Category Archive
The following is a list of all entries from the People Way Cooler Than I Am category.
A Slice of NYC Life
Not to brag, or anything, but I live two blocks from Penn Station. It’s an easy stroll to Times Square. The Macy’s Day Parade ends about twenty feet from my apartment. I saw Alec Baldwin outside a McDonald’s not far from my Upper West Side office not too long ago, and last week, a man in a pink tutu and a tiara told me he liked my hat while we waited in the subway during the massive and utterly lovely post-Christmas blizzard.
Yeah. I kind of like it here.
That said, there is an oddness to New York City that I can’t always wrap my head around, and part of it is happening as I type this blog entry.
The man who lives next door to me is currently engaged in what I can only describe as wild monkey jungle sex. He seems to be enjoying it, as is his partner. Good for them. It’s hard finding love in the city, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to criticize the joys that these two have found (quite literally) in each other, even if it’s frankly all kinds of awkward for me, and, gosh, these walls are outrageously thin.
But here’s the can’t-wrap-my-head-around-it part: I’ve met this guy. He’s over 60. He gets dialysis twice a week. He is on more drugs than Keith Richards and his death rattle snores have woken me in the dead of night more than once. (Like I said: thin walls.) The guy is in a wheelchair, ferchristsake. How he’s accomplishing what he is accomplishing at this very moment defies the laws of physics. And yet, somehow, someway, there he goes. And goes and goes and goes. It’s gotta be a New Yorker thing. It’s gotta.
I’d like to know how he does it, but a mild-mannered, soft-spoken white girl doesn’t ask those kinds of questions of her elders, no matter how sassy her hat is to the drag queen strangers she meets in the subway. Nevertheless, if this old guy keeps it up (thatswhatshesaid), I’m pretty sure the structural integrity of the outrageously thin walls will be compromised, leaving me with a picture perfect view of the proceedings. I suppose I could just wait.
Or I could go try the new sushi restaurant down the street. There are always options here, thank God.
Starting the preparations
So it’s December. You know what that means! The preparations for National Bicarbonate Of Soda Day are stepping into high gear! I’m just so grateful that this deeply important, solemn holiday falls on the 30th, giving me a whole month to prepare by purifying myself and begging the Soda Gods for forgiveness for my innumerable, degrading and disgusting sins.
Speaking of preparations, the new year will bring big changes to Weekly Shocks World in the form of new underwear from my mom and a new blog for you good folks. The new blog will actually have, you know, some sort of focus. I haven’t really figured that part out yet, but in between my Soda Day self-flagellations, I’m pretty sure I’ll come up with something.
Good God, this month is gonna be hell!
For the three of you who might be a bit worried about the future of this wee bit of intrawebs-floating bunny turd, fear not: I promise I’ll still update Weekly Shocks with the same kind of regularity and hard-hitting profundity that I currently do. Or not. Who knows.
Also! I caved. I joined Twitter. Follow me if you like. Bonus Charlie Brown photo included.
“Well, it’s not the worst blog I’ve ever read.”
Behold! An actual critique of Weekly Shocks! From an actual sort-of famous literary/blogging guru person who refused to let me use his real name in connection with this site! So I’m calling him Stinky! Stinky thinks my blog isn’t the worst he’s ever read! HOORAY!
I am so totally moving up in the world.
On the dangers of bragging in one’s goofy blog
If you’ve been committing my blog to memory (and if you really have been, please: seek help), you may remember a gratuitously self-congratulatory remark I made in the wee hours of the morning when I triumphantly finished my dissertation. Drunk on lack of sleep, Diet Coke, and the impossibly sweet knowledge that I would never have to write the word “problematized” with a straight face ever again, I shamelessly broadcasted my ability to write over a thousand words an hour. To be honest, up until yesterday, I was still pretty chuffed about that. I mean, 1000 words/hour. Sweet as, right? Hell, until I pulled that off, I didn’t even think I could read that many words in an hour, let alone come up with ’em. Shit, son. I’m amazing.
So I was rather pleased with and proud of myself and then I had the sparkling bright idea to read Christopher Buckley’s Losing Mum and Pup, his poignant and surprisingly witty memoir about the deaths of both of his parents in the space of a year. I’ve since speedily returned, tail tucked and ears flattened, to my previous self-perception as a half-wit, blubbering hack with three, maybe four brain cells floating around in her skull. You wanna know why? Here’s why: William Buckley, according to his deeply impressed (and impressive) son Christopher, could dash off his seven hundred word columns in five minutes.
Well, then.
Now, comparing one’s writing ability to Bill Buckley’s is never a good idea, unless you’re a self-hating masochist contemplating suicide or Gore Vidal, but I mean, crikey. 700 words in five bloody minutes?! And we’re not talking about just any words here. We’re talking about the words – whether you liked them or not – of the unequivocal intellectual champion of the American Right. And in his free time – you know, when not writing his reams and reams of prize-winning non-fiction or running for mayor of New York or serving as ambassador to the UN – he wrote best-selling spy novels. Just ’cause. Jesus Christ. And here I am, bragging about my 1000 words/hour, virtually unread and unreadable master’s thesis! Pathetic. Don’t I suck a pack of AA batteries. Also, one more thing: “problematized” isn’t even a real word, you ninny! What were you thinking?! Sheesh.
So, I’ve learned my lesson. No more bragging about my mad word-producing skillz in Weekly Shocks. Instead, I’ll brag about the fact that I have now possessed a cell phone for longer than two weeks without losing it, although I have to admit that I can’t remember my own phone number or find the email that contains said number, making the phone not especially effective as a communications device, but still! I haven’t lost the buggery thing, now have I? Oh yeah, baby. Bow down before me. I’m gonna make such a great mom.
Wanna see what made me bellow “Holy cow!” today?
Sure you do. It’s this photo:
His name is Boomer. He weighs 180lbs and is seven feet tall, nose to tail. He may very well be the tallest living canine in the world. I’m still pretty sure my 8lb Pomeranian rat dog could kick his ass, but he’s a super cutie. I bet he fetches entire trees instead of wimpy, pointless sticks. Good boy!
As a “Holy cow!” side note: I’m still averaging about 20-30 puggle-search related hits per day. Almost none of these people comment on my blog. I imagine they’re just as confused by Weekly Shocks as I am. We should form a support group.
Reason Number 45789 to Love Boston
The Sox just dropped their second straight game to Satan’s League of Mincing Creeps in the Bronx. I think the Sox were momentarily disoriented playing so close to the gaping maw of hell and subsequently forgot a slight detail of baseball: in order to win games, teams need to, you know, score a run or two. Oops.
Anyway. We’ll toss that sadness aside for the moment. The Red Sox are not the reason why I love Boston today, although they usually are about 65% of the time.
I love Boston today because in Union Square, there was a celebration of Fluff.
You may not know what Fluff is because you may not live in or around Boston. How sad for you. Fluff is pure, sweet, gooey, sticky, marshmallow goodness packaged in a friendly white and blue tub large enough to stick your entire head in, if you’re so inclined, and sugary enough to leave you bouncing off the walls, giggling and drooling, for days at a time. I had a friend in college – who may or may not be the author of this particular blog, but don’t tell her I told you this, because she’s kind of unstable and might hit me if she knew I was spilling her dirty secrets online – who once survived a sophomore year finals’ week on nothing but Diet Coke, Milky Way bars, four hours total of sleep, and a tub of Fluff. The stuff is viscous, miraculous crack.
And it was created right here. Well, technically, it was created in nearby Somerville. Somerville is not-for-nothing nicknamed Slummaville. It’s the kind of place where all the girls are named Krystalle and they all smoke by the age of ten and they all go to the packies to buy beer for their dads when it’s their weekends with the kids. Everyone is Catholic, everyone smokes Marlboros, everyone drives a car referred to as “the Shitbox,” and it’s a safe bet that your Shitbox is gonna get stolen someday if it hasn’t been ganked already. In short, it’s exactly the kind of place where you’d expect a product like Fluff to be created.
And I love it. It appeals, deeply and profoundly, to my inner sanctum of white trashiness, a trait that Oxford tried so hard to beat out of me and failed. Massachusetts – the Great Commonwealth apparently has nothing better to do – is currently debating a bill making the Fluffernutter, a combination of Fluff and peanut butter, its state sandwich. Now, I personally think peanut butter is quite possibly the most disgusting food product on earth besides cilantro, but I’m all for this move. It’s about time Fluff got the respect it deserved, even if it does have to be paired with something so obviously revolting and inferior. But, hey, Massachusetts is brilliantly skilled at condescension already, isn’t it? Did I mention who the Sox had to go visit and play and LOSE TO this afternoon? For the second day in a row? I mean, Christ on a bike. The horrors we suffer.
Fluff as the state treat. Yes. Perfect move: fitting in so many ways, I say. Let’s do it.
Bad Trip
OK, anonymous patrons of the intrawebs, I need your help for just a mo’.
Has anyone seen the Dunkin’ Donuts ad circulating on various web pages in which George Washington reaches out from his dollar bill portrait and snags a Dunkin’ Biscuit With Slab o’ Pig? And has anyone noticed the father of our nation’s buggy eyes, giddy expression, and lolling tongue in this ad, then whimpered softly in terror, distraught at the cultural anomie which allows the presidential image on our most recognizable national currency to animate and pilfer junk food?
It’s kind of a brilliant ad, I have to say. I am keeping all of my dollar bills away from sharp objects, though, in case the good General decides to spring to life again and stage a coup in my house. Which, in Dunkin’ Donuts land (i.e., all of eastern Massachusetts), now seems entirely possible.
Anyway, drop me a line if you’ve seen this ad, because none of my “real life” pals have and they all insist there must have been a nasty batch of LSD in my Apple Jacks this morning. I don’t want to throw out the rest of the box (I love me some Apple Jacks!) if I don’t have to, but I can’t go through my days tripping on my breakfast cereal.
Throw me a line, people.
The Answer To Your Burning Question
Some poor, frustrated soul is currently trawling the Internet looking for an answer to the following question:
“Can a dissertation be done in two weeks?”
I know this because, not surprisingly, in his search engine journey, he landed right here in Weekly Shocks World where dissertations go to die slow, painful deaths. And then they get resurrected and kill their creators with machetes. It’s all very Frankenstein-esque. Someone should make a movie about it. I’ll get going on the screenplay.
Anyway, poor, sad, reader, if you’re still out there and not dead yet, I can happily assure you that, yes, you can write a dissertation in less than two weeks, although it will hurt a whole lot and you better not have anything else going on in your life while you slop through it. Also, an intravenous caffeine drip will help matters. And, if you can find one, get a willing friend, family member, or hired goon to smack you in the head whenever you start drifting into the slurry land of unconsciousness. This person can also remind you with his cheerful slaps that leaving a dissertation until the last minute is really not the brightest thing you’ve ever done, so try not to do it again, ‘k? You poor, sad fool. You remind me of myself when I was your age. (One month ago.)
Anyway, go kick some ass. I wish you luck. Please report back when you’re finished. And you will finish. I believe in you! You read my blog which proves you’re a smart lad (or lass) with excellent taste and just a hint of a commitment problem. Nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Wave your lazy bum flag high.
The Californian Moon. Multiplied by 400.
Have I mentioned I’m a little homesick?
God bless the broke, broken, and bumming state of California.
In other, not-America-or-bum-related news, I’m planning a trip to Germany at the end of this month. Once upon a much more bright, innocent, and schnitzel-filled time, I used to live in Germany and spoke the language pretty fluently. But that was a long-ass time ago (I have bums on the mind, it seems), and I have long since forgotten most of my glorious, crabby Deutsch. Therefore, I expect that my shiny and sparkly return to my erstwhile home should be interesting. I also plan on getting there via train, because every plane that leaves the ground these days seems to end up crashing in a fiery blaze into an ocean or a farmer’s house or a napping cow, and, well, I’m just not up for that. So, my peripatetic journey will be England to Deutschland via train. Hot dog. I am crazy like a fox.
Ahem. I’ll take credit for this, thank you.
From The Boston Globe, today (July 5th, 2009):
“Six Red Sox made the All-Star team, including 17-year veteran Tim Wakefield for the first time.”
Did I call this? Yer darn tootin’, I did.
Congratulations, Mr Wakefield, sir. Very well deserved, and I hope you have a kick-ass time in Beer Stadium.
Bits of Fluff in Revision Period: Tim Wakefield better be on the All-Star Team or I will be very, very grumpy.
We’re approaching the midway point of the 2009 baseball season. I’ve kept my baseball posts fairly limited for a couple of reasons: I’m a fan of the sport, but I’m not a complete diehard and I worry that if I post one incorrect statistic on a player or fact about the game, some crazed lunatic (almost certainly a Yankees fan) will come after me with a wrinkled copy of the MLB Rule Book, a tub of warm, flat Budweiser, and a swinging baseball bat, and then it’s bye bye writing career and intact skull. I also tend to ramble when talking baseball, because I miss being able to see it everyday and there’s that whole thing about absence making the heart grow into a bleeding, sopping mess of loquacious nonsense and it’s just such a beautiful sport and I adore it ever so much and for the love of GOD, will you just stop it with the baseball talk already. You’re in England, no one cares about that silly game here. OK, message received, point taken. But I do want to ask one minor, rhetorical question:
How freaking awesome has Tim Wakefield been this season?
Yeah, I know, his ERA isn’t top notch. I said rhetorical, damn it. Shut up. Look at the positive. Nine wins on the season: that’s tied for second best in baseball right now. Two complete games already. He’s leading the Sox (who are doing just fine, thank you, two games up in the AL East with a tidy little .609 winning percentage) in wins and just a touch behind their ace Josh Beckett in ERA and innings pitched. He’s getting the job done and well done, too. Oh yeah, and he’s 42 years old. Booyah.
It’s still a long shot, but because of his high win numbers and strong performance, there have been whispers from some and bellowing shouts from others (mostly Sox fan-lunatics, God bless ’em all) about getting Tim on the All-Star roster this year. I make it no secret that Tim’s my favorite player and in my devoted irrationality, I think he should be on the All-Star roster every year. But this time, it’s different. Tim, is after all, 42. And, sure, he can probably play at his level for another four or five years, assuming the Injury Demons leave him the hell alone. But you know there’s only a limited amount of time left before Wake has to put aside his nasty little knuckleball and ride off into the Florida sunset. Before he does that, though, doesn’t he deserve a spot in this fun and mostly meaningless midsummer game with the big, disgustingly overpaid superstars? Especially this season when he’s been so solidly, unassumingly good? I say hell yes.
Also – and I know this counts for squat when deciding All Star Game rosters – the man is, from everything I’ve heard and seen, one of the nicest guys in baseball. No temper tantrums. No eye rolls. No brooding moodiness, no smashing up locker rooms and hotels after a difficult game. No throwing his teammates under a bus in press conferences. He’s willingly done some time out of the bullpen in the past when his knuckleball has been shaky, and he’s such a team-oriented, easy-going kind of guy, you sometimes get the feeling he cleans up the locker rooms and scrubs the toilets at night when the rest of the team has gone home. He doesn’t beat his wife or go out partying with Madonna. You’re never going to see his mugshot plastered all over the morning papers after a raucous night out during which he wraps a borrowed BMW around a tree and strolls away uninjured before spitting in a cop’s face and getting carted off to the drunk tank. That’s just not who Tim is. He has a family and he golfs in his free time. He donates absurd amounts of both his time and money to charities, mostly involving kids. He’s been nominated about eight hundred times for the Roberto Clemente award, which he has never won, because he’s Tim. He’s your classic nice guy: he does his job, does it well and with little fanfare, but because life is occasionally a bitch, he’s passed over for everything.
Well, damn it, not this year. I want Tim in the All-Star Game. When asked if he was hopeful and excited about the possibility of being on the Team for the first time in his long career, he gave his signature nonchalant, hardworking, ‘the-team’s-the-most-important-thing,’ nice guy answer: “Yeah, that would be pretty cool…Hopefully I’m at least considered for a spot, and if I make it, great. If not, I’ll finish up the second half.” No biggie, right? Bullshit. Heck, Timmy, if you’re not gonna lobby for own your well-deserved inclusion on the All-Star Team, I’ll do it for you. I’m drawing up the bumper stickers and the campaign buttons now. I’m organizing the parades. I’m bitch-slapping all the killjoy know-nothings who inquire, with baffled stupidity, ‘Who’s Tim Wakefield?’ To hell with ’em. TIM WAKEFIELD FOR ALL-STAR. Oh yes. It’s the right thing to do.
Bits of Fluff in Revision Period: Brilliant Oxford Graffiti
Scrawled in black on the back of a bathroom stall in one of Oxford’s many, many pubs: “Look up. An important message awaits!”
Scrawled in black on the ceiling : “Ha Ha! Dumbass!”
I will miss this place.
Bits of Fluff in Revision Period: Pointless Queries Guaranteed NOT To Be On My Exam
Let’s kick it, shall we? Yes. Put your safety gear on.
1) Anyone check out Garfield lately? No? *sigh* Slackers. Do I have to do everything around here? Fine. Let me provide a visual for you lazy bums:
Notice anything weird? Yeah! What’s up with the color scheme, Mr Davis? I’m happy he’s mixing things up a bit, but I’m not sure I’m liking this whole Garfield-on-an-acid-trip feel. It reminds me of the Pink Elephants scene in Dumbo, which is still one of the most terrifying montages in all film history, I think. Have you been re-watching Dumbo, Mr Davis? I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Still, good work, as always. Carry on.
2) Do you think Pluto has gotten over the whole planet-demotion thing yet? Or do you think he’s just out there in the cold, dark, vacuum, slowly circling the distant Sun, and he could really use a hug right now? Do you think he cries himself to sleep at night, his self-esteem in tatters? More importantly, do you think I should stop attributing deeply depressing and mildly disturbing human emotions to erstwhile planets? Me too.
3) How come the cord to my headphones is literally three feet long? It’s a nice feature in theory, I suppose, but it’s actually a giant pain-in-the-ass. The cord is constantly tangled and gets caught on everything. And I can never think of a scenario that would really require such a long cord anyway. I suppose it’s nice that I could conceivably listen to my iPod when it’s all the way across the room, but it never actually is. Who designed this? Why? And who’s it for, anyway? Giants? Am baffled and mildly annoyed.
4) Who was the first person who looked at a lobster and thought it would make a tasty delicacy you could dip in butter and charge fools an arm, leg, and spleen for the privilege of eating? That took some serious ingenuity and prescience and a level of insanity that borders on genius, man. Big ups to you, dude (or dudette, if that happens to be your preference). I want to shake your hand.
5) Why do I keep saying “big ups” so much lately? Where the hell did that come from? Must stop. It’s weird and annoying.
6) Did you know that the guy who created Pet Rocks is now a millionaire? Seriously. Apparently the things were only sold for about six months during 1975, too, and they cost an unbelievable $3.95. For a freaking rock. I wasn’t around in 1975, so I have to ask: what the hell were you people thinking? Weirdos.
7) Did you know that there have been over seventy million Tamagotchis sold since their debut in 1996? Seriously. Did you have a Tamagotchi back in its heyday? Or a Pet Rock for that matter? Do you feel a little ashamed of yourself because of that? You should.
8 ) How come every musician in the world has written a song using the same chord progression as Pachelbel’s Canon? Don’t believe me? Check this out:
It’s a beautiful piece of music, sure, and its accessibility is obvious. But aren’t song-writers just a little embarrassed by their unoriginality? Or is it unintentional? Or are they too busy cashing their multi-billion dollar checks to much care either way? Do I sound bitter? OK.
9) How come every humorist in the world has created a list of ten quasi-amusing random thoughts and thinks everyone will be ever-so-excited to read them? And how come these lists all make some sort of self-referential, self-deprecating slam against the author, as if anyone really believes that she is that modestly unaware of her own extraordinarily limited talents? Don’t you hate it when humorists do that and don’t you really think they should just get on with it already? Damn straight.
10) Did I really just do that? Lame. Moving on.
Arising Like a Phoenix From My Inbox:
| From: | (deleted to protect the insane) |
| Sent: | 22 May 2009 14:47:30 |
| To: | Weekly Shocks (weeklyshocks@hotmail.com) |
Yo Weekly Shocks or whatever your name really is,
You ever planning on updating your blog? Seriously, what the [naughty curse word deleted), man?
Hurry up.
An Insane Fan
I have a fan! Yay!
Blog will be updated soon-ish. I think. “Soon-ish” means whenever the hell I feel like it, i.e., when I’m not being smothered in the oozing puddle of dog poo that my dissertation has become.
A million apologies for disappointing you, Insane Fan. I love you. I will give birth to dozens of your babies as recompense. Call me.
Love,
Weekly Shocks (not a man, has uterus to prove it)
ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US
Can’t talk at the moment, there’s a war on, damn it! (Forgive the questionable taste of this joke during an actual war: the photo was simply too good to pass up.)
Use some &;^%(^% manners on &;*%(&;% Facebook, will you?! &)*^!!
With sincere thanks to several of my friends for sharing this over the past couple of days: a brilliant combination of two of my greatest addictions – MST3K-style short, educational films and Facebook (aka, “the electric friendship generator”).
Brilliant
As someone who appreciates good, witty writing from all ends of political, religious, and social spectra, I highly recommend Christopher Buckley’s tribute to his recently-passed parents in today’s New York Times Magazine.
Yet another reason why I’m going to hell.
I cannot stop watching this or laughing my ass off at it. Poor dog. Given the number of YouTube hits he’s got, though, I suspect he’s got a multi-million dollar movie deal in the works. Hope it’s worth it!
Aw Crap, It’s Only the Governor.
You’ll forgive me (or you won’t, that’s cool too), but today is Opening Day and I’m carefully monitoring my heart rate to make sure the old ticker doesn’t explode inside my chest, then leak out of my nostrils.
Finally, after a long, dark winter of sketchy reports from some bizarre place called “Florida,” endless injury-watches on aging, hurting men, and months of mega-million dollar trade talks falling through at the last, miserable second, finally, finally, finally, baseball season begins here in Boston. As a life-long Red Sox fan, this is basically Christmas in April, except Santa is being played by a bald man named Francona and includes an elfish second baseman MVP, who probably stands in at about 5’4″ and weighs 120lbs soaking wet. God love ’em all, I can’t wait for that opening pitch. And for the first time in, oh, ages, I’ll actually be in the city to enjoy it.
It’s not easy being a baseball fan in England. The Brits have some sweater-wearing, tea-drinking, pansy-ass pseudo-sport called cricket, which is enough like baseball, sort of, that they pretty much ignore the real thing over here. Cricket is a monstrously complicated, yet soul-crushingly uninteresting game that goes on for days and is often prescribed as a sleep-remedy for incurable insomniacs. For the life of me, I fail to understand its appeal in any other capacity. But, after three years in the UK, I’ve come to accept that there will always be oddities about that strange and wonderful country and its mildly insane inhabitants that will forever perplex me. Besides, I haven’t got time to delve into the attraction of cricket: I’m too busy trying to figure out how Pop Rocks work.
Anyway, if you’ve been a Red Sox fan long enough, you’re bound to have more than a few memories that you just love boring into the skulls of OTHERS, i.e., the non-fans, the people who are slowly but surely starting to hate you and your massive, pulsating, ubiquitous tumor of a team. I’m no exception and now you’re all going to have to suffer through my favorite Red Sox memory. You poor suckers. Of course, seeing the Sox win the World Series in 2004 after that epic comeback against Satan the Yankees is a classic. And watching cars being set on fire as a means of celebrating said victory was perhaps the highlight of my senior year in college. But that’s too easy. I gotta tell ya, the best memory I’ve ever had of my boys occurred on May 1, 2006, which was really just a run-of-the-mill, early season, fairly forgettable game at Fenway…OR WAS IT?!
Of course it wasn’t, you fool! This was the first head-to-head match-up of Sox vs Yankees in 2006! This was the Light vs the Dark Side, this was Innocence, Trust, Teamsmanship, and Consummate Love of the Game vs Soul-Sucking, Money-Grubbing, Devil-Worshiping, and Fun-Hating Banality! This was real baseball! And this was also the first time that that traitorous, throws-like-a-girl doorknob Johnny Damon would return to Fenway Park after his mercenary defection to the Evil Empire. The crowd was already in fine form, jeering loudly at our once beloved Johnny and the Bleacher Creature Faithful were busy throwing dollar bills onto the field in order to shame the troll-like beast for his hypocrisy and sordid infidelity. Well, either that or they were trying to get the saucy center fielder to strip. It’s always a little hard to say with Fenway fans, especially after the alcoholic third-inning buzz sets in.
Regardless. Jeering on Johnny was not my favorite part of the game. Big Papi David Ortiz blasting a Mike Myers’ (another former Sox) fastball into New Hampshire to put my boys on top was not my favorite part of the game. The clean cut Red Sox win, sending them into first place in the AL East was not my favorite part of the game. My favorite part of the game actually occurred before it had even technically started, but it demonstrated just how incredibly awesome (and absurd) it is to be a Red Sox fan.
See, once upon a time, there was this catcher named Doug Mirabelli. I liked Doug. He was unassuming, cheerful, had the speed of a walrus on land, and he hit around .200 in a decent season. But Doug could catch a knuckleball and he could do it better than perhaps anyone else in baseball. And it just so happens that my all-time favorite Red Sox, in fact, my all-time favorite baseball player, is a knuckleball specialist named Tim Wakefield. I had never seen a knuckleball pitch before, had never even heard of it, in fact, until Tim joined the Sox way back in ’95. Immediately I was hooked. Watching a knuckleballer pitch is, for me, baseball at its best. At the very least, it’s never, ever boring. When Tim’s on, he’s damn near unhittable, and it’s an absolute treat watching batters swat hopelessly after this softly-tossed ball that dances around at about 55MPH before dropping out of nowhere deep into the strike zone. The problem, of course, is that when Tim’s off, it’s like a pig to the slaughter, and batters have a field day launching his pitches out of the park like golf balls. Perhaps even more nerve-wracking is that the knuckleball is almost as impossible to catch as it is to hit, which is why many in Red Sox Nation groaned miserably when they learned that our dear Dougie had been traded to the Padres in the 2006 off-season. Who was going to catch Timmy now?
For a while, the Sox tried a kid named Josh Bard who showed some potential by only having about 479 passed balls in seven games with Tim, which actually isn’t too shabby for catching a knuckleballer for the first time. But rumor had it that Dougie seemed a bit unhappy out in the San Diego sun and was lonesome for his battery mate and old team, a team that actually had a fan base who gave a toss about it. So the Sox got him back. On May 1st. The very day Tim was scheduled to pitch against the filthy, slimy, disgusting Yankees who had also tried to get Dougie on their team that day, for no other reason than to screw over the Sox. (Wikipedia tells me this is true, and as we all know, Wikipedia never lies.)
The question, the drama, the excitement, of course, was, would Doug make it to Fenway in time to catch Tim? And if he didn’t, who the hell would? The televised pre-game festivities were an exercise in raising blood pressure. I remember sitting in my living room, rocking back and forth with my knees clutched to my chest, wishing, praying, pleading with the Big Guy to get Dougie into Boston as soon as possible, to zip him down into the Fens via turbo jet if necessary. Nothing was too good for Dougie. The announcers were beside themselves, hopped up like crack fiends, practically ripping their hair out over the anticipation of this game (this regular season, one-out-of-162 game) and all that it might mean to the Sox. And where the hell was Mirabelli? Would he get his ass to the PAHK in time?! I think three of them died of sheer nervous exhaustion and stress-induced aneurysms before the National Anthem was even sung.
Then! Suddenly! A Black SUV flanked by state troopers picks its way down the Fenway traffic zoo! Could it be Doug?! Was he going to make it after all?! Would he stride out of that car, manfully returning to his proper home, and quickly punch Johnny “Judas” Damon in the face before storming out onto the field and single-handedly winning the game, the series, the season?! The driver of the SUV hustled out and quickly and efficiently opened the back door, and, and, and!
And, aw crap, it’s only the governor.
And I’d be a fool not to laugh at this. In fact, I worked myself up into a nice, heady stream of hysterical giggles over my epic, completely disproportionate disappointment over the arrival of the Commonwealth’s leader to a regular, run-of-the-mill baseball game. On television, the surviving announcers laughed at the pure silliness of the situation too, but it reminded me how utterly amazing and obsessive baseball can be in this town. Seriously, where else would this happen? Where else would the appearance of the governor – who, by the way, is a guy named Mitt Romney and is already starting to explore a very serious run for the Presidency – be entirely eclipsed by the anticipated arrival of some backup catcher for your number four starting pitcher? God help us, if it happens in any place other than Boston, I think we’re all doomed.
Anyway, for the record, Dougie made it in time. Apparently he had to change into a Sox uniform on the ride over to Fenway and caught all of the first inning without protection for his, ehrm, man bits. But these are small prices to pay for Red Sox glory. He threw a runner out in the second inning of the game and the cheers that greeted him at his first at-bat could not have been more boisterous and adoring if he were the second coming of Jesus. And, as I said, the Red Sox won. Perfect game.
So, yes, I am very excited about tomorrow, but more than a little unnerved as well. See, Opening Day was supposed to be yesterday, and I had this blog post all typed up and ready to go for you good folks. But, again, because this is Boston in April, the weather decided not to cooperate at all: the heavens opened up early in the day and took a giant leak all over the city, washing out any chance of a game for the afternoon. The forecast for tomorrow predicts sun and partly cloudy skies without a drop of rain in sight, but weathermen are known charlatans and liars and I don’t trust a damn one of them any further than I can toss their sorry asses.
Still, tomorrow’s game has to happen. It has to. I’m starting to get the baseball withdrawal shakes here and if I don’t see some ball-playing soon, I may just lose it and start searching the BBC International channels for cricket matches. No one wants to see that happen, so really: if you’ve got a spare minute, wish for some good weather in Boston tomorrow, will ya? Please? I’ll owe you one and maybe I’ll spare you another long, rambling Red Sox-related post in the future. Maybe, though. No promises or anything.
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