Dave is totally gonna write a jam about this.

(photo from Fuseblog)


Duuuuuude, that was like, totally sweet. Three hits? Dude, for serious, that was awesome. And like, you're just comin' back from that blister thing that we're not allowed to call a blister. That's totally sweet. Plus, like, the Yankees lost again to the Blue Jays. Dude! Did you see Aaron Hill stealin' home against Pett-Dogg? Dude, I know! They're totally screwed. But you, man, you're money. 8-0 on the season, dude? C'mon, that's freakin' sweet. Bet you won't have any trouble pickin' up chicks at Jillian's tonight. Just tell 'em you're the Josh man, the Beckster and watch 'em throw themselves at you. Dude, it's totally gonna happen. We'll be your wingmen.

The Sox are good man, they're totally on this sweet roll. It's awesome. Yankees? Brutal! Things are rollin', things are sweet. And you've got Dice-K going tonight, the Diceman. Sweet. He's money. It's gonna be awesome.

Dude...do you have any Funyuns?

And I Ain't Missin' You At All

Total lie, of course. I miss Trotter like crazy. It seems that I forget daily that JD Drew is on the team and then I'm cruelly reminded every time he takes the field or steps into the box and shows absolutely no emotion, never smiles and just generally looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Doesn't help that he's wearing Trotter's number so that for a split second, I always think, "Hey, Trotter's...oh. Damn." Gets me every time. I wonder if that'll stop happening.

Now, I'm not a crier. As a rule, I'm more of a swearer. It freaks people out when I cry. "Kristen, I think your face is leaking." That kind of thing. But I have to tell you, when Trot stepped in for his first at-bat and 'Tek gave him the affectionate butt pat with his glove, I lost it. Couldn't handle that. Just a mess over here. And I immediately started formulating a plan for Marianne and Amy - who were both at the game - to kidnap Trot and force him to return to his rightful place in right field at Fenway. I really don't think he'd put up much of a fight. Because, come on, a guy like that just belongs on the Sox. We never got to see the Trotter and Tavarez show and I feel like we've really missed out. I mean, just imagine those two heading up a bowling league. As we know Julian's a big bowling fan. 'Course, Trotter would likely get so much pine tar on the ball that it'd stick halfway down the alley and then he'd stalk down there, Fu Manchu twitching, all set to "give that ball some information" but really, that's half the fun. God, I miss Trotter.

I mean, during batting practice Trotter was shit-talking Remy and Orsillo while he was miked up. Making fun of Remy's mad air guitar skillz and Orsillo's chipmunk cheeks. Not to mention likely driving all of his new teammates completely insane with tales of his life as a Red Sock. Meanwhile, I don't even know what JD Drew's voice sounds like.

Anyway, I have to admit something. You know the song "Rumpshaker?" (And if you don't, you totally can't be my friend). Anyway, I've long thought that it should be 'Tek's at-bat music, because COME ON. But Marianne and I have spent entirely too much time recently photo spamming each other with David Wright pictures and we've decided that actually, Wright needs that song but my point is that the part at the beginning of the song where it goes, "Check, baby, check, baby, 1-2-3-4. Check, baby, check, baby, 1-2-3," etc? Yeah, I pretty much always change that in my head whenever 'Tek is up to, "Tek, baby, Tek, baby, 1-2-3-4" and so on. Is that...is that weird?

Also, what the HELL has gotten into Kevin Youkilis? He's been feasting both on opposing pitching and smoothies made of blended Awesome and ripe Kickass. The hitting streak is one thing but inside-the-park home runs? That's just madness. I can't think of someone less likely to hit an inside-the-parker. Standing, no less! I feel like it's been all Youks, all the time lately. Not that it's not deserved but damn.

I do, however, love the Sox Appeal commercial where Pedroia and Youks and Jim Rice are talking about the concept of the show and Youks goes, "Don't be gettin' drunk, runnin' on the field, screamin'." It's excellent precisely BECAUSE Kevin Youkilis is EXACTLY the kind of dude who'd decide that the best way to impress his blind date would be to get hammered on $7 Bud Lights, run onto the field and try to fist bump the first baseman. I'm fairly certain that the fact that he IS the first baseman is the only thing keeping him from actually engaging in this behavior.

As for this Sox Appeal business, I'm not gonna lie. I considered it. Solely so I can get to Sox games, mind you, and I'm totally willing to allow someone to film that madness and use it either for entertainment purposes or for use in a psychological study. Of course, my behavior during 'Tek's at-bats and the fact that they'd have to broadcast on a 7-second-delay to make things family friendly would likely go a long way towards explaining why I can't ever get any dates. But hey, free Sox game! No, I wouldn't do it. Not unless the dates are actually with Mike Lowell. Then I'll think about it.

And Jonathan? A word, if I may. That, dear sir, was a bit too close for comfort. Can we not do that again? Kthnx.

Meanwhile, according to ESPN.com, the Yankees have apparently turned into interior decorators. "We're going to keep rearranging the furniture until we find something that works," [Torre] said. "Right now, we don't seem to be blending this thing very well." This, after Torre called a team meeting to presumably tell his bunch of overpaid, underperforming jackasses that he's sick of this shit and he won't hesitate to bench them all for some Little Leaguers and the residents of the East Bronx Retirement Home and, seriously, why isn't he fired yet? Hell of a lot of good it did them as the Yanks dropped their fourth game in as many tries, this time to the Jays. Wow.

And now, apparently, the latest news out of the Bronx is that Clemens won't have his first major league start against the Red Sox. I'm stoked about this for two reasons. Reason the first: the hype would eat the world and I, for one, am so over the Roger Clemens thing that I can't even see it in my rearview mirror. And reason the second: Now we get to call him a pussy. And that's fun. Heh.

But really, can you think of a more miserable person in Major League Baseball than Brian Cashman? There simply is no one else. That man has a miserable, sad existence and is pretty much the poster boy for money being more trouble than it's worth. Now look, I don't know Brian Cashman, but I've had conversations with strangers in bars about how we wouldn't trade lives with that man for anything. The last such conversation involved a discussion about how Cashman's kids - Does he even have kids? I don't know. - probably don't listen to him and how they play him and "Uncle George" against each other. "Screw you, Dad and your 11:30 curfew. Uncle George said I don't have to come home until 2am." Seriously, no one listens to that man. And he obviously can't win for losing. Not that I mind any of this, I'm just sayin'.

And now, a pretty thing to get you through your Monday (which is actually Tuesday but you know what I mean):













In much sadder news, condolences are due to the family of Marquise Hill and the entire Patriots organization. Things like that just shouldn't happen. My thoughts go out to everyone.

An Observation

I finally figured it out. It's been driving me crazy, trying to figure out who Kevin Youkilis looks like with that squirrel attached to his chin and it finally came to me tonight in a Corona-fueled revelation. And so I put it to you. Kevin Youkilis and Yukon Cornelius, separated at birth? You decide!

Un pregunta

A quick question before I pump myself full of coffee and attempt to function as a normal human being today: If I had one task at my job and I didn't do it well, would I still have that job?

I'm just saying, if Mike Myers' sole purpose is to get David Ortiz out (and yes, that is totally his only job), and David Ortiz is batting .308 lifetime against Mike Myers, couldn't one reasonably say that Mike Myers is not very good at his job?

Right, anyway, these games still kill me. I was flipping back and forth between the Sox/Yankees game, the Mets/Braves game (because David Wright is so my NL third basemen boyfriend) and the DVD of the 3rd season of Arrested Development from Netflix because, apparently in addition to having some severe baseball ADD, I decided that my remote reflexes needed to be sharpened?

I guess alls well that ends well. One more tomorrow and then, blessedly, done with this business. For like, you know, six days. Argh.

Oh, and happy birthday, Julian, you crazy diamond, you. Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez were going to get you a present but they were busy throwing tantrums and elbows. You understand.

Hello, my name is Kason and I'll be your pitcher this evening.

So...the Kason and Jason Show. Who'da guessed it, huh? I mean, the whole Jason Varitek coming up with two outs and the bases loaded and NOT striking out on a high fastball is really quite something. But that combined with someone who calls himself "Kason" pitching quite well indeed against the Braves - who are no slouch of a team - and getting himself a win in his call up is a possible sign that the apocalypse is nigh.

But I will take it. I am not complaining. No, sirs. I won't even complain about Brendan Donnelly wearing his "hating fun" goggles today and necessitating Javier Lopez heroics. Because, in the end, it didn't matter a bit.

Perhaps it was a long night for Tim Hudson at Crossroads last night?

So, go Mets? Honestly, at this point, I don't even know what to think of the Yankees and what keeps happening to them. I caught a small moment of a Brian Cashman interview on XM today and the man soundly utterly defeated. Not that he doesn't always sound roughly four seconds away from a complete and total nervous breakdown that'll have him running naked through the Bronx with a Santa Claus hat on his head and singing songs from Rent, but he sounded positively distraught. Last night, Yankee Call-up #264B, Darrell Rasner fell prey to the Yankee Injury Jinx when a comebacker to the mound fractured his finger. I mean, honestly, what is going on there? I'm not complaining, mind you, but I think Marianne might be right when she said that Mystique and Aura have been replaced by Karma. And Karma's a bitch.

Of course, that has me completely terrified. Because things are not supposed to be this easy. We're supposed to have a struggle on our hands. We're supposed to scratch and grab and claw for wins and a foothold in the division. We're supposed to drink too much and have indigestion and lose sleep and throw things.

It's like this: I don't know if y'all have ever seen the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie starts having panic attacks because her relationship with Aidan appears perfect and stress free, but it's kind of like that. She's not used to the perfection and the effortless nature of things. She's used to drama and tears and heartache. Sounds like a typical Red Sox season to me.

Maybe a better analogy is that I feel like I'm out for a nice cruise, enjoying the water and the sunshine and the breeze and then, all of a sudden a great white leaps out of the water and lands on my boat, causing mayhem and chaos.

Or perhaps I watch too much TV.

It's like Beth said, a world championship three years ago - while amazing and wonderful and fantastic - doesn't undo 86 years of classical conditioning. And she's right, we're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it's the Beckett thing. Maybe it's not. But I know only that this placidity and awesome baseball is INCREDIBLY nerve-wracking.

However, for the time being, I shall try my best to enjoy it. Because this is baseball, and it's supposed to be fun.

Now, I'm off to cheer on the Mets and create the latest installment of my new favorite TV show, Mike Lowell: Super Spy.

The Name is Tek, Varitek

You know, y'all are lucky that I spend as much time as I do talking complete nonsense about the Red Sox and baseball in general. Because it provides me with lots of material to share with you (probably against the better judgment of nearly every psychiatric professional out there) when there are rain delays or the like.

So, along those lines, Marianne and I got talking the other night about the whole re-emergence of Tek this season and how, not only is he hitting quite respectably (.282), but he just LOOKS GOOD. Like, really good. Of course, last year in about August the wheels came off and 'Tek got hurt and the team got cancer and what have you and really, no one looked good. But I think this goes beyond his exfoliating routine or something. Because he just looks healthy, and virile and rawr, baseball! Annette claims that he's just gay for good pitching which is where all the smiles and jokes are coming from. And perhaps that's true. But I think it's something else.

So then we got talking about Mike Lowell and how he's quietly batting .317 and playing stellar defense and just generally being awesome and snarky and awesome and good at baseball and flashing the slow burn smile and have I mentioned awesome? He's just very dashing, that Mike Lowell. (I won't call his defense "sexy" again because the last time I did that, he got all flustered and make like twelve errors in an inning or something). But suffice it to say, Mike Lowell rocks.

So we decided that those two, Tek and Lowell, are up to no damn good. They've formed some kind of partnership and we figured that they spend their off days in other cities dressing in business suits and wearing dark sunglasses and pretending to be international business men, on trips of great importance. Or perhaps Lowell plays the businessman and Tek plays his bodyguard and walks around with a silver briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. This has to happen in other cities, mind you, because there aren't many places in Boston where those two could go without being recognized but they do enjoy the danger of the unknown. Perhaps they pretend to be spies as well, dealing with issues of crucial importance in matters of national security. They probably even have the dark suits and earbuds. Maybe they spend some time riding the Downeaster and moving rapidly from car to car and attaching blinky light thingies to the undersides of seats and such as my obsessive Alias watching has taught me that's what spies do. They probably drink a lot of single malt scotch and martinis too. I peg Lowell as the martini drinker while Tek gets down with the scotch.

This happens, of course, after they're done wine tasting and scrapbooking with my mom.

Perhaps the role-playing is the reason for the resurgence of awesome. Maybe it's just the joy at the friendship of two like-minded dudes who happen to play baseball for a living and, in complete bafflement to them, seem to have women totally enthralled with them. Perhaps they just like wearing suits and looking dashing and saying things like, "The eagle flies at dawn, 10-4, Night Ranger, we're on a go pattern."


And honestly, you might say we're just completely barking mad and pull this shit out of thin air but if Tavarez can admit to a childhood ambition as an adult film star, really, NOTHING is off limits. The problem with that admission, of course, is that when one conjures up a mental image, one can't NOT see it. I think we're onto something here.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go scrub my brain with Clorox.

The Word of the Day is "Hinske"

(Photo from Boston.com)

Apparently, I'm not the only one with a bit of a crush on Eric Hinske. Tito feels me. Pretty sure Curt does too. I wonder if they saw the same "Red Sox Stories" on Tuesday where Hinske was just so damn earnest and happy about playing baseball and playing in Boston and wow this is awesome and man, these fans love you and how cool is this? Plus, there were numerous pictures of Hinske shirtless which probably doesn't have much of an affect on Tito or Curt's opinion of the lad but, well, it didn't hurt what I think is what I'm saying.

And then there's Jerry Remy who will CLEARLY not be happy until he wins an Emmy. Or perhaps breaks a hip. Dude, I'm pretty sure the air guitar championships are being held in Boston next month. Think we could convince the RemDawg to enter?

Bang on the Drum All Day

(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Basically, things are comin' up Kristen. I was able to attend today's day game due to a combination of factors. Those being an understanding company, some season tickets, a boss who recognizes a rabid and possibly dangerous Red Sox fan when he sees one and, you know, luck. And I gotta tell you, the State Street Pavilion right behind home plate? Not too shabby.

Also not shabby? Julian Tavarez. Seven innings of one-run ball. I know! Madness. Like Annette said, "I'm going to tell your mom if you keep lying. That's not even a believable lie." But I swear, it happened. I actually think Tavarez would have pitched a shut out were it not for the continued existence of Julio Lugo who is, evidently, made of limestone or granite or some such other immovable object and refuses to attempt to field a ball unless it's hit directly at him. At one point, he went over to talk to Mike Lowell during which, I sincerely hope, Lowell gave him what for and said something along the lines of, "You know, most of these people miss Alex Gonzalez. I'd start fielding if I were you."

Of course, I realize that seems a ridiculous thing to complain about considering how things are going with the Sox. I'm just sayin', Lugo remains on the list.

People with their own list, a List of Awesome, include the following: Hideki Okajima and Jonathan Papelbon. For reals, those dudes are fun to watch. The gentlemen sitting next to me got up to get a beer right before Okajima came in and then asked me who was pitching when he sat back down. I told him, got a blank stare and turned back to watch the game. "He must not pitch very often," the dude said, gesturing to Okajima's sub .050 ERA, "with an ERA like that."

"No," I said, "he's just that good."

"Oh," he said, "Um, well, um, I saw Dice-K pitch. That was pretty awesome."

I figured it must have been the fact that I actually look like a presentable grown up today since I hadn't left for work planning to go to the game and, you know, I'm a girl so therefore, probably don't know all that much about baseball. Plus, I was sitting in the expensive seats. Anyway, the dude got that look that they get sometimes, you know the look. The "I clearly cannot impress you because you appear to know more than me" look. Yeah, I get that look a lot. I swear I'm not trying to be a bitch. I just find it amusing. Especially when I started talking to my co-worker about my brother's insane love affair with Doug Mirabelli and the dude did a double take. Because, seriously, Doug Mirabelli. Who was, according to the scoreboard, today's Red Sox Hero of the Game. "I love the scoreboard's sense of humor" Marianne said when I told her.

This was, I believe, before the hysterical phone call I made to her when Manny came to bat to the dulcet tones of Europe's "The Final Countdown." Because that? Is some funny shit. If I were a closer, that would totally be my bullpen music. That song, in addition to making me think of Will Arnet and "Arrested Development" and general awesomeness is just about the most excellently overwrought song ever. So, pretty much perfect for Manny. Because it makes no goddamn sense. Mike Lowell, because he's awesome, is still going with "Iron Man" for those of you keeping score at home. And Kevin Youkilis is rockin' Jay-Z's "Dirt Off Your Shoulder." That...yeah.

And it appears the Yankees have already lost for the day. I believe it's Neil Diamond who says, "Good times never seemed so good."

(So good!)

(So good!)

(So good!)

This Campaign Sponsored by Hooters and Bud Ice

(Whoever's picture this is, YES. You rule.)

In lieu of a game breakdown because: rain, I've decided to share with you a conversation I had today with Marianne and Annette over email. As you know, Marianne is an Orioles fan. "Long-suffering" seems repetitive at the moment. After Sunday's brain fart on the part of Perlazzo, Marianne has decided only one thing can save the Orioles. And Annette and I are always down for madness. Herewith, the discussion:

Marianne: Millar for Manager. The grassroots campaign begins...
Me: /waves placard
Marianne: I have all the necessary skills to make this dream a reality, I think.
Annette: That would be TERRIFYING. He would totally institute a nekkid in the dugout Wednesday rule.
Marianne: Naturally. And umpires who make bad calls? Get empty beer cans thrown at them from the dugout. He is exactly the leader the Orioles have been missing since Earl Weaver retired.
Annette: Empty? That wouldn't covey nearly enough pain to fully express his distress. They would be full. And then the umpire would have to die for making him waste a perfectly good beer.
Me: I don't think Millar is one to waste beer. This is just another reason why this must happen. Also, Marianne, we work in marketing. We are qualified to make this happen. First step...some of those free stripper necklaces with Millar's face on them.
Marianne: I just don't think there's any way Kevin Millar holds out long enough to not drink the beer. During the game. In tribute to Earl, who used to smoke a pack of cigarettes every game and kick dirt on the ump's shoes, Millar will drink a 6-pack every game and piss on the umpires once he's good and loaded. The strippers will be proud supporters of this effort. They know their tips will increase due to the fact that Millar will always buy the Player of the Game a lapdance.
Me: Precisely. I think we need to go old school with this campaign. Like those straw boater hats people used to have with candidates names on them? Instead, we'll have beer helmets with Millar Lite.
Marianne: "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" is the campaign song.
Me: Obviously. Somehow KFC gets a cross-promotion for this.
Marianne: Natty Boh, 98 Rock and Larry Flynt's Hustler Club are the local sponsors. National sponsors include KFC, Jack Daniels and Harley Davidson.
Me: He will, of course, reinstitute the whole "taking shots of JD before an important game" thing.
Marianne: Brian Roberts will have to covertly replace his whiskey with apple juice, is all. Also, Ray Lewis will campaign on his behalf. And ain't nobody gonna say no to RayRay.
Me: Cross promotion with the Ravens? Oh yeah. Ray-Ray will start something like "Bitches for the Birds" for both teams.
Marianne: Correction: "Big Booty Bitches for the Birds"
Me: Of course. My mistake. We should get that copyrighted.
Marianne: Millar is going to be the best manager ever.
Kristen: Although those 7th inning stretch Harley races are going to be hell on the infield.
Marianne: That's all part of home field advantage. He learned that from Belichick.
Annette: The new souvenir stand called Tits-n-Ammo is totally happening on his watch.
Me: Plus free tattoos for the fans.
Marianne: Well, for the Fan of the Game, at least.
Me: And Millar's all about gender equality and fairness, so there'd be a fan vote to determine which player has to play shirtless every game.
Marianne: YESSSSS. Also, he's also going to have a tunnel built under the field to creat a direct path between the dugout and Boog's Barbecue.
Annette: And the National Anthem shall be belched before all home games. Except on those days where he gets someone to armpit fart it.
Marianne: Winner: Annette.
Me: If this vision comes to pass, I'm pretty sure we're all winners.
Annette: If this vision comes to pass, the real winners will be the children.

This is a grass roots movement and a worthy cause. What do you say? ARE YOU WITH US??

It's All Julio's Fault

(Photo from Boston.com)

Apparently, we have a misunderstanding. When I admonish the Sox to "get on the stick" because now I have cable and can delight in their glorious, run-scoring ways in real time, they somehow interpret that to mean, "stop scoring runs immediately." Was it Opposite Day and no one told me?

Of course, I suppose it's possible that they've just run out of the antidote to Tim Wakefield Disease. The 3-run home run I blame entirely on Lugo, of course, because, had he made the play before for the third out like he was supposed to, Ordonez wouldn't have had the chance to jack one over the Monster. So once again, Julio Lugo continues to be Someone Whom I No Longer Want Employed By My Baseball Team.

Although, the way we go through shortstops around here, there's a chance that his four year contract was just a ruse, but knowing my luck, I'll be stuck with him for eternity. Rest assured, I will continue blaming everything from infield errors to the concession stands running out of Fenway Franks on Lugo.

And I'm pretty sure that while Coco was helping JD Drew up after his collision with the bullpen wall, he might've called him a pansy. And rightly so. Drew is listed as "day to day" with a bruised back and Coco, who went ass over teakettle a few weeks back, is likely unimpressed with Drew's maladies. Although, I'm telling you, this is going to haunt Drew all season. So begins the slow introduction of your every day right fielder, Wily Mo Pena. Ugh.

As for Tim Wakefield, I've said it before and I'll say it again, but if that man doesn't have a few severed heads in his freezer, I'll be really surprised. I mean, his team can't decide whether or not to score runs for him (yes, I KNOW Verlander is a great pitcher but it's not like the Sox have never seen him before. Those are the types of hurlers they usually have trouble with, twelve-year-olds from South Side Little League). Then they're all with the making errors behind him and THEN! To add insult to injury, NESN unveils it's Doug Mirabelli commercial which is just...quite something, indeed. Has there ever been a Wakefield commercial? One telling us to buy tickets because Wakefield is super wicked awesome? Not that I can remember, no.

As for the Dougie commercial, did we make that happen? With the combined powers of our minds? You've seen it, yes? All shots of Dougie being a big, damn hero and such? And some fans holding a sign that says, "Dougie's Goin' Deep Tonight!" Which must mean they've read Dougie's Diary. Which means we need to be friends immediately.

I emailed my brother to tell him about the commercial and his response, in addition to claiming it was the coolest thing he's ever heard was, "I started the Dougie trend and you know it." So there you have it, faithful readers, it's all my brother's fault.

Of course, because of it, he's become a minor celebrity as, after Dougie's juggling act last night, I got a phone call from Sebastian, lone Yankee fan telling me that he hoped I was happy because now every time someone so much as mentions Doug Mirabelli or he does anything noteworthy, Seb is now hard-wired to think of my brother.

"It's not just you," I told him. "Sometimes I get messages from strangers on the internet telling me that they don't know me, but they thought of my brother."

"Your brother is a celebrity," Seb said.

So it would seem.

So, Dougie commercial awesomeness notwithstanding, can the Sox award my Comcast-paying ass and score some runs tonight, please? And by "some runs" I do not mean "one or two" UNLESS that is enough to win. I'm not greedy, you need only score one more run than the other team, but we've got Tavarez going tonight so who knows what it's gonna take? Your guess is as good as mine.

I am not dead.

But I have been without cable and internet for the past four days. Which have been, evidently, the most exciting games of the season. THANKS, COMCAST. But now, I have not only cable and internet but also a new apartment. That's right, kids, Basegirl Enterprises has a new home. It's just me so the only person I'll annoy by singing Bon Jovi at 6:45 in the morning is myself. And also, I can watch SportsDesk four times before I leave for work. Sweet. The poor Comcast dudes who installed my cable this morning probably thought I was going to eat them, so voracious was I for SportsCenter and SportsDesk, etc. I mean, at this very moment, ESPN is talking about, basically, how the Yankees are fucked. I NEED TO SEE THESE THINGS, PEOPLE.

Sorry for the interruption in services. Snarking to resume starting now.

So, how about them Red Sox? How about that Josh Beckett and his (don't call it a blister) "finger issue?"

How about that Daisuke Matsuzaka and the fact that, apparently, Jim Leyland is not having it?

How about 'Tek allegedly breaking a bat over his leg after striking out the other day? I say "allegedly" because I did not see it and because NO ONE THOUGHT TO BRING IT TO MY ATTENTION FOR REASONS I HAVE YET TO DETERMINE. Is this not why we have YouTube?

How about it?

Honestly, I go away for four days and catch small glimpses of the game through my neighbor's window and there's way too much to talk about. So, how y'all been?

Paper Airplanes and Tavarez Pets

Quite a night for our two favorite broadcasters, no? An 8-1 track meet in the third inning will do that to you. But even for the RemDawg and Orsillo, these two were in rare form. Talkin' about everything from Remy's shopping phobias, Don's inability to make a paper airplane and whether or not you can purchase a Tavarez Pet online, and then freely admitting that they weren't paying a damn bit of attention to the game, ("What's the count, anyway?"), these two were clearly out of their minds from the get-go. And then, THEN! Proving that either someone at NESN reads this blog (terrifying) or they're just incredibly smart people and know a good idea when they see it, Jonathan Papelbon will be miked up during Friday's batting practice, thereby doubtlessly providing them with delicious Papelbonian nuggets of wisdom to sprinkle throughout the game. I can't wait! I'm currently mired in moving boxes and planned to spend Friday night wondering how I could set all my stuff on fire so as not to have to move it, but you can bet I'll be watching that.

Oh, and as for last night, Beckett got his seventh win in a row and Tek went 4-for-4 with a home run. Ho hum.

Actually, it was one of those fun games to watch, not the least of which because of the antics of the lunatics in the booth. True, it wasn't close but an occasional track meet is good for the soul. What's even better? Watching the Captain break out in a big way. No longer shall I suffer slings and arrows on his behalf. Well, not today at least.

Long about the eighth inning, I found myself in the rather bizarre position of full-naming someone calling himself "Devern" and instructing him not to blow this thing for Joshua. Now, I'm not sure when I became the protector of the Beckett, but I am just as disturbed by it as you are. I began the inning on the phone with Marianne discussing, among other things, how Melvin Mora's one sleeve thing reminds me of those half-man, half-woman Halloween costumes people used to wear and therefore, I believe Melvin delights in some cross-dressing, the fact that Mike Lowell can do a slow burn smile with the best of 'em, Tek's infusion of Awesome, and the statement that if Chris doesn't get his ass to Camden Yards on Nick Markakis Bobblehead Night to snag me one, we are not friends anymore. Then Hansack walked the bases loaded.

"I've gotta go," I said, "This alleged Devern person is having trouble finding the strike zone and I need to coach him through it."

"Go speak to Devern," Marianne said, "You give that boy what for."

"It's very strange," I said, "I feel oddly protective of Joshua's seven run lead."

"This is indeed a change of fortunes. You didn't even call him 'Fathead.'"

"That's the thing about winning seven games in a row without a loss or a no-decision. You get your name back."

So congratulations, Joshua. Nice work. While I think you've been the beneficiary or some lucky bounces and fantastic fortune at times over the course of your previous six wins, this one you truly earned. That was some great pitching. I've gotta give it to ya, brah, that was sweet.

::initiates frat boy, back pounding man hug and complicated fist bumps::

I still don't find you the slightest bit attractive like some people keep trying to convince me I should, but don't take it personally. I think I just spent too much time at Dave Matthews Band concerts in college. It's not your fault.

Give Your Money to Katherine!

Dear Lovely and Amusing Readers,

I don't usually do this but I am asking for your help for a friend of mine. My lovely friend Katherine is running the Nike Women's Marathon on October 21st, in San Francisco, CA as a member of The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Team in Training. Despite the fact that she is clearly a crazy person for running a gajillion miles, I really admire her drive and dedication to this cause. But she needs help. Katherine needs to raise a minimum of $4,000. So that's where you come in. The link to donate is below and I'll add it to my sidebar as well. Help her out, it's a great cause. I'm sure Jon Lester would agree. Also, if you needed another reason to support her, Katherine's marrying a Yankee fan, and though we like the fellow a great deal, that can't be easy for her. Hee.

So give her a hand, and some money. Because Katherine=good and Leukemia=bad. See? Easy math.

DONATE.

Thanks, guys. I appreciate whatever you can do.

~Kristen

File This One Under "Neverending Drama"

(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Curt Schilling is already tired of hearing you talk about Roger Clemens.

Okay, I don’t care what anyone says, the most excellent part of today’s game wasn’t Schilling’s pitching against the Twins. It wasn’t Pedroia owning Sidney Ponson. It wasn’t Ponson’s newly acquired curly mullet and it certainly wasn’t the news that the Yankees are so desperate for something good to happen that they’ve agreed to pay Roger Clemens a gajillion dollars to pitch for them like, twice. No, the most excellent part of today’s game was listening to Remy and Orsillo – mostly Orsillo – absolutely LOSE THEIR SHIT over Manny’s treatment of Julian Tavarez in the Sox dugout. As neither Manny or Tavaraz were playing today, apparently they felt they needed to entertain themselves in some other manner so Manny spent the majority of the game PETTING TAVAREZ ON THE HEAD as though he were a new pet that Manny had grown to love and keep safe forever and ever. And Orsillo? Could absolutely not handle that. He actually resorted to BEGGING FOR THEM TO STOP. And the camera crew, because they’re wonderful and fantastic and I love them so very much, would do no such thing. Repeated shots of Manny molesting Tavarez in the dugout were shown, specifically, I choose to believe, to make Orsillo actually suffer a break from reality and start singing show tunes.

“You know,” Remy said, “When the Manny Ramirez Era ends in Boston, it’s going to be a very sad time.” How right he is. And he wasn’t talking about his hitting.

The whole thing was, in a word, excellent.

The game was pretty excellent as well, save for Schilling going all Matsuzaka and losing his control for an inning. Seriously, what is up with this team and their one inning control issues? They’re all cruising along, all “La la la, I’m facing Sidney Ponson. That’s hilarious, woop de doo” and then, BAM! Can’t find the strike zone. Can we get someone on this? Is it a psychological thing? Like how Derek Lowe always used to have first inning issues and we’ll hold our collective breath, promising small animal sacrifices if he’d somehow make it out of the inning without making the Derek Lowe Face? Is it gonna be like that? Because I’m not sure I can take that. Especially with the added fun that no one really knows what inning Matsuzaka or his friends will choose to go all “spells of wildness” on us. “Spells of wildness” being Don Orsillo’s apparent catchphrase this season.

Of course, then there was Papelbon, evidently still in “kill mode.” And when Papelbon tells you to sit down, I do believe you listen. After all, as Remy told us all on Friday, Papelbon really likes the beds in Minnesota. So if he’s been getting a good night’s rest, well, you’re probably in trouble.

The whole bed thing then prompted a three-inning diatribe between the two jokers in the broadcast booth about Posteurpedic beds and vibrating beds and how Remy has switched to the mechanical bull and honestly? I don’t even know. But I am really, really glad that someone’s been spiking the booth’s coffee. Because those guys are entertaining.

Also entertaining is the realization that Wily Mo could not possibly be more Pedro Cerrano from “Major League.” Not even if he started dressing his bats in golf club cozies. I mean, honestly, “Straight ball, I hit very much.” That’s pretty much Wily Mo for ya, right there. I wonder how long before we start hearing stories about live chicken sacrifices in the clubhouse.

Apparently, the theme for this entry is “animal sacrifices.” Huh. Didn’t plan that.

But while we’re on the subject, George better get that truckload of Original Recipe ready since Roger’s comin’ to town. I’m sure he and Andy Pettitte have spent the day skipping through a field of daisies and singing “Reunited and it feels so good!” to each other. And that’s lovely and all but, here’s the thing: everyone keeps saying, “Oh my god, can you imagine a Yankee rotation with Pettitte, Mussina and Clemens?” And I have to reply, “Why yes, yes I can. In fact, I’m getting an odd sense of déjà vu. It’s like everything is the same, except FOUR YEARS OLDER.” So really, calm the hell down.

And before all the Yankee fans start in all, “You wouldn’t say that if he’d gone to the Sox,” I would like to point out that I NEVER wanted him to come back to Boston. I didn’t want that a few years ago when he held Major League Baseball hostage the first time with his “I’m retiring. Or am I?” horseshit and I don’t want it now. Some things, I will forgive. But Roger Clemens broke my heart when I was sixteen-years-old and when a sixteen-year-old girl gets her heart broken, she is going to remember that forever. So enjoy New York, Roger. I’m sure you and Andy will be very happy together. But take it from A-Rod, if the road gets a little rocky, you might have to put a stop to those five-night-a-week sleepovers.

"Nothing Jerry Remy Loves That Much Can Be Bad"*

*Marianne, speaking of Remy's all-consuming love for Alex Cora.

And she is completely right. Alex Cora, 3-for-3 tonight, was doing his best to make sure Tim Wakefield wouldn't have to make his patented You-guys-are-assholes-for-not-scoring-any-runs Face.

Of course, it helps when Papi hits one to Michigan. Which is, I'm guessing, why he got the hug from Tim Wakefield upon returning to the dugout. I don't get the sense that Wake is terribly free with his affections but it's David Ortiz, he just hit a home run for you. How can you not hug him? David Ortiz hugs people who are tagging him out during double plays. That is a man you hug, no matter the circumstances. I'm guessing even Tim Wakefield makes an excuse in his "No Hugging" policy when it comes to Papi. That is a man not to be denied the man love.

Rounding out the evening of perfect baseball was the loss by the Yankees, 15-11 to Seattle. Yeah, fifteen. One-five. Wow. As Remy said, "I'm glad we're not covering that game. There's only so much you can say about bad pitching."

I've got something for you, RemDawg. How about this, Mike Myers, lefty specialist, whom the Yankees acquired solely to get David Ortiz out (no matter what anyone says), pitched FOUR INNINGS OF RELIEF TONIGHT. Four innings. For a lefty specialist. I understand that Torre's bullpen is taxed and the pitching got rocked today but does he really have no other options? That just seems irresponsible. I guess someone has to mop up but isn't that what Josh Phelps is for or something? Surely they can find some drunk Brooklyn native with a jersey in the stands who'd be willing to toss a few. Yikes.

Additionally, the Blue Jays and Devil Rays both also lost and the Orioles won in extras thanks to my continuing love for Nick Markakis (don't believe me? Ask the O's fans).

Aside from the whole playing-on-turf-inside-a-bag-made-to-collect-lawn-debris thing, a wholly perfect night in baseball. Delightful!

Manny Ramirez Doesn't Understand What All the Fuss is About

Manny, looking like a non-crazy person. Huh.

It's not that Manny is disrespecting the opposing pitchers when he hits his home runs. It's more like he just thinks they're so pretty and he can't help but admire them. I mean, we've all seen Manny jump up and down like an overexcited four-year-old when his teammates hit home runs so clearly, the dude just likes watching home runs. But Marianne nailed it, "It's not that he's pimping, it's that he's giving them the once over like dudes due to hot chicks."

"You're so right," I said, "He's doing the up and down, Joey Tribbiani 'How YOU doin'?'"

"He can't help it," Marianne said, "His home runs are fucking hot."

Good thing too as they were both sorely needed last night. I'm not sure how you say it in Japanese but could someone translate the following and deliver the message to Matsuzaka:

Get your shit together, sir.

Because, damn.

I called my dad after the second of Lugo's first inning brain farts and demanded that he explain to me, using small words and calm language, why Alex Gonzalez was no longer on the team. He gave me a bewildered, "I don't know." And that's not a phrase The Rick utters often.

Of course, then he left me a message after Lugo's ground rule double asking me of I liked him any better now. The answer, of course, being no. I will continue not to like him so long as he continues not to be Alex Gonzalez. Back rubs for Manny notwithstanding, the dude is shifty and I don't trust him. It's getting to the point where a ball is hit to short and I have that reflexive "Oh god, it's headed to Renteria, someone hold me," reaction. That can't be good.

So I started drinking because, what else can you do? I told Marianne that I had talked to my mom earlier in the day and my mom, who pretends like she thinks there are too many baseball games on TV and she can't possibly keep up with all of it said to me, "Did you see that catch Coco made?"

This started a discussion about how my mom is a much bigger fan that she pretends to be and how she knows exactly what's going on - as most moms do - and how she would totally get along with Tek and Mike Lowell.

Mostly because she and Tek could scrapbook together and she could show him an attractive way to display all his opposing hitters data in his Trapper Keepers, like maybe by putting sad face stickers next to A-Rod's data or something.

And she and Mike Lowell would have a lively discussion about wine vintages. Lowell claiming that he really feels Napa's vineyards are overrated and she should really try a lovely Australian shiraz.

Then she'd probably have to break up a fight between my brother and Dustin Pedroia over the foosball table as we know that Pedroia is not shy about picking fights with those bigger than him and my brother once famously told my friend who was teamed up with him in a friendly fooseball tournament, "I like to win."

So basically, my mom needs to somehow become the Red Sox team mom. Who's with me?

Oh, and for the record, unless the hat he's wearing somehow prevents Tom Brady from throwing touchdown passes and winning Super Bowls and generally being all-around awesome, I don't care if he wears one of those beanies with a propeller. Seriously, didn't someone get arrested or something? Didn't Barry Bonds do something? Didn't Manny say something ridiculous. Surely we have something more important to talk about.

Here:















Happy?

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Coco Crisp

No word of a lie, that picture comes up when you do a Google Image Search for "Coco Crisp." Makes sense to me.

Homeboy has been drinking his Red Bull, that's for damn sure. The next case better be on Mike Timlin as I feel like Coco's saved his ass more than once.

And, wouldn't you know it, he's started hitting too. Raised his average from .111 to .250ish in no time. That's nice to see, isn't it, Dustin.

And then there's Alex Cora. With the hits and the fist pumping and the general awesomeness and Jerry Remy positively wetting himself with the excitement of it all.

Full disclosure: I didn't watch the entire game tonight because I was cleaning my new place and getting it ready for all my stuff. So I was checking scores on my phone (no internet at the pad yet) and occasionally sneaking glances all "Rear Window" style at my neighbor's TV across the street. What? It's a big screen and his curtains weren't drawn. That's practically the same as inviting me over, handing me a beer, telling me to put my feet up and asking me what I think is wrong with Lugo.

Okay, for reals, why does Beckett always look like he's coming off a three-day bender? And why, in his postgame, is he talking through his nose? It's almost like he's trying to talk "New England-y." That said, 6-0 is something even I can be impressed by. And I am not terribly easy to impress. I mean, I'm impressed by the sheer insanity of the Yankees' situation right now (finally firing their conditioning coach today), but aside from that, it takes something special. 6-0 is pretty special. And I don't even mean it in that sarcastic way. That's right, me, not being sarcastic when it comes to Josh Beckett. Surely, we are in the end times.

Luckily, Marianne and I have a plan:

Marianne: KRISTEN. I have a new idea for a movie. Are you ready for this? It's a sequel to "Armageddon" starring Kevin Millar and Jonathan Papelbon. Solid. Gold.

Me: BEST. IDEA. EVER. What's the story line?

Marianne: I don't know, but I think maybe there are zombies on the asteroid this time.

Me: There are obviously zombies and they obviously need to be killled with duck hunting rifles. Obviously.

Marianne: Yes. Clearly. Jaime Walker is in the movie as well.

Me: Yeah, he's the renegade space hero who drives a flying Winnebago. So it's kind of like "Armageddon" meets "Space Balls."

Marianne: Ohmygod. This movie is going to win the Oscar for best movie...ever.

Me: Affleck is in full support of this.

Marianne: Affleck is producing.

Me: Dude, so are we.

Marianne: Naturally.

In the "Things Could Always Be Worse" Department

Yes, Papelbon blew a save. And no, none of us are happy about it. But if we're being honest with ourselves, we knew it was going to happen eventually. That said, things could always be worse. Take, for instance, the Yankees. Phenom Phillip Hughes, in a solid bid for a no-hitter against Texas last night, has to leave the game with a hamstring injury. He's expected to miss 4-6 weeks.

I had the following IM conversation with my friend Sebastian, resident Yankee fan:

Me: Sebastian. A question.

Seb: Ok

Me: Did someone replace the hamstrings of your entire team with spun sugar? Because come on, man.

Seb: Fuckin' seriously.

Me: I honestly feel like you're being punked.

Seb: Must be. OR. It's a deal we made. For every win, one player must go on the DL. A Faustian bargain, if you will. So far, 10 for 10.

Me: Then for your sake, I hope you've got one hell of a deep farm system.

Seb: Dude, you're looking at our farm system. Karstens, Henn, Bean, Hughes, Wright. All call ups. Sanchez is on the DL already

Me: That...wow.

Seb: Yeah.

Me: Even when you win, you lose.

Seb: Fuckin A. We're going to have to offer Clemens free money and 'roids for him and his kid for life.

Me: I think that's probably in his contract stipulations anyway. Also, he can only pitch once every fifth day. Or whenever the hell he feels like it.

Seb: Oh and 1 million pounds of KFC original fried chicken.

Me: I've always been a bigger fan of the extra tasty crispy myself.

Seb: Lifetime supply of mashed potatos.

Me: And biscuits?

Seb: Sure. why not. Maybe for biscuits he'll actually sit in the dugout with the team and talk.

Me: You're gonna need to give him a whole vat of gravy if you expect him to share sunflower seeds with anyone.

Me: Can I post this?

Seb: Why not? If we can't at least get some laughs out of this Shakespearian comedy then I'll stangle myself with a cordless phone. Hell, all we need are some crossdressed princesses and a donkey.

Me: I suspect you've just named your starting second basemen and right fielder for the month of June.

So see? It could always be worse.

Randy Moss is a Crazy Person And Other Things We Already Knew

(Surely we are immune to curious tonsorial decisions in this region)

Perhaps you have heard, the Patriots are now Randy Moss' place of employ. Curious indeed. Personally, I like Bill Simmons' take on the situation and choose the following as the most plausible among his many explanations for the deal:

//Just for the hell of it, Belichick decided to build this season's Patriots offense the same way I doctor my "Madden" roster every August by making as many shady Patriots-related trades as possible. I swear, I would have ended up making all three of those moves in four months, even if they hadn't happened.

I wonder if Miami will be dumb enough to trade me Wes Welker for a second-round pick? (Pause.) Wait ... the Dolphins agreed to the deal?

I wonder if Donte' Stallworth's agent will be dumb enough to sign a multi-year deal in which only the first year is guaranteed. (Pause.) Wait ... he said yes?

I wonder if the Raiders will accept a fourth rounder for Moss. Screw it, I'll make the offer. (Pause.) Wait, I just got Randy Moss?

You have to admit, at the very least, we have the greatest "Madden" offense in Patriots history: Brady, Maroney, Watson, Moss, Stallworth, Welker, Caldwell, Gaffney, Brown. I mean ... are you kidding me? Can I run a seven-receiver offense next year? Is that legal?//

So yeah, Randy Moss. Huh. But as I have explained to anyone who has asked me these past couple of days, I suspect that Belichick has already subdermally implanted a homing device and behavior modifier on Moss and has subliminally threatened his family should he do anything to disgrace "the family." Because don't tell me Belichick isn't the NFL mafia. He totally is.

Of course, according to Dan Shaughnessy, we're all mindless sycophants who would embrace anyone who wears the colors of our home team. Obviously, Shaughnessy is not aware of my feelings towards Julio Lugo. He also appears not to be aware of the fact that he's a blowhard jackass but that's been covered on numerous other sites. Ad nauseum.

I am also fairly certain that he's written that exact same column at least twice before. I mean, we all remember what the general consensus was about both Rodney Harrison and Corey Dillon, do we not? Right.

Although, I have to admit, it's really weird to be talking about football right now considering that May has just started and the Sox are hot (at present, Papelbon has just blown his first save and I'm ignoring that because facing it is about as terrifying as looking over the edge of a great precipice and feeling as though you're going to fall off at any second). But what I do know is that, on paper at least, the Patriots are SCARY good. It remains to be seen what will happen when they take the field because, as we well know, championships aren't won on paper. But still, I know that all the recent moves make the Steelers fans I know really, really angry. And that can only be good news. Especially because they can't use the "buying a championship" argument because: salary cap.

I mean, this is why Belichick is the mafia. Or, at the very least, Obi Wan Kenobi, as I believe I've mentioned before. He has the same amount of money as Oakland or Houston or any other team. He just chooses to spend it wisely while Al Davis uses his money to purchase endless black and silver velour track suits. When was the last time Belichick spent any money on his personal appearance? Exactly.

On second thought, maybe it's not so hard to talk about football when the Sox look headed for one of those interminable 15-inning games that they will eventually lose. Yes, I realize that David Ortiz is up in the bottom of the 10th, but Jonathan Papelbon blowing a save has shaken my beliefs to their very core. Up is down! Left is right! The Yankees are throwing a no-hitter! Yeah, that's actually happening and yes, I hope I jinxed it by putting it in print. Like Marianne said, "there's nothing quite like a blown save for rage blackouts."

"This is true, because I now hate Oakland and the A's and Miguel Tejada all over again for his ridiculous over the top reaction to the Derek Lowe "bite my tweeter" incident of 2003," I said.

No one ever said there was anything rational about being a sports fan.