

I'm linking to this piece, on daytime television in general and television judges in particular, largely due to my delight in the following sentence:

Springer’s show is the nadir of the genre, the television equivalent of maggots churning on rotten meat.

Shoot Straight Ya Bastards!

The war should've been over. The enemy had been defeated; his armies dispersed and his cities occupied. Unfortunately the enemy refused to acknowledge defeat, and continued the struggle through unconventional means. Instead of divisions of artillery and infantry, the enemy waged war in groups of ragged guerrillas using hit-and-run tactics. The guerrillas struck at outposts, patrols in the field, supply lines... and then vanished into the forbidding countryside.

Faced with a war they had not prepared to fight, the occupiers also resorted to unconventional methods. A special unit was established, intended to combat the guerrillas on their own terms - fire with fire. Like the guerrillas they opposed, this special unit spent most of their time in the field, living off they land. They operated independently, largely free of the direct oversight from superior officers. The unit's unorthodox tactics were successful, and soon they became greatly feared by the guerrillas.

Trouble began when the unit's commander was wounded in an ambush and left behind by his men, forced to withdraw under heavy fire. When the soldiers returned they found the body of their commander - he had been mutilated, castrated and killed. They went in hot pursuit of the guerrillas, capturing and executing one of them found wearing their late commandeers uniform. Later, a group of guerrillas coming in to surrender were taken aside and shot. A foreign clergyman, sympathetic to the guerrillas and the native population, was killed under mysterious circumstances after leaving the unit's encampment. Now faced with an international incident, the commander-in-chief launched an investigation into the unit's conduct, resulting in it's officers being brought to court martial, charged with murder...

It would be understandable if you thought that I drew the above narrative from today's headlines. In fact, the events described occurred over a hundred years ago and are depicted in the superb Australian film Breaker Morant, which came out in 1980. The film is set during the later stage of the Boer War, fought between the forces of the British Empire on one hand, and the forces of the Boer Republics on the other. At this point in the war, the Boers had been, by most standards, beaten - their armies defeated in the field, their countries overrun and occupied. But they refused to concede defeat and continued the using guerilla tactics, to the great frustration of the British.

An irregular unit, the Bushveldt Carbineers, was established to combat the Boers on their own terms. The Carbineers met with great success, becoming greatly feared by the Boers, but on August 5, 1901 the commander of the Carbineers, Capt. Percy Hunt, was wounded in an ambush, captured, mutilated and killed. Lt. Harry Harbord 'Breaker' Morant took over command of the Bushveldt Carbineers; grieving for his dead friend (Morant was in fact engaged to Hunt's sister) he oversaw the execution of some 12 Boer prisoners over the next six weeks. A German clergyman suspected of aiding the Boer Kommandos (at this time German sympathies lay with the Boer Republics) was also killed on Morant's orders. As a result Lt. Morant, along with Lt. Peter Handcock and Lt. George Witton, were brought up on charges of murder. The three men never denied executing the Boer prisoners. Their defense rested on their claim that they were acting under instructions form their superior officers, that Lord Kitchener, in the face of the Boers' guerilla methods, had decided that the 'gentleman's war' was over and given orders that no prisoners were to be taken - a claim he denied.

The narrative of Breaker Morant centers around the court martial, with details filed in through the use of flashbacks. Many viewers will no doubt be reminded of another military court room drama, A Few Good Men, but Breaker Morant is different; it does not have the black and white characters answering black and white questions with moral certainty of the former film. Though Breaker Morant has an undercurrent of the same sentiment later expressed in Gallipoli, i.e. see how Australian soldiers were callously used and discarded in the course of doing the Empire's dirty work, the film is mostly couched in shades of gray. Kitchener and his circle are the villains of the piece, but their motivations are clearly explained. They are acting, not out of sheer malice or stupidity, but out of desire to avoid an international incident and bring about an end to the war. The three accused accused are also drawn in hues of gray. The cold-blooded executions of the Boer prisoners at their hands are clearly depicted - as is the brutal nature of the unconventional war they are fighting, and their anger over the torture and killing of their commander. Breaker Morant is not a morality play, with archetypal characters spewing out various philosophical points - viewers will come to know and care about the characters as genuine individuals. But 'big' questions are raised by the flow of the story: how far up the chain of command does responsibility lie for questionable actions by soldiers in the field? How does an army successfully wage war against an opponent that does not abide by the conventional rules of war? Does winning such a conflict entail abandoning the rules of war altogether? How far should you go in fighting 'fire with fire?' Breaker Morant does not presume to answer these questions with neatly tied-up solutions - it only raises them.

This an excellent film, far better in my mind than Gallipoli which I found to be overly melodramatic. Edward Woodward, probably best known to American audiences as The Equalizer, gives an excellent performance in the role of 'Breaker' Morant, albeit one that is strongly reminiscent of Michael Caine. Bryan Brown (of F/X and Cocktail fame) also stands out. If you can get your hands on a copy (Yay Netflix!) Breaker Morant is a movie well worth your time.

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em,
And, if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, don't shoot 'em.
-Harry 'Breaker' Morant

If you're interested in learning more about the history behind the movie, you can go here and here.

The Return of the Rat in the Kitchen

Fascinating. Evidently the culprit has been unmasked. In addition to ripping off the fish, she apparently also plagiarized sourbob and the spin starts here

Dirt Dog Fashion Advice?

Like thousands of other members of Red Sox Nation, I take a peek at Boston DirtDogs on a daily basis. But I have to admit, a portion of yesterday's content left me somewhat puzzled. Underneath the picture of Wake, Damon and their dates is the following caption:

You just can't go wrong with that picture. Wake simply looks great in that black shirt.

Huh?

Maybe it's just a matter of persective. Wake can wear a snowsuit for all I care, as long as he throws well.

Back When We Laughed at the Yankees

Ah memories..of a time when the Yankees were worse than the Red Sox.

But there was also a time, considered the "dark period" by New York Yankees fans of a certain generation, when the Pinstripers were not perennial playoff contenders and Fall Classic aspirants. There was actually a time before Joe Torre and Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera when the Yankees really did, well, you know. They were ordinary or worse and annually buried in the American League standings. Even though the same blusterous man — George Steinbrenner — oversaw tthe operation and they had baseball’s highest payroll, it just didn’t matter. The Yankees, between the AL-pennant-winning year of 1981 and the title year of 1996, actually did not win one pennant or one divisional crown. Instead, they were chronic underachievers and often the butt of jokes throughout the land.

Brando

I came across this link at Bronx Banter of all places - Truman Capote's 1957 profile of Marlon Brando for The New Yorker. Apparently Marlon was kind of strange from the get-go.

Ali Buma Ye

Muhammad Ali - it may be the most recognizable name in the world. You could travel to any country, play a word association game with that name, and the results would probably be the same, regardless of continent or language. Muhammad Ali... the Greatest... the Champ...float like a butterfly, sting like a bee... all words conjured up by the mere thought of Muhammad Ali.

The images summoned by the name are something else. I am 34, and from the dim edges of my conscious mind I can recall memories of the tail end of Ali's career in the late 70's; yet the most vivid mental pictures I have of the man are of a still sharp mind trapped in a failing body, lighting the torch at the 1996 Olympics, or more recently appearing at the All-Star game. For people younger than me, perhaps that is all they see when they think of Ali, this bent figure shuffling forward to thunderous applause. So it is that When We Were Kings comes as a revelation, taking the viewer back to a time when Ali's mind was still unfettered by Parkinson's, when his outsize personality captivated the world.

When We Were Kings is a documentary account of the 1974 title bout between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman in Zaire - the famed 'Rumble in the Jungle.' From the beginning Ali is shown everywhere - in press conferences, sparring, being interviewed, meeting and greeting. He dominates every scene he is in, through a combination of sly wit and braggadocio. As the DVD played on I kept thinking to myself 'this guy is full of shit.' Not in the sense of being stupid or ignorant, but in the sense of being a supreme bullshit artist. The press and the public hang on Ali's every word and clamor for more. Watching this, I got the sense that Ali was playing a huge joke, knowing he could spout off whatever nonsense he felt like and the media would eat it up. Ali promises victory in the coming fight, he threatens and taunts Foreman. In one press conference he taunts the assembled writers, demanding a show of hands of the those who think he is doomed to lose calling them out by name. The crowds in Zaire love him. Love Him. Apparently Foreman kept himself isolated from the public, and was largely unknown to the people there. Ali, with his enthusiasm for Africa and charismatic manner becomes a huge favorite of the crowds. Whenever he appears in public he is greeted by ecstatic chants of Ali Buma Ye! Ali, Kill Him!

The footage of Ali sparring with a young Larry Homes stands in stark contrast to the slow combinations he threw at Derek Jeter before the All-Star game this summer. He is not the lean and chiseled fighter of the Ali-Liston matches ten years gone - age and muscle have thickened him, and his face is fuller. But he is still fast and fit. Still, nobody believes he can win. Even his entourage fear he will be badly hurt by Foreman.

Foreman too presents a contrast. This is not the cuddly and amiable Foreman who fought Moorer and went on to sell grills by the thousands. This Foreman radiates menace. He wears a denim pimp suit that makes him look an evil Easy Reader. He says little, but the clip of him hitting the heavy bag says it all. An assistant holds the bag while Foreman clubs it. Each time he hits the bag it folds inward and when he stops a big glove-sized crater remains, a testament to the enormous power that felled Joe Frazier and Ken Norton in two rounds apiece.

And then, of course, there is the fight itself. Ali's 'rope-a-dope' strategy is well known...

Ali fell back against the ropes, and waved Foreman to come get him. He protected his head, but Foreman pounded away at his ribs and his gut. Round after round, quite possibly the hardest hitting heavyweight in boxing history unleashed his fury. Only the ropes kept Ali from being launched into the ringside seats. Under the thudding attack of Foreman's sledgehammer fists, to Ali, every three-minute round must have seemed an hour long.

But there was a nefarious method to Ali's madness. After several rounds of relentlessly throwing leather, Foreman began to tire, his arms began to drop. In the seventh round, Ali let Foreman in on his secret. "I beat him for one, two, three, four rounds - beat him good", Foreman said. "At about the seventh round, I had him beaten, I knew I had him, he fell on my side and whispered, 'Is that all you got George?' I knew something strange was happening in my life especially because that was all I had."

..but the thing that made an indelible impression on me was Ali's brazen tactics in the first round:

Ali had boasted that Foreman couldn't keep up with his speed. To prove that point in the first round, he threw lead rights at Foreman from across his body. The lead right from a right-handed fighter is the easiest punch to see coming, so in a sense, Ali was openly taunting Foreman.

He threw twelve of those lead rights, before falling back against the ropes. Where he hung until the eighth round:

Ali sprung like a cobra in the eighth round. He exploded with a right-left combo, over Foreman's lowered arms, directly to the chin of the exhausted champ. Foreman went down, and couldn't beat the count. Ali had stared down the barrel of the world's most powerful heavyweight -a physically superior opponent- and completely out-thought him in the ring. Ali's strategy, the infamous "rope-a-dope", reversed the odds. Muhammed Ali was the Heavyweight Champion of the World, only the second man to ever win the title back.

These are the images that stuck with me after watching When We Were Kings, but there is more, much more: the musicians, including James Brown and B.B> King, and their hangers-on that traveled to Zaire to play in conjunction with the fight; the promoter of the music festival who seemed relentlessly stoned in every scene; a brief clip of Don King sucking up to some of the dictator Mobutu's cronies; all worth seeing for yourself.

Rat in the Kitchen

Some crazy chick ripped off the fish, stealing a post word-for-word, and apparently plagiarized a host of other bloggers as well. How absolutely pathetic.

Heather has some useful links pertaining to copyright and copyright protection.

Summer Reading List

The books that have kept me busy since June...

52. The Flame of Islam - Harold Lamb
53. Kim - Rudyard Kipling
54. The Peshawar Lancers - S.M. Stirling
55. Conquistador - S.M. Stirling
56. The Screwtape Letters - C.S. Lewis
57. The Great Game: The Struggle for Empire in Central Asia - Peter Hopkirk
58. The Black Arrow - Robert Louis Stevenson
59. Hard Rain - Bary Eisler
60. Sleeping With The Devil: How Washington Sold Our Soul For Saudi Crude - Robert Baer
61. The Code of the Woosters - P.G. Wodehouse
62. Soul Circus - George Pelecanos
63. Fool's Fate - Robin Hobb
64. Hard Rain - Barry Eisner

Crawling for Kids

The date for the Little Hearts Pub Crawl has been set: October 30th, 2004. A list of bars will follow when available.

If you're interested in joining us, see my previous post for details. It's loads of fun, but remember it's for charity so you'll need to get sponsors. Trust me, it's very amusing explaining to potential donors that you're riasing money by getting blotto.

If you can't make it you're more than welcome to sponsor me. As the date approaches I'll get a paypal button up here. I can't promise you any reward, save a public thanks and links to photos of the chaos. So really, why not join us yourself?

Drones Club

Ealier I wrote of reading Wodehouse for the first time, and discovering some of the funnniest prose I've ever come across. Thanks to the Drones Club, you can whistle up some funny bits of Wodehouse without actually cracking a book.

Chumps always make the best husbands. When you marry, Sally, grab a chump. Tap his head first, and if it rings solid, don't hesitate. All the unhappy
marriages come from husbands having brains. What good are brains to a man? They only unsettle him.
Sally

He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.
The Code of the Woosters

It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.
The Inimitable Jeeves

Blair Eggleston was a man who wore side-whiskers and if the truth were known, was probably a secret beret-wearer as well.
Hot Water

When two strong men stand face to face, each claiming to be Major Brabazon-Plank, it is inevitable that there will be a sense of strain, resulting in a momentary silence.
Uncle Dynamite

And this too was interesting: Orwell on Wodehouse.

Reading is Sexy?

According to the Glasgow Daily Record, the answer depends on what one is reading. Because women are looking:

Eight in 10 women say they check out a man's reading material.

No surprise there, but then again I'm an inveterate bookcase snoop; I assume others do the same. And according to the article the contents of the bookshelf matter:

The same number agree a man's choice of book provides a 'powerful insight' into his personality.

Apparently geeks aren't sexy:

They found fantasy fiction like JK Rowling's series, JRR Tolkien's Lord Of The Rings and Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels put girls off.

I suppose that's true in some cases, but I know plenty of women who are Tolkien fans, if not outright avid fantasy readers. Lucky for me I (supposedly) read the hot stuff as well:

The most attractive genres to women are true stories, autobiographies, classics, thrillers, crime and mystery.

What a bunch of hooey. I think it would be more accurate to say to that people who are enthusiastic about books click well with other people who are enthusiastic about books.

Farewell to Blockbuster

This past Friday I finally took the plunge and joined Netflix. I should recieve my first three selections tomorrow:
1. Once A Thief
2. Breaker Morant
3. When We Were Kings

The biggest factor in this switch is that I finally wearied of Blockbuster's piss poor selection of movies. Among my 98 movies in queue (yes, I went a little crazy) are numerous titles that I wanted to see but were simply unavailabe for rent (for reasons that escaped me in many cases), such as She Wore A Yellow Ribbon, Midnight Run, Big Night, Chushingura, and Lost Command. Not only movies, but 'special interest' DVDs, like the above-mentioned When We Were Kings, as well as the Shane MacGowan DVD and (forgive me) The Curse of the Bambino.

The icing on the cake was the huge selection of television titles available, as there are plenty of shows that I wanted to see but didn't necessarily need to own. Some of them - Firefly, Homicide, Sharpe's adventures - I suppose I could've found as a rental. Others however, would've been much more difficult to locate without Netflix: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy; House of Cards and it's sequels; Piece of Cake; plus loads of Highlander and La Femme Nikita.

In Search Of: Power Ballads

Hello. I'm Leonard Nemoy, and tonight I'll be your host as we go in search of...power ballads.

Yes, power ballads, those exquisite combinations of three-string chords and tender sentiment, beloved of adolescents everywhere. They have come to occupy a prominent position in our muscial landscape, recieving the ultimate affirmation of pop culture relevance - a VH-1 special.

But what exactly is a power ballad? What are the elements to go together to make up those deliciously melodic compositions that have flicked ten thousand bics? Under the direction of In Search Of's production team, our crack researchers turned up the following definition:

Power ballad is a name given to love songs that were predictably included on heavy metal albums in the 1980s. The power ballad was frequently slower in tempo and much less aggressive in lyrics than the remaining music on the album. The songs were often crafted in a hope of scoring a Top Forty hit, and were particularly associated with bands in the hair metal genre.

Power ballads have to be about yearning and need, commitment and loss. Listening to one should make your heart soar or sink. Its sentiment should linger long after the last chord. It should make you feel.

While it is true that power ballads reached the full noontide of their glory during the 1980s, specific elements were pioneered earlier than that decade.

Thunderous music... The Hammer of the Gods... Gotterdamerung... Devil worship... Debauchery... all of these words add up to one thing: Led Zeppelin. Yet it was this band, that made us bang our heads in unison for the first time, that blazed a trail and demonstrated that hard rockers could play... softly. A generation of teens danced the last dance to Zeppelin's epic ballad Stairway to Heaven. Though Robert Plant sang about some mystic jiggery-pokery, not love, a precendent was set. Even rock n' roll vikings could slow it down. Boston's own Aerosmith followed suit with Dream On, exhorting fans to sing for the laughter or sleep soundly. And when Bad Company showed their soft romantic side in Feel Like Makin' Love the stage was set... for a power ballad explosion.

Hair spray... Jack Daniels... spandex... groupies... pyrotechnics... yes, you guessed it - I'm talking about the hair metal renaissance of the 1980s. Dressed to thrill and reaching millions through MTV, the boys of the hair bands spread their creed of sex, drugs and rock n' roll. But in the medium of the power ballad, the hair bands found a way to show a tender side and sing about life after the party: broken hearts, seperation from loved ones and the loneliness of the road.

Power ballads mean so much to me. Whenever I'm working on a Star Trek script, or preparing for yet another one of those endless sci-fi conventions, I find escape and solace in these moving songs. I'd like to share them with you, so that you too can seek them out and find comfort in these outpourings of the heart. The following titles are from my favorite mix-tape, that Bill Shatner made especially for me:
1. Alone Again - Dokken
2. Still Loving You - Scorpions
3. Home Sweet Home - Motley Crue
4. I Remember You - Skid Row
5. When The Children Cry - White Lion
6. I Won't Forget You - Poison
7. Wanted Dead or Alive - Bon Jovi
8. Don't Know What You've Got 'Til It's Gone - Cinderella
9. Bringing On the Heartbreak - Def Leppard
10. Love Song - Tesla

The time of the power ballad is over; they vanished as suddenly and inexplicably as the dinosaurs. Yet their legacy lives on, and for every broken heart there remains an Every Rose Has It's Thorn. For every political prisoner Winds of Change stands like a beacon of hope.

I'm Leonard Nemoy, your host for tonight's In Search Of. I've seen a million faces... and I've rocked them all. Thank you, and good night.

What Can't Johnny Sing?

Last night I stopped by the local music store, to see what I could find in the way of used CDs. I walked away with three, and as I headed to the register it struck me that all three artists - Ray Charles (The Best of Ray Charles), Warren Zevon (The Wind), and Johnny Cash (The Essential Johnny Cash) - had died recently.

When I got home I threw on the Cash CD, listening as I cleaned up the placed and did some dishes. I wasn't paying close attention so I was surprised when I realized I was listening to If I Were A Carpenter and enjoying it. Now everyone knows Johnny Cash covered a lot of songs and put his stamp on each of them; hell, the Man in Black could've sung my grocery list and made it sound good. But If I Were A Carpenter?

Written by Tim Hardin (I think) and covered by seemingly everyone, this was a song I couldn't stand. I'd flee the station whenever it popped up on the radio, desperate to get away from the overly maudlin lyrics that didn't so much tug at your heart strings as clumsily paw at them...

If I were a carpenter,
And you were a lady,
Would you marry me anyway?
Would you have my baby?

Ugh ugh ugh, a thousand times..ugh. But somehow in Cash's capable hands the song worked. His voice made the anonymous questioner of the song - wanting to be loved for who he is not what he does -seem...real, and sincere. Instead of thinking 'what an awful corny song' I was - dare I say it - touched. My disbelief (and inherent cynicism) was suspended and I bought into the story the song was telling.

Why? Well partly due to Cash himself: his distinctive voice, the force of personality the streams through it... his whole aura of authenticity. It's impossible to listen to the man sing and think 'he's bullshitting the audience.' No way - he believes in the truth of every word he sings. The rest, I think, is due to the presence of June Carter Cash, who accompanies her husband on this song. She has a voice that is a lovely counterpoint to Johnny's and the fact that the two had a storied romance makes the song that much more real.

Save my love through loneliness,
Save my love for sorrow,
I'm givin' you my onliness,
Come give your tomorrow.

Okay. None of that may make sense to you; it may come off as pseudo-music critic nonsense. The point I was trying to make is that June and Johnny Cash took a remarkably bad song and turned into a memorable one. They are both lost to us, dead and gone, and I still discover new joy in their talents.

Honorable Mention

Lordy - in compiling the list below I somehow - inexcusably - left off Quiet Riot's Cum On Feel The Noize . Which for some odd reason got a lot of play on the stereo in Milwaukee. Go figure.

Playin' Makeup, Wearin' Guitars

This post had it's genesis in two things:
1)My utter lack of inspiration today
2)An offhand comment by Chuck Klosterman in his his exchange yesterday with the Sportsguy, namely "The only great Dokken song is 'Unchain the Night'."

Leaving aside the momentous issues this comment raises (Does Dokken in fact have only one great song? And is it really Unchain the Night?) let us turn to the subject of heavy metal. Or more accurately hair metal, which is not really heavy metal (of the Metallica/Megadeth variety) but is really a bastardized version of pop music, mixing rock n' roll, hairspray and makeup, plus bad 80s costumes and videos, into vaguely retarded but strangely anthemic songs. This kind of music is fun in a 'let's-revel-in-stupidity-and-cheesiness' kind of way; much like pogoing about the bar after you've had ten beers and Jump Around comes on is 'fun.' In short, the perfect music for certain, vey specific, situations.

One of those situations is an extended road trip in a fast vehicle - like the one The Bunny and I recently took. Since we were travelling in a car that, from any logical point of view, Bunny had no business owning and I had no business driving, a steady medley of hair metal seemed the obvious choice for a soundtrack. Naturally we mixed up our musical selections - we did a lot of driving - but over and over again we returned to the hair metal standards of our lost youth. So, for your edification, here is A Tribute to Spinal Tap: Eleven Hair Metal Songs Ideally Suited For a Long Roadtrip (in no particular order):
1. Nothin' but a Good Time - Poison
2. Girls, Girls, Girls - Motley Crue
3. Into The Fire - Dokken
4. Living After Midnight - Judas Priest
5. Fallen Angel - Poison
6. Just Got Lucky - Dokken
7. Gettin' Better - Tesla*
8. Down Boys - Warrant
9. Youth Gone Wild - Skid Row*
10. Rock of Ages - Def Leppard*
11. Kickstart My Heart - Motley Crue

You may note the complete absence of any 'power ballads' from above list, due to the fact that while on the road the Bunny and I ixnayed listening to such as being unsuitable for fast driving. But fear not, my dozen readers - I may just delve into the subject of power ballads in a future post, along with an extended consideration of the Dokken Conundrum

*Sadly we left Annapolis without these three songs in the CD book. But we won't make that mistake next summer, and the songs in question certainly merit inclusion in any list of this sort.

The Trouble With Blogging the Red Sox...

.. is that there are so many folks out there who do it and do it well. Sometimes it can be a struggle to come up with something niteresting to say, something that somebody else hasn't already said (and maybe said better). Today being a prime example. As a quick tour through the Red Sox bloggers on my blogroll demonstrates, there's a lot of great stuff out there for citizens of Red Sox nation to devour...

Over at Cursed and First beth discusses the bandwagon and the difference between hope and belief, all in a very thorough fashion:

We're talking about belief, here. Not hope. Do I hope the Yankees will suddenly be possessed by demons and begin spitting pea soup as they lunge around the base paths like Zombies? Absolutely. Do I believe it will happen? Not on your life. The Yankees are simply a fact. A topographical feature of our landscape. They will win 90+ games. They will probably beat us out in the division. They will be in the playoffs. These are facts, world without end, Amen. The idea is not to wait for the mountain to fall down. The idea is to climb the mountain.

Edward of Bambino's Curse talks about his burgeoning good feelings about the Red Sox:

Since I need not be as poker faced as the Red Sox General Manager, I'll disclose that I'm starting to feel good, quite good, about a team that is "a season-high 15 games above .500 and left them just one game off last year's pace (they are 67-52 after going 68-51 last year)"

Over at Rallycuff, sarah (who I'm starting to think off as the female Sam Kinison of Red Sox bloggers - loud, profane and funny) hasn't had much to say today. But earlier this week she once again took Terry Francona, and hos co-enable Dale Sveum, to the woodshed:

Let's talk some third base. Millar is on first base. Manny Ramirez is on third in one of those motorized shopping carts he stole from a Safeway, lit up on prescription painkillers and wearing Lynn Jones's glasses. There are no outs. Cabrera taps a grounder right back to the pitcher. Sveum sends the runner around. What in the fuck is wrong with him?

Red and Denton make a formidable team at Surviving Grady; today's post (by Red) has this analogy concerning Dale Sveum (who else?):

And what would a Red Sox game be without one of Dale Sveum's gaffs, which are fast becoming the Sox' equivalent of those Lenny and Squiggy entrances on Laverne & Shirley: You know it's coming, it's just a question of when. Last night's Sveum Sacrifice was Mueller, who was out by a good eight feet. Is he doing it on purpose? He must be, right? I mean, this is getting to be a sort of vaudeville routine.

Lastly, The Soxaholix take aim at the Texas Rangers.

Boxing and Philosophy

For your consideration: an interesting article on the intersection of boxing and philosophy. The article includes a nod to Carlo Rotella's Cut Time: An Education at the Fights, which I'd recommend to anyone with even a cursory interest in the fight game.

Concerning the O Face and Fisticuffs

Orlando Cabrera was the hero last night, sending Johnny Damon home from first with a hit that bounced off the wall with a resounding 'gong.' A very nice surprise, for me anyway; I was just hoping he didn't hit into a double play and end the inning. I also have to admit I held my breath when Damon rounded third and headed for home plate, which I come to think of as a kind of Devil's Triangle in Fenway, were potential runs vanish. But the throw was off and the Sox won a close one. I guess good things - Cabrera's hit, Damon being safe, and the Sox win - come in threes, just like bad things.

David Ortiz caused a keffufle when he objected to getting hit on the hand by a Ted Lilly pitch. The whole spectacle had me alternating between worry - (please please please do not earn another suspension Papi!) and scorn (if you're going to fight, then fight. Otherwise take your base).

The whole idea of 'fights' in baseball is pretty damn silly. And I put 'fights' in quotation marks deliberately, as there's far more posturing than fighting. Football players don pads, transforming their giant selves into armored juggernaut, and hurl their bodies towards one another at tremendous speeds, with occasional calamitous results. Hockey players zip about the ice, also at great speed, weapons in hand and shedding teeth like last year's fashions.

Baseball players, or at least some of them, demonstrate their toughness through a seemingly pre-determined ritual of jawing with the opponent while being willingly held back.* Last night was a perfect example - Ortiz creates a big fuss acting like he might go to the mound, people run out to hold him back, Ortiz - having demonstrated his badness, allows himself to be calmed down. It's ridiculous - does anyone doubt that if if Big D wanted to get to Lilly, that anyone could stop him? The entire display is a charade and it annoys me. I respect the players who simply take their base when they're hit, without all the posturing. Enough I say. No one watches baseball to see tough guy antics from individual players; we want to see the game. I want to see toughness exhibited in things like hard slides and body-risking catches. Getting the last out when you're out of gas is tough; yelling from behind the manager ain't.

*Jason Varitek is exempt from this, since when he decides to fight he just gets right down to fighting. I suspect Trot is the same way.

Cooking was her Second Career

When Julia Child died last week, her obituaries mentioned her wartime service in the O.S.S. (Office of Strategic Services), the predecessor of the C.I.A., or at least obliquely referred to her 'foreign service' during the war. While I'd been aware of this bit of trivia regarding Mrs. Child, I didn't know any of the details until I stumbled across this article:

Though Julia would later say, modestly, "I was just a file clerk," she had a high security clearance for her work, which included all classified papers for the invasion of the Malaysian peninsula. She tracked sensitive documents, dispatches, and espionage/sabotage under the South East Asia Command, then headed by Mountbatten. A colleague in Air Force Intelligence, Byron Martin, stated that Julia "was privy to every top secret ... which required a person of unquestioned loyalty, of rock-solid integrity, of unblemished lifestyle, of keen intelligence." And Betty MacDonald McIntosh, who later wrote a book about the women of the OSS, Sisterhood of Spies (United States Naval Institute, 1998), reported, "Morale in her section could not be higher."

By April, when Julia arrived in Chongqing, Chiang's headquarters, there was talk of her being spy material, as she possessed the kind of native intelligence and derring-do necessary for risky assignments. Yet, the war was coming to an end. On May 9, 1945, Germany surrendered; on Aug. 6, the United States dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, Japan.

The article is a fascinating read about an extraordinary woman (and practically begging for a screen play). A few highlights: denied entry to others services (such as the W.A.V.E.S) due to her great height, the then Julia McWilliams moved to Washington D.C. and landed a job typing names - some 10,000 in two months. Friends helped her find a job in the office of William J. "Wild Bill' Donovan, head of the O.S.S. and her burgeoning career in espionage was born. Along the way she journeyed to Australia, India, Ceylon and China - the last of these requiring a trip over 'the Hump,' the 15,000 peaks of the Himalayas, in an unpressurized C-54. Child's service in the Far East brought her into contact with Paul Child, the man she would marry following the war.

History Lesson

Because I know you're all just fascinated by the topic, here's a look at the current state of the historical debate over the origins and conduct of the First World War.

Articles like this are the reason I continue to subscribe to The New Yorker. While I nearly always skip over the poetry and fiction submissions, you never know what kind of nteresting non-fiction articles will pop up in the pages of this magazine.

Stupid Rock Lyrics

The crack young staff of The Hatemonger's Quarterly have unveiled their First Annual Stupidest Lyrics in Rock Music History Contest. For my part I nominate the following passage:

Dear Marcus, you rocked my world.
You had a charismatic way about you with the woman,
And you got me seriously thinking about spirituality.

Truth to tell, that whole song is one long example of stupid lyrics. Bad Alanis. Bad!

And though it pains me to write this, Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar On Me is also a worthy candidate:

Do you take sugar? one lump or two?

To get a sense of how truly awful those lyrics are, try reciting them aloud, as you would a poem. Horrible horrible and yet again... horrible.

No Kill I

Have you ever seen the old Star Trek episode The Devil in the Dark? In case you haven't let me briefly fill you in on the plot. Kirk, McCoy and Spock bean to down to some dark dingy cave planet (I think maybe it was a mining colony) to track down and eliminate some alien that's wreaking havoc on this dump, killing folks by the score. Well, it turns out that the monster is a great big glob of styrofoam... er stone, that lives in the mines/caves but really means no harm. The boys from the Enterprise discover this when they confront the stone monster and it writes 'No Kill I' on the wall or floor. Then Spock mind melds with the creature and yells out 'Pain! Paaaaiiin!!' in perhaps the most-over acted scene ever. (Which is a goddam tough thing to achieve in any show starring Bill Shatner).

Anyhoo.. the point of all this is as follows: since Terry Francona seems oblivious of the paaiiinnn he is causing, to me and other Red Sox fans, the time has come for mind meld to communicate this to him, along with perhaps some assistance with the lineup card.

No Kill I, Terry. No Kill I.

Boston Confidential

Yesterday's Boston Globe featured a longish piece on the flourishing intersection of Boston and crime fiction. The article features some lengthy quotes from Dennis Lehane, one of my favorite writers:

"The thing that I think differentiates us even from New York is the dark sense of humor that is particular to [Boston's] neighborhoods," Lehane says. "We just accept that God is a prankster. It's this attitude that, `You know, we're all [screwed], can I buy another round? 'I went out with some friends from my old neighborhood a couple of weeks ago, and that humor just came out. They're all getting screwed by their bosses . . . and yet they just have this great wry irony about it. It was hysterical. People in New York aren't funny that way, they just think they are."

Lehane says he believes every good writer is given one true gift, and "mine was always an ear."

"But who wouldn't have one, having grown up in that environment?" Lehane says. "I just remember being with friends and one of my mentors, [the novelist and short-story writer] John Dufresne, just trading stories. He turned to me and said, 'I wish I had grown up like you guys.'"

Quote of the Weekend

Upon seeing Emmanuel Lewis march onto the set of The Surreal World, my sister shouted aloud...

Why isn't he dead?

Winnie-the-Pooh Space

I can't say that I'm a huge fan of McSweeney's but this piece (which I found courtesy of red) cracks me up:

I've been training Winnie for three days now and I'm ready to kill him. I showed him how the spreadsheets are updated on the network, and he just stared at me with this blank expression. I tried to demonstrate the copy machine, but he somehow got his head stuck in one of the slots. I heard his muffled cry of "Oh, bother!" as five of us worked on getting him out. Honestly, is this the best that recruiting could do?

Section Eight

Shortly after a lengthy discussion of Section 8 housing down at the local, I came across this article, about Section 8 housing in New york.

Tribute

Heather bids Julia Child adieu.

Blame It On The Rain

The Red Sox are surging, having won 7 of the their last 10 and three in a row, and despite recent outbursts of pessimism (mea culpa, mea culpa) I am guardedly optimistic. I say guardedly because the team seem to have got their collective act together before the All-Star break, only to start backsliding again. In this respect the Sox are like that girl - you know, the one who treats you bad to the point where you cry 'no mas' and intend to kick her to the curb, but then she comes around, screws you seven ways from Sunday, and leaves you thinking 'well sure, maybe this can all work out after all.'

Regardless, I have resolved that no matter how the Red Sox fare through the remaining games of the season, I will enjoy these games in general and the presence and play of my favorite Red Socks. Such as...

Doug Mientkiewicz. His name is a Red Sox blogger's* dream - it positively screams screams for a nickname. Some of the ones I've seen so far: Mintyfresh, The Freshmaker, Mwejiefoefirz, Malphabet, Minkybitch or The Minkybitch (but ya gotta say it with affection.) Plus, it shoooore is nice to see some purty defence around first base.

Kevin Youkilis. Another grand name - the cheer for Kevin (Yooooook!) is more than an adequate replacement for Merloni's cheer (Loouuu!). Plus, it sounds just like a well-known slang term for vomitting. Bonus! His big, big, long head ,with it's overpowing jaw, reminds of Dudley Doright. Youk has been hitting up a storm lately. This is only speculation but it's my theory that Manny, who currently in a bit of a slump, carelessly left his swing laying around the clubhouse and Kevin picked it up and ran with it. Would be nice if they could share though.

Bronson Arroyo. Mellow to the point of appearing unflappable out there on the mound. When he smirks it's like pitching is a running joke he's letting us in on...

They say they never roll the scoops, because there's always something goin'
(Surf City, here we come)
You know, they're either out surfin' or they got a party growin'
(Surf City, here we come)
Well it's two swingin' honeys for every guy,
And all you gotta do is just wink your eye!

Manny Ramirez. Nobody else alternately delights and frustrates fans like Manolito. There's the Bad Manny, who fails to run out ground balls, inexplicably drops routine flys, and is..casual..about his presence in the lineup. This the guy who infuriates fans and in the past drew lots of fire from the Boston sporting press. But if we have one thing to thank Millar for, it's his role in drawing Manny out. In years gone past we heard teammates defending Manny and his gaffes, saying that while shy he was a great guy and well-like in the club house. This season Manny has let that previously hidden side of himself shine through, and at times it's been a joy to watch. I'm thinking of the catch he made in Tampa Bay: crashing into the left field wall, sliding down the wall into a flailing tangle of arm and legs... and then popping up with the ball. He looked not only like a magician who had just pulled a rabbit out of his hat, but a magician who was every bit as surprised and delighted as his audience that the rabbit was actually in his hand. This the Good Manny, who makes baseball fun (as it should be, since 162 games is long time to be cranky); he is the Jester of this team.

Pedro Martinez. If Manny is the Jester, Pedro is the Clown Prince of the Red Sox. Some object to his antics in the dugout; I could give a damn because first of all, I enjoy then immenselly, and second, the man is all business when he steps between the white lines. I mean 'all business' in the sense of 'mowing enemy hitters down because as others have noted, Pedro carries that sly sense of humor with him to the mound:

And Pedro--that crazy Jeri curl, waggling his index finger at the Tampa Bay batter after almost being hit by a foul ball, that finger strange and double-jointed, swinging like a pendulum at the knuckle, recalling Roger Angell's description of his hands as "lizardlike". That smile, always like the cat that swallowed the canary.

Tim Wakefield. Wake has been around forever at this point; he seems like an older brother now. I like the way that his facial features sometimes arrange themselves into a hound-dog sort of look. I can't even tell exactly which features give this impression - maybe it's his eyes which seem to droop to me - but they do. Especially after a tough outing and let's face it: on the days that he starts there's always the potential he will suck in a capital S.U.C.K kinda way but I never hold it against him. How could I after last year's performance in the ALDS? Wake is Deputy Dawg, the current Yankee Killer of the Red Sox.

Allright, that's enough for now.

*Yes, I know I'm not an 'official' full-time Red Sox blogger. This dump has never had a primary focus, save what my obsession is on any given day.

Little Bit of History Repeating

I was quite serious when I said this about Dale Sveum:

Sending Roberts home (with no outs and your team down by one) was an incredibly stupid play. Being oblivious to the fact that Baldelli led the majors last year in assists adds insult to injury. Saying you'd do the same thing again is criminal. And Tito 'supporting' his guy makes me want to pull my hair out.

And Dale himself was as good as his word when he said of that play...

To be honest with you, if we did it tomorrow night, I'd do the same thing again.

...because he did it again today. Twice in fact, sending both Millar and Varitek to be thrown out at the plate by, you guessed it, Baldelli.

Come Wendell Kim. We miss you.

Addendum
Lest anyone think I'm all gloom n' doom I should note that:
a)the Sox on the game, 6-0.
b)Petey pitched a gem of a game. Whatever dopple-Pedro that was inhabiting the uniform has been banished back to the mirror universe; this was vintage Prince P. To wit - a complete game (his third strait game with ten-plus K's) and his first shutout in four years. Dig it.

Belated Birthday Wishes

...for the Bunny, who evidently celebrated in grand fashion yesterday.
All skate, bro, all skate.

You Can Really Rock Your Ass Off

From Social Distortion's web site:

Sex, Love and Rock n' Roll
Is the title of what you've all been waiting for, the first studio album from Social Distortion in 8 years! To be released on September 28, 2004, Mike Ness reveals a more optimistic side on this record, including the emotional journey of love, loss and acceptance on "Don't Take Me For Granted", written for the late Dennis Danell. But, don't let that fool you into thinking he's forgotten his punk rock edge. Ness' signature wrath can be felt throughout, especially on tracks like "Reach For The Sky" and "Nickels And Dimes."

Your wait has been long, but you will find that it will definitely be worthwhile.

Bring it.

Day 3: The Quest for Cheese

Our hotel room in Milly-wah-kay was pitch black. There was only one window, hidden around a corner, and once the lights were out it was as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta in there. This resulted in my awakening with the disconcerting sensation of not knowing where I was or even whether it was day or night. After a brief moment of befuddlement I established the salient facts: I was in a hotel; in Milly-wah-kay; it was ten in the morning; and time to get moving. Time for another day of comedy on the road.

The hotel lobby had a kiosk full of brochures and postcards advertising various tourist attractions, from which Bunny chose several that he wanted to visit. He really wanted to see the Spam Museum, which sadly is located not in Milly-wah-kay, but in Austin, Minnesota. It was only with much effort that I convinced Bunny that Austin was not 'just a little bit out of the way' but in fact located several hours and hundreds of miles to the west.

We decided to check out the Pabst Mansion, ...or so I thought. I began navigating as the Bunny piloted Adelaide through the streets of Milly-wah-kay. Then Bunny mentioned how much he was looking forward to more free beer. Free beer, I thought, what the fu