Welcome to Crazy Bizarro World!

Where you're looking at tonight's starting pitcher.

I figure, at this point, the least we can hope for is that he'll bite someone for entertainment's purposes.

Anyone else feel like we're being punked?

Also, I'm not dead, just taking a few days. I promise they haven't broken me completely. THOUGH THEY ARE TRYING THEIR LEVEL BEST. But no, I won't let them break me. And if they do, my hastily reanimated corpse will be posting about football.

::turns eyes upon glorious football schedule::

Where are we going so quickly...

...and why are we in this handbasket?

Honestly, the loss is secondary. You don't fuck around with David Ortiz's health. You just don't. We forget sometimes but the man is human, like the rest of us, albeit subsisting on a diet of rice, beans, drywall nails and motor oil. And as such, he needs to be taken care of. So let's take care of that, because regardless of this season, we need David Ortiz around. He's what makes baseball in Boston fun.

It would also be hilarious, if it weren't true, that this team has Tito spitting up blood. As mentioned on the SGMB, if it were fake and he was just using it to rile the troops, it'd be the greatest motivational tactic ever. But it's not. It's real. Scary.

So this is where we sit, our manager coughing up blood, our star sluggers out with heart issues and a balky knee, our starting catcher rehabbing his own knee traumas and someone with the alleged name of "Kason Gabbard" starting games for us. Forgive me for bringing the New England doom and gloom, but things aren't looking too rosy around these parts right about now.

But you know what I realized? This is what it's like to be a fan of nearly every other team. You go into the season with the highest of hopes and your sights set on the brightest of futures but if you were being honest with yourself, you'd know that your team isn't going to be playing baseball in October. And yet somehow, you still manage to watch and love the game. Because it's not all about playoffs. And it's not all about winning the World Series every year or the season's a disappointment. Unless you're the Yankees. And frankly, I don't want to live like that.

I am sure some of you think this is a cop out on my part. "She's throwing in the towel and conceding." No, I'm not. Stranger things have happened. What I'm saying is, maybe I should just start watching the games, not as a means to an end, but as an end in and of themselves. Because baseball is still baseball. And we likely only have a month of it left. The cooler temps around these parts lately have reminded me that soon, it'll be football season. And while I loves me some football, I realized that when it's gone this year, I'm going to miss baseball tremendously. So maybe now I start watching it for the little things. Like the flawlessly executed double play. Or the hit and run. (Ha! Just kidding. The Sox haven't executed a successful hit and run since the Nixon administration). Or the David Ortiz home run. Maybe the smaller things become the bigger picture. Because if there's one thing we know, it's that we don't know anything.

Apologies for the lack of snark today but the weather's made me feel all transcendental and reflective or some shit and I needed to get that out. Also, I'm not awake yet and need to dive headfirst into a giant vat of coffee.

In other news...

(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Popeye, erm, I mean Junior Seau, would like you to know that he is PUMPED about the upcoming Patriots season.

Who wants to talk about the 41-0 drubbing the Pats dropped on the Redskins on Saturday? Yes, I know it's preseason. Yes, I know it doesn't count. Yes, I understand that there isn't much you can tell from a preseason game. But it was certainly nice to see a local team lay the smack down, Red Sox.

Amy and I caught some of the game at the Pour House after spending the day at Fenway watching the little 'uns play a doubleheader during Futures at Fenway. The highlight of which was either the entrance and subsequent reception to the Papel-Baby, Joshua Papelbon, the fact that Trent Durrington has "Sweet Child O' Mine" as his at-bat music or Haverhill and Northeastern boy Carlos Pena's 2-run homer which turned out to be the eventual game winner in game two.

It surely wasn't the girls sitting behind us who spent four consecutive innings regaling each other with drunken sorority stories in which they had all participated. Nor was it Lenny Dinardo's early exit after a mere three innings of work. At that, I called Marianne. "Confirm or deny," I said, "Lenny Dinardo left after three innings because he had to attend the Justin Timberlake show at Avalon." "Confirmed," Marianne said, "although some people would claim it was a 'rehab start' and he was 'on a pitch count.' But I don't think these things are mutually exclusive."

Also, at one point during the game, the three small boys in front of us became downright entertaining as they formed an impromptu air band between innings. These kids were maybe eight or ten-years-old and they knew all the words to all the songs. John Mellencamp, Guns 'N Roses, they knew it all. These kids were awesome. It was like seeing into my future because if I ever have kids, that's the kind of kids I'm gonna have. I suspect mine would be the air drummer.

I should also mention that, because it was minor league day, there was all this between innings nonsense that I could really do without. But it was all made worth it when footage of Jonathan Papelbon demonstrating the Chicken Dance was shown on the scoreboard. This has to be on YouTube somewhere. I must see it again. You must see it. Everyone must see it.

I would talk about the performance of the big boys in Seattle, but honestly, why bother? As I said to Kelly, how many times can you say, "This team sucks donkey balls?" I've got to learn how to say that in other languages.

But the Patriots, ah, the Patriots. God, how I missed them. Also, mark it down: Ben Watson is going to be Tom Brady's number one receiver this year. You heard it here first. We, uh, we don't want to talk about the Deion situation.

On a steel horse, he rides?

Josh Beckett, gulp, cowboy.

How do you like them apples? Apparently Josh Beckett does not like it when I talk shit about him. Evidently it gets him all fired up and rarin' to go. If that's the case, does someone care to alert homeboy to all posts referencing "Fat Head" between now and...quite some time ago? Because if that's all it takes, I will start showing up at his hotel room and calling him a Melon Noggin to his face. When I eventually get escorted out by security, I will stand on the sidewalk with a bullhorn and yell about the Planetary Cranium residing in Room 233. When I'm dragged away to the local precinct, I'll have my minions take up my cause and begin a letter writing campaign. Oh, I have minions, don't you worry. If by "minions" I mean "drunk friends." But most of them would not turn down the opportunity to make fun of Beckett for the good of the team. What can I say? We're givers.

So, once again, the West Coast is all messed up and things happen later over there so nary a pitch did I see. I fell asleep at 10 on the dot last night (thanks, Audobon martinis!) and didn't know what happened until this morning when I sleepily pulled up MLB.com. Call me a pessimist but I fully expected to see another tick mark in the loss column. Something about the way Beckett's been tanking of late and the Magical Mullet of Wonderment sported by Weaver did not add up to a Red Sox win in my mind. Luckily, my math was off.

Even more than luckily, we still have David Ortiz. (For the record, not talking about this.) And David Ortiz has gotten damn tired of losing baseball games. Also sick of it? Wily Mo Pena who, I hear tell, made something of a laser-guided throw from the outfield to cut down the potential tying run at the plate. And Papelbon, who has had just about enough of this "Varitek is his Magic Man" bullshit. Not that we don't want Tek back because...PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE COME BACK SOON, TEK!

Ahem.

Also, Manny's MRI was negative which is possibly the best news of the day. A team without Manny picking dandelions in the outfield is not a team I care to watch on a regular basis. At least not without a strong sedative. And, as Red pointed out, without Manny, there is little chance that a Three Amigos for the Next Generation starring Manny, Papi and Wily Mo will spontaneously break out in the dugout between innings. And that would be a loss we'd all feel acutely.

Let's hope the Big Schill feels showed up by the young'un tonight and comes in, guns blazing. I suspect the phrases "punk ass" and "no respect for you elders" might have been tossed around a bit. Get on it, Curt. Don't let the boy make an old man outta you.

It's all fun and games until someone tears a meniscus.

(photo from Boston.com)

David Ortiz laughs at your concerns. For he is David Ortiz.

Honestly, I haven't watched the last two games. They're on late. I need my sleep. I spend way too much time on the internet or in front of the television as it is, I can't justify staying up until 2am to watch the Red Sox lose. Last night, they obliged with a win but I suspect that a game ending in a 5-4 nailbiter wouldn't have aided the sleeping process at all. So it's likely just as well that I turned on my computer this morning when I got out of the shower (yes, I realize I have a problem), and checked the score to see how they'd faired. Because I might be able to sleep not knowing how things were going to play out, but I've not yet reached the level of disconnect that would make it possible for me to endure the twenty-minute T-ride to work without knowing the outcome. Because the Metro doesn't post late game scores. And dammit, I gots to know.

Looks like, once again, we owe it all to David Ortiz. And Wily Mo. Which should surprise no one because if there is one thing Wily Mo aspires to be when he grows up, it's David Ortiz. I mean, just look at the dude. Same hairstyle, same facial hair, same mannerisms and you just know Wily Mo's got a case of #34 Vitamin Water* next to his locker. But that's okay. The young'un couldn't have picked a better role model.

Especially now that we hear that Manny might be out for the forseeable future. (This is why I go to sleep. Thoughts of a Manny-less team gimping pathetically towards the distant horizon known as "the playoffs" would surely have kept me awake in a cold sweat.) At this point, it's almost like a cruel joke. Who else can possibly go on the DL before this team has to start using cardboard cutouts from iParty in place of flesh and blood players? A-Gon is down now, joining Tek, Trot, Wake and Clement. Apparently, all the cool kids are hanging out on the DL. Except for Clement. He's just there because he heard that's where Tek was going and you know anywhere Tek goes, Clement is sure to follow.

"He'll always be my true love, my true love, my true love! From now until forever, forever, forever! I will follow heeeeeem! Follow him wherever he may go! There isn't an ocean too deep. (Too deep). A mountain so high it can keep, keep me awaaaaay!"

The Red Sox have actually inspired me to start singing show tunes. I'll be checking myself into the safe place shortly.

Until then, I give you Fat Head (he has long since been demoted to "Fat Head") vs. Weaver Version 2.0. He of the 1.95 ERA and 9-0 record. Awesome. Someone hand me that Vitamin Water.

*Speaking of, I would like to point out that Amy insisted that David Ortiz start endorsing Vitamin Water way back during last season sometime. Proving once again that we think it and it becomes fact. Also, I do not think it's a coincidence that the Kenmore T station is now plastered with pictures of David Ortiz selling said Vitamin Water. Because there's something about seeing Papi everywhere that makes you ever so slightly less likely to jump in front of a "speeding" T, no matter how bad the loss. That's smart marketing right there as dead customers don't tend to buy sports drinks.

Delicious with breakfast, not so good with baseball.

A visual representation of the Red Sox after this past weekend.

I'm not sure what else there is to say. You've read all about it. You know what went down. You're probably still sifting through the carnage. I think everyone in my office is giving me a wide berth because they assume I'll flip out and commit hari kari with a stapler remover. (At least, I assume that's why since I KNOW I showered this morning). But really, I'm not going to. I'm kind of preternaturally calm. Very Zen. Very "what can you do? ::shrug:: Perhaps that's why everyone seems to be observing me warily. Maybe they don't trust it. They don't believe that I can really be this un-rattled by a five game sweep at the hands of the Yankees. And frankly, I'm not sure what's going on here either. This is very unlike me. Someone must have put Valium in my yogurt.

I worry about the eventual fallout too. I worry about Manny's hamstring and Papelbon's sudden fallibility. I worry about Trot's future and Hansen's attitude problem and the fact that our best pitcher lately has been Julian Tavarez. I worry that, for the second time in five years, this team has proven that no matter what else happens, it cannot survive the loss of Jason Varitek. And yes, I worry about our playoff hopes but right now, I just worry about making it through the next series without anyone actually dying. And for my liver. I worry about that too.

So we roll on. We do what we can. We make jokes about Timlin having a hunting "accident" with his crossbow or someone "accidentally" making Dougie's chicken parm subs with low-carb bread. Because it's all we know how to do.

See you in Anaheim.

Two Thumbs Down

It's as simple as that, really.

Honestly, what is there to say? I realize that today's game is still seven hours away and if there's anything Curt hates (besides wallflowers and shrinking violets), it's losing to the Yankees, so we could still salvage some of this series. But to level with you for a second here, I still don't think I've recovered fully from Friday night's debacle. I say "debacle" because I was there. In killer seats, thanks to Annette. Which not only means that I had an awesome view of the offense's tenacity in the early goings and their unwillingness to go gently into that good night (oh, it's Dylan Thomas quoting time, all right), but I could also see quite clearly Mike Timlin's (with an assist by Craig Hansen), incredibly ill-timed decision to go tits up. Normally, I support Big 50 because who wants to anger a guy with a tendency to go batshit? But I raised an eyebrow when he called out the offense last week as I think the last thing this teams needs is infighting. So his 7-run 7th inning on Friday was very poorly timed indeed. Mike Timlin does not usually need to be told to sack up. But methinks the time has come.

I have to say, the most entertaining part of the game may have been watching the gentleman next to us shoot quizzical glances in our direction when Marianne called me sometime during the interminable 7th inning to ask me a burning question. He could, of course, only hear my half of the conversation. Frankly, I'm not sure he would have been less scared had he been able to hear all of it.

Me: Yes?
Marianne: In a fight to the death between a shark and a gorilla, who wins?
Me: I am so glad this isn't about baseball.
Marianne: We're not talking about baseball. Fuck 'em. So, who wins?
Me: Where is this fight taking place?
Marianne: On a subway.
Me: Is there water?
Marianne: There's enough water for the shark to breathe and move freely but the gorilla doesn't have to swim.
Me: Hmmm. I'm gonna have to go with gorilla.
Marianne: Interesting. Care to say why?
Me: Opposable thumbs.
Marianne: Good call. Okay, later.
Me: Bye.

This is why it's important to have friends. So they will call you and distract you from the horror that is unfolding before you.

Of course, long about the 8th inning, the game took on a sort of perverse humor. Annette looked at me and solemnly declared, "We're never getting home." "I think we live here now," I said. She shook her head sadly. "We're going to die here," I declared.

I was instructed to call Steve and send our regrets that we would not be able to make it to his party after the game as we'd planned. "Please tell Steve," I said, "that we can't come to the party because we're being held hostages by motherfuckin' ballplayers in a motherfuckin' ballpark." "If we see Samuel L. Jackson," Annette said, "Do you think we could ask him for a ride home since the T stopped running about twelve days ago?"

Eventually, it became a matter of endurance. It wasn't really a question of who was going to win the game. Mike Timlin had pretty much taken care of that one. But I wasn't going to let them beat me. They were not going to drive me from my own ballpark. Because I always berate people for leaving games early. The T had already stopped running so I knew I was going to be walking home anyway and if I left, that was one fewer Red Sox fan amidst the entirely too many Yankees fans. I was not ceeding my ballpark to them. That will never happen. I became resolute when a Yankee fan in a Sheffield jersey, (the kind of guy asking to be punched on sight), sat a couple of rows in front of us and screamed out, completely seriously, "I love you, A-Rod!"

I turned to Annette. "Now, when you say something like that, and you mean it, is the situation either that a) you have no concept of reality and your place in it or b) you're just that freakin' stupid?" Annette though for a second, "What I think it is," she said, "is that you take a lot of drugs."

And honestly, I wish they'd shared.

I did learn a few things from the experience, however. For example:

Derek Jeter makes small children cry. This is fact. He hit a wicked foul ball into the section in front of us and all of a sudden, kids were crying and the paramedics were being called in. An oldish woman was being wheeled out in a wheelchair, holding an ice pack to her head, blood everywhere. And for serious, children were crying. So, to sum up: Derek Jeter hates old ladies and children. I really do hope that woman is okay, though. That looked nasty.

David Ortiz cannot always do everything himself. But as his home run off Mariano Rivera in the bottom of the ninth inning proved, dammit, he sure is going to try.

Craig Hansen likes monkeys. When Amy told me about this picture on Friday night, the blueberry beer in my bloodstream combined with the word "monkey" and I ended up with a mental picture of a gorilla. Which, I realize, is not a monkey at all. However, this did lead to a lively discussion while waiting for "Snakes on a Plane" to start yesterday about how it would be the highest of high comedy to see Craig Hansen mauled by a rogue silverback gorilla. Come on, you know you agree.

And that's what we've been reduced to. Double features of "Talladega Nights" and "Snakes on a Plane" yesterday sandwiching pitchers upon pitchers of mango margaritas. Talking about Craig Hansen's chances in a fight with a silverback gorilla. Discussing how the fact that Rudy Seanez was designated for assignment at least makes the weekend a moral victory. Yep, these are the days of our lives. Two more games in the series. I don't know if I'm gonna make it.

Welcome to the Jungle...Again

Dudes, Count Chocula was totally hanging out in my apartment this morning. Literally, hanging out, in bat form. I normally pride myself on not being overly girly and being able to deal with these things. I mean, my voice doesn't even go to that high-pitched place that only dogs can hear so I'm not much with the shrieking. But you guys, it was a freakin' bat. And it was dive-bombing my head. For serious.

This is all by way of saying that while it was nice of the Red Sox to win one last night and exceptionally considerate of Papelbon to finish things off at 9:59, just in time for me to watch Project Runway, I'm not sure if it matters since the bat is clearly a harbinger of the apocalypse which I fear is heading Boston-ward this very weekend. It's not locusts but after the mice and the bat, I expect to find an alligator in my bathtub or a puma under my sink in the coming days. Since I evidently live in Wild Kingdom now.

What I'm saying is, we're all going to die.

Brace yourselves.

Seek Help

Okay, own up. Which one of you jokers googled "Rudy Seanez shirtless" to get to this blog? And what, pray tell, would possess you to do such a thing? I'd ask what you were looking for but I think that's fairly obvious. What's less obvious is exactly what kind of drugs you're smoking that would make that sort of search even slightly appealing.

Wait, you totally lost a bet, didn't you? You bet someone that you couldn't find the most horrifying thing on the internet. You were all, "Horror movie scenes? No problem. Medical text illustrations? Easy one. Yankee celebrations? You got it." But then they challenged you. Threw down the gauntlet, if you will. "Oh yeah? Find me a picture of Rudy Seanez shirtless." Ooooo. Them's fighting words.

And speaking of fighting, before you get all, "But Seanez is an Ultimate Fighter and therefore, probably pretty ripped," just stop yourself for a second and think about how, though that may be true, do you actually need it proven to you? I, for one, am not willing to take that risk.

Now, calm yourself down and google "Javy Lopez shirtless" instead or something. Honestly, what were you thinking? Seanez is like the second worst Red Sox to see sans shirt. I am not mentioning the first by name because I don't want servers all over the Boston area to blow themselves up in terror.

I...need a drink.

Sigh

Douglas, you are KILLING ME.

You too, Wily Mo.

Okay, is this how it's gonna be? Get swept in a series, sweep a series, get swept in a series, sweep a series? I mean, I just want to know. I want to get used to that. I want to lay in the proper, um, provisions. Also, if that's the plan, can we at least continue that through the next series, considering that it's a five-gamer against the Yankees?

Yeah, five games. My liver has already contacted its lawyer.

I'll be there on Friday night thanks to Annette. Well, "thanks to" as she's informed me today that we get to see the matchup for the ages of Sidney "Made of Ham" Ponson and Jason "I moonlight as your son's math teacher" Johnson. CLASH OF THE TITANS. But she's got a plan. "I feel like we should bring toys and games to keep ourselves occupied with at that game," she said, "Or vials of crack."

I like the way she thinks.

What I want to know is, should I just start wearing a helmet now to prepare myself for the inevitable "head crashing into seat in front of me" thing that's bound to happen? Can't hurt, right? Or should I just forget the helmet and hope for some selective amnesia for the next month or so? Or at least until football season starts?

Ahhh, football. God, I love football. Doesn't football feel like a safe haven right now? Tom Brady wouldn't drop a ball, leading to the game winning run for the other team. Tedy Bruschi wouldn't bobble a foul pop. Mike Vrabel, well, the only think I know about Mike Vrabel for sure is that Amy and I are fairly certain that he has hair gel spritzers in his helment. He probably got the info from Nomar. There is no other explanation. This is going to be HILARIOUS when I'm freaking out about the Patriots in about four months and saying things like "God, I miss baseball. Manny is so entertaining. Josh Beckett is nails." Okay, I'll totally never say that last part. But still...

I seemingly cannot maintain a linear thought as relates to the Red Sox lately. Which would make sense because they apparently cannot maintain any kind of linear progression with the whole winning thing. Which, I mean, Beckett and Schilling are allegedly our "aces" and after that, WHO DO WE HAVE? Wells? Johnson? TBA? At this point, TBA is looking pretty damn good.

Yikes.

I'm not ready to commit hari kari with a paperclip just yet, but, I'm also not ruling out the possibility of calling in sick to work with "extreme emotional distress" for the next few days. And I can almost promise you that I will be launching rubber band missiles at anything professing itself to be "Red Sox" adjacent for a while. Because violence is always the answer.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go exorcise some energy by dancing around my apartment to some Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi, Patriots fan. Just sayin'...

All this up and down motion is making me nauseous.

I am an old woman. I can't be jerked around like this. I am fragile.

You can't be swept by the effing Royals and then sweep the Orioles and then have Josh Beckett forget how to pitch. This yo-yo business has to stop. It is not good for my heart. And my heart needs to rest because, did you hear? Snakes on a Plane! Friday. I could not possibly be more excited. I'll tell you one thing, Samuel L. Jackson would not put up with this shit. That's for damn sure.

Anyways...while we're here, WHAT IS YOUR DAMAGE, JOSH BECKETT?

Jesus. He seriously hasn't won a game since Dave Matthews played Fenway. Or, you know, thereabouts. I am reasonably certain this is NOT what he's getting paid roughly eleventy billion dollars for.

Also, my roommate said to me today, "Is Matt Clement still on this team?" I told her that all evidence to the contrary, he appeared to still be alive. As for "on this team" well...I'm willing to bet that when Tek went down, Clement threatened to hold his breath until he passed out if Tito even so much as thought of having him pitch to anyone else. For purely masochistic reasons, this would be a hilarious, madcap adventure, watching Clement lob a baseball - between heaving sobs, of course - to Javy Lopez who will no doubt sit cross-legged behind the plate a la Tony Pena because shit, if the pitchers ain't even gonna try, why should he run all over the place attempting to field the ball?

I say "attempting" because, yeah. Wow.

Mike Lowell, however, can stay. Oh, informal poll: You can tell Mike Lowell was an Eagle Scout just by loooking at him. Discuss.

Great, the Red Sox broke me.

Hangman is comin' down from the gallows and I don't have very long...*

(We always knew Stephen King was a Red Sox fan.)

Look, I've had Styx's "Renegade" stuck in my head for roughly the past eighteen million years and I can no longer be alone in that. So there.

Sometimes you find yourself still at your office, four hours after the work day has ended partaking of free booze and delicious foodstuffs and completely ignoring the fact that there's a baseball game being played. And you realize, when you get home, intoxicated and full to the point of bursting (What? It was free, I was being economical), that you were blissful in your ignorance. Because...wow.

Sometimes you are woken up at 3:00am by some hooligans outside your window, undoubtedly planning some kind of mass suicide off the Zakim and you find it very difficult to get back to sleep because, ha, funny joke, but you went to bed swearing that you saw that the Red Sox had been swept by the Royals. Man, gin is a harsh mistress. Always messing with your head like that. Then you fall back asleep for twenty minutes, are woken up again by the apocalyptic noises of the street cleaners (Really, are you sure that 3:20am is the best possible time for this?) and you think perhaps you should double check that score. And then you do. And then the hopeless desperation which would be funny if it were anyone other than your team makes it hard to get back to sleep without first spilling your sad bastard guts all over the internet about it. Okay, not really. This isn't about to turn into a Bright Eyes song or a Barry Zito personal ad on emokids.com or something. But really, wouldn't this be kinda hilarious if it was someone else?

I'd like to think that pehaps it's just that the Sox, seeing no challenge, just can't get it up for the likes of the Devil Rays and Royals. And then I'd like to have a sharp stick handy so I can poke my eyes out thanks to that disturbing mental image I've created. But we don't always get what we want.

OH MAMA, I'M IN FEAR FOR MY LIFE FROM THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW.

(It's not going away.)

I mean, I don't want to be the one to point out that since Jason Varitek has gone on the DL, the team's taken a swan dive that would make Greg Louganis proud. I don't want to have to mention the parallels to 2001 and the fact that, though we rag on him, Tek is kinda important. I don't want to admit that this came to me on the T on the way home after several free gin and tonics and I made a "Eureka!" motion and actually slapped myself in the forehead and quite possibly said "A-ha!" loudly, scaring my seatmate who just wanted to listen to his SexyBack in peace. And I really don't want to discuss the fact that it's currently 3:34am and I've got Styx's Greatest Hits playing on endless shuffle in my head.

3:34am, people. This is not sane. I am not well. I blame Curt Schilling. Or Jonathan Papelbon. Or Javy Lopez. I do not, however, blame Wily Mo Pena. Or David Ortiz. And for once, I don't blame Bombay Sapphire. For once, she done me no wrong.

Sapphire is a pretty color. A lovely blue shade. Know what else is a pretty shade of blue? Royal. Argh. This way, lies madness.

Are they throwing a parade in KC right now or are they, along with the rest of the baseball world, just laughing at us? I mean, I'm not gonna front like I wouldn't be making jokes about being swept by the Royals if it was any other team. I have and I will again. So I guess turnabout is fair play. I have certainly been known to dish it out. Guess it's time to take it.

::whimper::

Evidently, Baltimore comes to town this weekend. You just know Kevin Millar is gonna be all up in Schilling's face about the whole being swept by the Royals thing. I hope Millar wears a helmet as he's liable to get beaten. I don't get the sense that Schilling has quite the sparkling sense of humor about these things that I've displayed thus far. (Must be the Styx. Makin' me mellow.) I, for one, will be in Maine again, rockin' out at my parents' annual epic shindig, New England clambake-style. But for now, I'm going to attempt to knock myself unconscious on my headboard so I can get some sleep.

THE JIG IS UP, THE NEWS IS OUT THEY FINALLY FOUND ME.

Dammit.

Distraction Needed

So...who wants to talk about last night's episode of Rock Star? A double elimination and double encore, huh? Who saw that coming? More importantly, why can't Tommy Lee find pants that fit? And is Jason Newsted channeling Lyle Lovett?

How about Project Runway? Go, Michael! Bradley, how could you not know who Cher is? Robert, get it together!

Um...nice weather we've been having, isn't it?

You're smoking crack if you think I'm talking about this.

In which case, please share with the rest of the class.

Off the Rails on a Crazy Train

This might be it. I think it's reached the point where I have to make a decision regarding this current Red Sox team. I can A) continue to watch every game, live and die by every pitch, pummel the couch cushions, inflict violence on my coffee table and curse the descendants of Rudy Seanez for all eternity or B) I can watch the games, take a deep breath, observe that Amy is correct, Wily Mo Pena really does look like a baby dinosaur in the outfield and comment on Jason Varitek's questionable sartorial choices and just allow the insanity to take over. I will still do that cursing of the Seanez thing though because seriously.

Let's put it this way: if the Red Sox were a boyfriend, this is the point in the relationship where we'd be having one of those long, drawn out discussions about whether or not their constant failure to live up to my expectations and be an equal partner resulting in my continual irritaion was set off by the occasional moments of brilliance and happiness. They never do the dishes, they leave their socks in the middle of the living room floor, they always steal the remote and I'm constantly waking up in the middle of the night to find the covers stolen too. Once and a while, they surprise me with concert tickets or a clean kitchen, but not often. If the Red Sox were a boyfriend, I would seriously be considering breaking up with them right now. But that doesn't work in this scenario because we both know I'm not going anywhere. Again, as Amy observed as we watched Craig Hansen flat our forget he had a sinker tonight, "I would never let a boyfriend treat me the way the Red Sox do."

So I guess embracing the insanity is the best we can do. We know we're nuts. They know we're nuts. They know we're not going anywhere and our repeated threats to the contrary are empty. And they know it. It's like they're even smirking at you through the TV screen. Like they're saying, "Oh, right, go ahead and become an Orioles fan. Just remember, you won't have David Ortiz" as Ortiz proceeds to launch a bomb out of Kauffman Stadium. And you rethink your empty threat, even as the team is in the process of losing to the freakin' Kansas City Royals. This is the life we were born into (or chose in the case of the more insane among us) and this is the life we lead.

Might as well have a little fun with it, right?

Not that there's anything fun about losing to the Royals because that is not what real baseball teams do, sirs. But I am not speaking to them right now. Instead, let's just all reflect on the fact that A) evidently, my love is transformative, B) Amy believes that once Rudy Seanez saw Gabe Kapler and Javy Lopez walking next to each other, he became the first player ever to land on the DL with a case of the vapors, and, C) do you think Craig Hansen begs Josh Beckett to introduce him to "Ashley, Courtney's friend from the DMB concert?" Inquiring minds want to know.

Nerds Fight Back

(photo from Boston.com)

What the holy hell was that? Papi goes yard (again, some more), Jason Johnson pitches more than acceptably and somehow, the freakin' Devil Rays are allowed to claw their way back into the game and win it on a walk off by some dude who looks like a high-school math teacher in extras?

Look, I'm just gonna pretend that my ears are still ringing from Friday night's concert and I misheard or something. Or misread because I'm...drunk? Yeah, that's it. We'll pretend I'm still drunk. Because ain't no way the Red Sox lost a series to Tampa Bay at crunch time of the season. No way, no how.

And can someone please stop shooting our players with sniper rifles or whatever the hell is happening? We're supposed to take some dude named "Corky" seriously now? Ha, funny joke, guys. No, really, good one. I mean, I'm all for the musical mojo but there is just so many times I can play Motley Crue's "Girls, Girls, Girls" for this guy before I go insane.

Let's just take today to regroup, shall we? Read a book. Watch a movie. Internet stalk celebrities and rock stars. What? Who said that? You know, just...get a hobby or something.

Kee-rist. They're making it awful damn difficult, aren't they?

All Your Javy Lopezes Belong To Us

Fucking hell, Josh Beckett. Now do you see what you did? The babies are crying. Don't you feel like a shit? You should. Because here's the thing: I don't know if they taught you this in pitching school, but if you're gonna give up a grand slam in addition to two other home runs, you're probably not going to win the game. Just a refresher. I'm just sayin', maybe in the future, LESS time snorting MetRx protein powder off BU undergrads, MORE time working with the catchers on scouting reports.

Bah! Bah! Bah! Don't give me the "But Huckaby's not my regular catcher" bullshit. Ken Huckaby once broke Derek Jeter. And that, dear sir, is quite enough for most of us. So suck it up and pitch like your contract is justified. I mind the home runs, of course, but I mind them less when they're solo jobs. Grand slams are another thing entirely. Those are for Manny to be hitting, not the opposition. And I don't know how they did things in Florida, but around these parts, we will TAKE AWAY YOUR FHM CALENDAR and we will STOP PAYING FOR YOUR IN-ROOM CINEMAX if you don't deliver. Don't make us hold your Hummer hostage and force you to drive a Camry. Don't think we won't do it.

Now, on to more positive news. Javy Lopez is apparently a Red Sox. We have a monopoly on Javy Lopezes in baseball. As Marianne observed, "the catcher hotpocalypse is upon us." Indeed. I mean, just look how happy he is to be shirtless. Aesthetics aside, Javy is a former All-Star who's still a valuable bat off the bench and is a good choice at backup. He's been spending most of the year as Rodrigo Lopez's personal catcher in Baltimore which may account for his less than stellar stats. And the way I figure it, it can't get much worse. So I'm happy about this. Javy was my brother's favorite player back when he was with the Braves so I've tangentially followed his career for years. And when he ended up in Baltimore and Marianne started sending me shirtless pictures of him, well, I'm not gonna front like I didn't pay a little more attention. Also, when I was in Baltimore a couple months ago, Javy hit a home run to help beat the Yankees. Conclusion: He loves me. Oh, and I want you all to know that Marianne and I figured out how he was going to end up on the Red Sox DAYS AGO. Because our mental powers are not to be trifled with. I'd post the emails but, well, there's other...things in there and sometimes my mom reads my blog. Hi, Mom!

Anyway, I likely won't catch most of tonight's game as I'll be jamming out to Appetite for Destruction with Amy and Marianne. Dude, don't even, this is like the least embarassing thing I've done, musically speaking, in forever. But I trust that Schilling will take the reigns and show that punk Beckett how it's done.

Mark Loretta Wishes Me No Harm

(photo from Boston.com)

In fact, it would seem that Mark Loretta wishes me a very pleasant morning. And you know that's how he'd say it too. "I hope you have a pleasant day." Because Mark Loretta is a pleasant guy. That's how the neighbors describe him. And not in the "He was always such a pleasant guy until the cops found fifteen severed heads in his freezer" kind of way. That's reserved for Tim Wakefield. Mark Loretta is the guy who has the office next to your dad at the insurance company when you're nine and his door is always open and when you stop by to see your dad, he always says "Hi" and calls you "Kiddo" and asks how the science fair went and makes a fatherly comment about how you're going to be a heartbreaker some day. He and his wife come to dinner at your house and he always brings your mom a bottle of wine and makes an effort to talk to your brother about his Lego house. The family dog loves him. He's got a thing for bugs but it's not creepy because he's so fascinated by them. That's Mark Loretta. Just a very pleasant guy.

Guys like that are not ususally the ones you expect to be hitting walk offs. And, just like on Patriots' Day, lots of people were looking to the on-deck circle where another guy, perhaps you've heard of him? was waiting for his shot. And just like on Patriots' Day, the other guy didn't even have to work up a sweat (well, except, you know eleventy billion degrees), because Mark Loretta took care of it. Mark Loretta sent us all home happy.

It's a toss up as to what was the best part. Me torturing Marianne about Alex Gonzalez and his knack for getting on base and making stellar defensive plays, Loretta's assertion that, "He's not actaully Greek, you know" regarding Youkilis immediately after the game when Tina Cervasio referred to Youks as "The Greek God of Walks," Papi, clapping Loretta on the back with enough force to leave a pretty impressive bruise and, I don't know, transferring his power or something, or Papelbon going absolutely, completely, balls-out batshit crazy and waving his towel around like he's at a wrestling match and someone has just broken a folding chair over someone else's head.

Actually, it might be that last one. 'Cause you just know homeboy had a Hulk Hogan poster in his bedroom growing up. He might still, but his wife makes him keep it on the inside of the closet door. But Papelbon's explosion out of the dugout was something special indeed. Bill Simmons has an article up right now comparing the legend of Larry Bird to that of David Ortiz. He mentions, in reference to Ortiz "I just can't imagine anyone else in sports making his teammates look like little kids on a regular basis." And that's perhaps my favorite thing about these Red Sox. They look like little kids more often than not. Last night it was Loretta providing the impetus for the tomfoolery, usually it's Ortiz. But when you see straight-laced, no nonsense guys like Mike Lowell and Jason Varitek jumping around like eight-year-olds after snorting Pixie Sticks (not that Jason Varitek will be doing any jumping, thank you very much), you just can't help but smile. And it's times like this when I realize that Papelbon really is still just a little kid. He's younger than me. And I know that if it were me in that dugout, and I watched Loretta bang a game-winner off the top of the wall, well, I'd lose my shit too. S'all I'm sayin.

Oh, and it's been mentioned over here, but I thought I'd have a go at it myself. Just take a look at tonight's starting pitcher. Now tell me that everything we've ever said about Josh Beckett isn't true.

Also? This. Just 'cause.

%&#*?&%@*%$

Subtitled: The Post In Which Kristen Attempts To Express Her Angst At The Current Situation Without Using All The Swear Words.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Well, so much for that.

Did you guys know that Mike Lowell is our emergency backup catcher?

::giggles maniacally::

Did you know that when Varitek went on the DL during the 2001 season that the team went completely to shit?

::curls up in fetal position::

Do you like how our everyday catcher is now a guy batting a robust .183?

::attempts to slit wrists with pretzel sticks::

Between this and the heat, I fear I shall not last much longer. I'm about one 90-plus day away from hunkering down in a bomb shelter with twelve-hundred boxes of Pop-Tarts and fifteen cases of Diet Coke with only my own thoughts and a DVD of Faith Rewarded to keep me company. I promise you, that won't end well.

::drinks rum directly from the bottle::