Just some quick notes on the NBA Draft Lottery:
I took my drinking habit to the ocean last night, so I was unable to view the Sox/Yanks or Sternfest '07. Unfortunate, I know, but everything can't always swing your way. Sometimes you have to settle for getting drunk on a boat with friends and grilled meat.
We had a nice little surprise party for my buddy's girlfriend. As she arrived at the dock, the shock was evident, and the tears began to flow. It was a pretty powerful moment. There was genuine surprise. As I enjoyed the moment, and the bonus tears, I had no idea it was me who was going to be genuinely surprised and fighting back tears only an hour or so later.
Now, while I was on a Ferry in the middle of Casco Bay, seemingly away from it all, it is important to note that in this day in age it is impossible to get away from it all. I had the Treo out. If anything was going to happen, I was going to trap it in my internets. Plus, I had the one and only Hot Plate Amory on text message duty. His first task was to send me a text immediately as things unfolded. So, it was pretty fool proof system I had rigged, and everything went to pot except for one tiny detail... the Celtics pulled 5! F-I-V-E. FIVE.
If I hadn't been immediately able to hit the parquet dance floor on our Party Ferry and fire off my angst to "Man In The Mirror" with two 16 ounce beers in tow, things could have gotten a lot worse. I was hoping Tommy Heinsohn had this luck. In fact, they should have allowed the entire Celtics fanbase, all eleven of them, to head down to the historic halls of the... oh, wait, just the TD Banknorth Garden and let their tears flow to the King of Pop.
Maybe the worst part of all of this was NO ONE CARED. After I had gotten it out with a few sweet dance moves and whined to my closest circle of friends, I passed the info to others. The response was unanimous, "Who? the Celtics? Who cares? The Sox still winning?" Horrific.
Then, there is the fact that getting Greg Oden was basically Portland, Maine's only hope of getting Celtic's games in High Def. We get the Sox, the Pats, the Bruins and we even get some Rev's games in HD, but not one Celtics game. You see, when no one cares, no one calls Time Warner Cable to bitch. I called, my friend Phil called (and got an email response explaining no one cared!) but I'm pretty sure that's where the list ended. However, the C's get that first pick and people would care, people would call. But no. Five. We got 5. No Jianlian Guandonghigh Yi in high def for me.
I guess, in the end we can't really be too upset about this. We tanked games to get the best pick and that is the whole reason why the Lottery is in place: to prevent tanking (though I'm pretty sure the Spurs got to keep Tim Duncan).
I'll leave you with this: Before I went on my cruise last night, I was taking a pre game dump, and during that dump, as I was sitting on toilet in my C's jersey, I had an epiphany: It's a lottery. We were pining our hopes to a lottery. This is not a sound business strategy. The only people I know who pin their hopes to a lottery get paid once a month and have homes with wheels. Ugh, we should all be ashamed of ourselves.
The Sox still winning?
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I'm A Man. Confirmed.
It has finally come to pass. I am a man. Time of death on my youth, May 15, 2007. 8:39pm. The Red Sox are loosing to the Tigers 4-1 and Manny just struck out looking on a nasty Justin Verlander change-up. Call it.
I, more or less, had the epiphany this weekend. I was down in DC visiting my uncle, aunt and cousins. This was about the 200th such trip I've made in my life, but this time I stayed at my cousin's house. First time not at my aunt and uncles place. I brought my fiance, and spent most of my time not watching movies, talking baseball and listening to my uncle's life tales, but in a nursing home. Getting a dugout view of the final innings of a game that has now become out of reach. My uncle has had his second stroke, and is playing the waiting game. A good portion of his brain is scrambled, but he is all too aware of where he is, and where he will never be again.
His condition is almost baffling. He can still tell you what Mike Lowell is currently batting, what moves the Patriots made last week, and how the Celtics better win the draft lottery. By the sounds of it everything is still pretty good. However, when we arrived on Saturday the Red Sox were in the middle of their game against Baltimore. He was blankly watching the community access station. He didn't remember the Red Sox were on, he only knows what he reads in the paper. A paper he reads several times a day. They say as you get older a day gets shorter. A minute makes up less and less a percentage of your life, so it becomes less significant. I get the feeling his days are pretty long. Just sitting there. In his chair, all day. Still, you have to realize he's had an amazing life. I could only dream to experience half of what he has.
Even in my quasi rebellious youth, where under normal circumstances I would have rather been at home drinking my five dollar share off of a 30 rack on the train tracks, and not potentially missing out on any potential happenings, than doing anything family related, a trip to DC was always more than welcomed. My Uncle could talk. He could tell a hell of a story, and he could make you laugh.
He was the oldest of my father's three siblings. He still holds a Maine State track record (I've forgotten exactly what) and played a damn good center field, I've been told (more than once, from more than one person). So good he was given a full scholarship to Yale and also offered a minor league contract by the Philadelphia Phillies. He gave it all up. For a woman, of course. They were married, had a couple of kids and she ran off to California with them and some other guy. In search of fame and god knows what else. He worked the docks in Boston and saved up enough money to go after his kids. It's a long story that I won't bother anyone with here, but it almost led to his death... twice.
All out of options and back on the east coast, he enrolled in the University of Maine. Transferred to Pitt and then on to B.U. for grad school. He taught in most of the Universities in Virginia and became the President of the National Pharmaceutical Council. He got marriage right on the 2nd try. My aunt is a hell of woman who has stuck by my uncle more than anyone could be expected to, and she has not always received the credit for that. I cannot possibly imagine what her life has been like the last few years, but she's done it. For better or worse, that's what they say, and she has most certainly lived up to her vows. All of us men could pray to be as lucky.
He had two kids with my Aunt. Two kids who now have kids. Their kids are now older than I was when I thought my cousins were 'old.' It puts everything in a weird sort of perspective. Kind of like when you're in sixth grade and all the eighth graders look like monsters. Then, when you're in eighth grade you don't feel so big. But you notice all of those high school kids looking down on you. Then when you're a senior, there's no part of you that dwarfs the freshman. Looking back as a college grad now, it's laughable to be that I would have ever feared a high schooler, but it's all perspective, I guess. And everything was put in perspective this weekend. My life is on its way, and I'm old.
It's worth noting that I'll be waking up at 5am tomorrow morning to win an Australian eBay auction for a '87/'88 Mitchell and Ness Larry Bird All Star Jersey. I mean, I could steal this puppy. Sure, it's a size too big, but I never know when I'm going to get this chance again. These don't come up for auction everyday. I should also disclose that I'm wearing a game worn Portland Sea Dogs jersey as I type this. It's a left handed pitcher from last season who wore 19. I wear it in honor of Josh Beckett. So, I'm holding on to something. I'm not THAT old.
7-2 Detroit. Looks like more than my youth is slip, sliding away.
I, more or less, had the epiphany this weekend. I was down in DC visiting my uncle, aunt and cousins. This was about the 200th such trip I've made in my life, but this time I stayed at my cousin's house. First time not at my aunt and uncles place. I brought my fiance, and spent most of my time not watching movies, talking baseball and listening to my uncle's life tales, but in a nursing home. Getting a dugout view of the final innings of a game that has now become out of reach. My uncle has had his second stroke, and is playing the waiting game. A good portion of his brain is scrambled, but he is all too aware of where he is, and where he will never be again.
His condition is almost baffling. He can still tell you what Mike Lowell is currently batting, what moves the Patriots made last week, and how the Celtics better win the draft lottery. By the sounds of it everything is still pretty good. However, when we arrived on Saturday the Red Sox were in the middle of their game against Baltimore. He was blankly watching the community access station. He didn't remember the Red Sox were on, he only knows what he reads in the paper. A paper he reads several times a day. They say as you get older a day gets shorter. A minute makes up less and less a percentage of your life, so it becomes less significant. I get the feeling his days are pretty long. Just sitting there. In his chair, all day. Still, you have to realize he's had an amazing life. I could only dream to experience half of what he has.
Even in my quasi rebellious youth, where under normal circumstances I would have rather been at home drinking my five dollar share off of a 30 rack on the train tracks, and not potentially missing out on any potential happenings, than doing anything family related, a trip to DC was always more than welcomed. My Uncle could talk. He could tell a hell of a story, and he could make you laugh.
He was the oldest of my father's three siblings. He still holds a Maine State track record (I've forgotten exactly what) and played a damn good center field, I've been told (more than once, from more than one person). So good he was given a full scholarship to Yale and also offered a minor league contract by the Philadelphia Phillies. He gave it all up. For a woman, of course. They were married, had a couple of kids and she ran off to California with them and some other guy. In search of fame and god knows what else. He worked the docks in Boston and saved up enough money to go after his kids. It's a long story that I won't bother anyone with here, but it almost led to his death... twice.
All out of options and back on the east coast, he enrolled in the University of Maine. Transferred to Pitt and then on to B.U. for grad school. He taught in most of the Universities in Virginia and became the President of the National Pharmaceutical Council. He got marriage right on the 2nd try. My aunt is a hell of woman who has stuck by my uncle more than anyone could be expected to, and she has not always received the credit for that. I cannot possibly imagine what her life has been like the last few years, but she's done it. For better or worse, that's what they say, and she has most certainly lived up to her vows. All of us men could pray to be as lucky.
He had two kids with my Aunt. Two kids who now have kids. Their kids are now older than I was when I thought my cousins were 'old.' It puts everything in a weird sort of perspective. Kind of like when you're in sixth grade and all the eighth graders look like monsters. Then, when you're in eighth grade you don't feel so big. But you notice all of those high school kids looking down on you. Then when you're a senior, there's no part of you that dwarfs the freshman. Looking back as a college grad now, it's laughable to be that I would have ever feared a high schooler, but it's all perspective, I guess. And everything was put in perspective this weekend. My life is on its way, and I'm old.
It's worth noting that I'll be waking up at 5am tomorrow morning to win an Australian eBay auction for a '87/'88 Mitchell and Ness Larry Bird All Star Jersey. I mean, I could steal this puppy. Sure, it's a size too big, but I never know when I'm going to get this chance again. These don't come up for auction everyday. I should also disclose that I'm wearing a game worn Portland Sea Dogs jersey as I type this. It's a left handed pitcher from last season who wore 19. I wear it in honor of Josh Beckett. So, I'm holding on to something. I'm not THAT old.
7-2 Detroit. Looks like more than my youth is slip, sliding away.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Walk off Piece
I had an epiphany tonight at the gym, and it wasn't good. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we may be in trouble here re: our closer situation. There is one very important characteristic that all great closers share, and unfortunately for Red Sox nation, Jonathon Papelbon, as of yet, does not fall in. Before you get too worried, there is still time for our Papelbon not to turn into a Papelbust. He needs to grow some facial hair. Immediately.
I'm not talking about some cheesy goatee shit, I hate goatees (all due respect to whatever it is Jon Lester is trying to do down there in Pawtucket). He needs to make the decision between beard or stash. Maybe a Van Dyke. Maybe I'll give him mutton chops. Maybe. But I'm talking, "I'm following you into battle at Bull Run mutton chops." None of this pussy shit.
We need some Papelballs coming out of the back end of our bullpen. Think about it. All great closers, enduring closers, have had facial hair:
Jeff Reardon? Beard.
Rollie Fingers? C'mon, Rollie Fingers practically redefined facial hair with the, 'I'm cooler than Clark Gable and I fucking know it' mustache.
Rick Sutcliffe? Guy had a mustache in his high school yearbook picture. He did it all: beard, mustache, Van Dyke, you name it. He was the Daisuke Matsuzaka of facial hair.
Lee Smith? Beard. And lets not forget Lee was a black man. How many black men do you know with beards? Probably none. But, he was an elite closer and he knew the goddamn rules. So, he grew a beard.
Trevor Hoffman? Well, he's a tricky one. He almost always has something going on. But, it's usually one of those, 'level one' Norelco jobs, so he's hard to define. That keeps batters guessing, and it's taken him right to the top of a little thing called the all times saves list. I'd bet cash if you did a correlation between Trevor's clean shavenness and blown saves, it would be your mind that's getting blown and Kevin Towers himself would make sure Hoffman never bought another razor.
Dennis Eckersley? Maybe the mustache to end all mustaches. I don't think it's an overstatement to say there never would have been a porn industry if Eck had never grown that silky smooth bit of heaven beneath his nose. He may have quit drinking in the seventies, but he kept the stash. He knows what's what.
Mariano Rivera? Well, I'm not totally sure. I don't think anyone is. I'm pretty sure he has one of those pencil thin painter jobbies. But he is from Panama. Worth noting because I'm not even sure people from Panama can grow facial hair. But, I guarantee you one thing, he's trying. And the Save Gods have rewarded him for it.
John Franco? Guy had a five o'clock shadow by noon... to go along with his mustache.
Goose Gossage? The man goes by Goose. You think he doesn't have facial hair? He has a mustache that would make Gen. McClellan blush.
You smelling a trend here?
There's also been closers who have dominated for a period only to flame out. Real lights out guys. Tough as nails guys. But, all of a sudden, the mystic is dead and they're getting traded for Willie Harris and cash.
Do names like Bobby Thigpen and Heathcliff Slocumb mean anything to you? How about Armondo Benitez and Greg Olsen? They had their moments, but not that one binding theme that the fraternity of elite closers all share: dominant facial hair.
Now, I may be crazy. Maybe it got to me, watching all of the replays of Papelbackbackback over the course of the day. But, this needs to be relayed to our golden boy. There's only so far that that psycho staredown can take him. You can always figure out a Hannibal Lector, they're sociopaths, you can get to the bottom of that. But, not crazy.
Look, no one ever called Mel Gibson crazy until he grew that Bin Laden on his face, but now, even mom thinks he's crazy. It's almost as if he never made What Women Want. Crazy never goes away. You don't know what to expect, but you do know one thing, you're on your toes if crazy's in the room. That's a wildcard, and that's what you need out of your closer.
Papelbeard? Coming soon to a diamond near you? We call hope. For the sake of the Nation.
I'm not talking about some cheesy goatee shit, I hate goatees (all due respect to whatever it is Jon Lester is trying to do down there in Pawtucket). He needs to make the decision between beard or stash. Maybe a Van Dyke. Maybe I'll give him mutton chops. Maybe. But I'm talking, "I'm following you into battle at Bull Run mutton chops." None of this pussy shit.
We need some Papelballs coming out of the back end of our bullpen. Think about it. All great closers, enduring closers, have had facial hair:
Jeff Reardon? Beard.
Rollie Fingers? C'mon, Rollie Fingers practically redefined facial hair with the, 'I'm cooler than Clark Gable and I fucking know it' mustache.
Rick Sutcliffe? Guy had a mustache in his high school yearbook picture. He did it all: beard, mustache, Van Dyke, you name it. He was the Daisuke Matsuzaka of facial hair.
Lee Smith? Beard. And lets not forget Lee was a black man. How many black men do you know with beards? Probably none. But, he was an elite closer and he knew the goddamn rules. So, he grew a beard.
Trevor Hoffman? Well, he's a tricky one. He almost always has something going on. But, it's usually one of those, 'level one' Norelco jobs, so he's hard to define. That keeps batters guessing, and it's taken him right to the top of a little thing called the all times saves list. I'd bet cash if you did a correlation between Trevor's clean shavenness and blown saves, it would be your mind that's getting blown and Kevin Towers himself would make sure Hoffman never bought another razor.
Dennis Eckersley? Maybe the mustache to end all mustaches. I don't think it's an overstatement to say there never would have been a porn industry if Eck had never grown that silky smooth bit of heaven beneath his nose. He may have quit drinking in the seventies, but he kept the stash. He knows what's what.
Mariano Rivera? Well, I'm not totally sure. I don't think anyone is. I'm pretty sure he has one of those pencil thin painter jobbies. But he is from Panama. Worth noting because I'm not even sure people from Panama can grow facial hair. But, I guarantee you one thing, he's trying. And the Save Gods have rewarded him for it.
John Franco? Guy had a five o'clock shadow by noon... to go along with his mustache.
Goose Gossage? The man goes by Goose. You think he doesn't have facial hair? He has a mustache that would make Gen. McClellan blush.
You smelling a trend here?
There's also been closers who have dominated for a period only to flame out. Real lights out guys. Tough as nails guys. But, all of a sudden, the mystic is dead and they're getting traded for Willie Harris and cash.
Do names like Bobby Thigpen and Heathcliff Slocumb mean anything to you? How about Armondo Benitez and Greg Olsen? They had their moments, but not that one binding theme that the fraternity of elite closers all share: dominant facial hair.
Now, I may be crazy. Maybe it got to me, watching all of the replays of Papelbackbackback over the course of the day. But, this needs to be relayed to our golden boy. There's only so far that that psycho staredown can take him. You can always figure out a Hannibal Lector, they're sociopaths, you can get to the bottom of that. But, not crazy.
Look, no one ever called Mel Gibson crazy until he grew that Bin Laden on his face, but now, even mom thinks he's crazy. It's almost as if he never made What Women Want. Crazy never goes away. You don't know what to expect, but you do know one thing, you're on your toes if crazy's in the room. That's a wildcard, and that's what you need out of your closer.
Papelbeard? Coming soon to a diamond near you? We call hope. For the sake of the Nation.
Mission: Pedroia
A Red Sox game is usually as good a time as any for me and my emotions to get together and reacquaint ourselves. Exhilaration, disgust, love, hate, depression, anticipation, fear and sometimes even sheer terror. Well, terror hasn't shown up yet this season. That will be arriving with Gary Sheffield, when he and his Detroit Tigers invade Fenway for a four game set a week from Monday.
Speaking of Mr. Sheffield, I actually felt scared for Daniel Cabrera last Sunday when he hit Big Sheff in the back. That is saying something, seeing as the 26 year old Cabrera is listed at 6'7, 258 lbs. Normally, in a fight, that's my horse, but not here. Are you kidding me? I would put nothing past number 3. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if has a Mortal Combat esq. finishing move just waiting for the right combination of factors to line up. I wouldn't put Brad Pit in Snatch up against Sheff. He evokes terror in my belly. I'm not a religious man, but I thank god every night that Cashman saw fit to trade him out of the Bronx. I'll take my chances with Bobby Abreu and Melky Cabrera any day. I fear Mr. Sheffield more than sink holes. I fear Gary Sheffield as much as Dustin Pedroia fears his cell phone every time it rings and he doesn't have an eye on Theo Epstein.
Can you imagine being Dustin Pedroia right now? What it must be like being a major league ball player and waking up every morning knowing there is not one person dumb enough in the entire country to have you, the starting second baseman for the Boston Red Sox, on their fantasy team? To know if you could just hit your weight things would be looking up? Especially sad because our homegrown youngster lost twenty pounds in the off season.
The most frustrating part of it is how over matched Pedroia looked as a September call up last year. I mean, he's only twenty four. We saw what happened with Hansen and Delcarmen, Theo rushed them to the big leagues and now the are completely off of the radar of most of Red Sox nation (save for the occasional resurrection of the Helton trade talk after one too many pints).
What was the rush? Would another season in Pawtucket have been that bad? And, let's face it, this isn't a case of hindsight being 20/20. If not for Dice-K, this would have been the most debated topic in spring training. Why was it even necessary? I'm not going to touch Alex Cora here, we all know what type of ball player Alex Cora is. As Belichick would say, "he is what he is." I'm wondering why we decided, on a team with a payroll larger the GNP of Guatemala, we had to draw the line at Mark Loretta? We couldn't have signed him to a one (or, gasp!, even two) year deal?
It's worth noting that he is hitting .366 right now for the Houston Roger Clemenses. He has 7 rbi's and an ops of .824. All this in only 41 abs. You could argue that this is not a large sample, and he's doing it in AAAA. I may agree if we hadn't watched him perform here with our own eyes last season. Pedroia is batting, gulp, .172 with barely enough rbi's to rub together (2) and a Rich Gedman esq on base percentage of .518. I'd like to see Bill James swing those numbers. Hell, I'm betting Bill James could fly in from Kansas and put up those numbers.
I'm not saying Pedroia can't be our starting 2b of the future. I remember being excited when we drafted him. Sure, I was straight off of the Moneyball kool-aid and had pre-ordered my Kevin Youklis jersey, but still. Youklis has proven Theo can get guys who can perform on the Boston stage that other teams wouldn't even consider drafting. But we need to remember this is Boston, and even the strongest 24 year old mind can still get scarred when you're praying for the mendoza line before bed, and scared to eat in public. This isn't Kansas City where Alex Gordon can find his way batting .167 and striking out at a rate that makes Wily Mo Pena look like Wade Boggs.
I know it's only May 2nd, but it's at the point where I'm magically having to go to the bathroom every time the eight hole comes around in the order. I get nervous. I feel bad for him. I try to will him to get a hit. I don't think I can take this for 162 games, and I'm not sure he can either.
The good news here is Mark Loretta may be available at the trade deadline. I'm just saying, we could maybe use him. I can see it now: our own number 3 striking fear around the AL East from the bottom of the order. Hey, a guy can dream, and while I'm at it, forgive me if I take a second to see Loretta receiving the toss from Youk, and relaying it to one Mr. Todd Helton on a nice little around the horn 5-4-3 double play. That may evoke some Euphoria. I love being a Red Sox fan in May.
Speaking of Mr. Sheffield, I actually felt scared for Daniel Cabrera last Sunday when he hit Big Sheff in the back. That is saying something, seeing as the 26 year old Cabrera is listed at 6'7, 258 lbs. Normally, in a fight, that's my horse, but not here. Are you kidding me? I would put nothing past number 3. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if has a Mortal Combat esq. finishing move just waiting for the right combination of factors to line up. I wouldn't put Brad Pit in Snatch up against Sheff. He evokes terror in my belly. I'm not a religious man, but I thank god every night that Cashman saw fit to trade him out of the Bronx. I'll take my chances with Bobby Abreu and Melky Cabrera any day. I fear Mr. Sheffield more than sink holes. I fear Gary Sheffield as much as Dustin Pedroia fears his cell phone every time it rings and he doesn't have an eye on Theo Epstein.
Can you imagine being Dustin Pedroia right now? What it must be like being a major league ball player and waking up every morning knowing there is not one person dumb enough in the entire country to have you, the starting second baseman for the Boston Red Sox, on their fantasy team? To know if you could just hit your weight things would be looking up? Especially sad because our homegrown youngster lost twenty pounds in the off season.
The most frustrating part of it is how over matched Pedroia looked as a September call up last year. I mean, he's only twenty four. We saw what happened with Hansen and Delcarmen, Theo rushed them to the big leagues and now the are completely off of the radar of most of Red Sox nation (save for the occasional resurrection of the Helton trade talk after one too many pints).
What was the rush? Would another season in Pawtucket have been that bad? And, let's face it, this isn't a case of hindsight being 20/20. If not for Dice-K, this would have been the most debated topic in spring training. Why was it even necessary? I'm not going to touch Alex Cora here, we all know what type of ball player Alex Cora is. As Belichick would say, "he is what he is." I'm wondering why we decided, on a team with a payroll larger the GNP of Guatemala, we had to draw the line at Mark Loretta? We couldn't have signed him to a one (or, gasp!, even two) year deal?
It's worth noting that he is hitting .366 right now for the Houston Roger Clemenses. He has 7 rbi's and an ops of .824. All this in only 41 abs. You could argue that this is not a large sample, and he's doing it in AAAA. I may agree if we hadn't watched him perform here with our own eyes last season. Pedroia is batting, gulp, .172 with barely enough rbi's to rub together (2) and a Rich Gedman esq on base percentage of .518. I'd like to see Bill James swing those numbers. Hell, I'm betting Bill James could fly in from Kansas and put up those numbers.
I'm not saying Pedroia can't be our starting 2b of the future. I remember being excited when we drafted him. Sure, I was straight off of the Moneyball kool-aid and had pre-ordered my Kevin Youklis jersey, but still. Youklis has proven Theo can get guys who can perform on the Boston stage that other teams wouldn't even consider drafting. But we need to remember this is Boston, and even the strongest 24 year old mind can still get scarred when you're praying for the mendoza line before bed, and scared to eat in public. This isn't Kansas City where Alex Gordon can find his way batting .167 and striking out at a rate that makes Wily Mo Pena look like Wade Boggs.
I know it's only May 2nd, but it's at the point where I'm magically having to go to the bathroom every time the eight hole comes around in the order. I get nervous. I feel bad for him. I try to will him to get a hit. I don't think I can take this for 162 games, and I'm not sure he can either.
The good news here is Mark Loretta may be available at the trade deadline. I'm just saying, we could maybe use him. I can see it now: our own number 3 striking fear around the AL East from the bottom of the order. Hey, a guy can dream, and while I'm at it, forgive me if I take a second to see Loretta receiving the toss from Youk, and relaying it to one Mr. Todd Helton on a nice little around the horn 5-4-3 double play. That may evoke some Euphoria. I love being a Red Sox fan in May.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Maximum Chillocity
First, I would like to start by giving the fine folks at Google a big, 'thank you,' for giving me this opportunity. It can't be everyday that a multi-billion dollar company takes a chance on a 6 foot nothing, 200 and nothing, twenty nothing from Maine; riding in on perspiration and dreams, fueled only by a three day old Filet-o-Fish. That, my friends, took guts. I'll promise you right now, Eric Schmidt, you won't be getting let down.
Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, we need to get a few things straight: I'm actually 6'3. Hardly nothing. I weigh, on a good day, 225lbs. There's a good chance I could crush you in hand to hand combat. I'm twenty seven. And, truthfully, I rode in in my 4.6 Range Rover (that I paid cash for). I don't need to sweat anymore, and I only eat Filet-o-Fishes straight off drive in. I like them hot. At that perfect temperature where the tarter sauce tastes like heaven with bits of pickles in it. It's true that most people refrain from eating fish at a national fast food chain. Not me. That's something else you need to know about me: I like risks. I see one, I take it. Believe me when I say, at fast food restaurants, I only eat fish. That and the occasional choco shake. I don't like to know that me going to bed tonight is guaranteed. It gives me half stock.
And, in fact, I did dunk once. I was being modest. I like to be modest because it gives me a reason to get up in the morning (if I make it to bed). All the people that I've been modest too, by default can't know the full extent of what gets me off. So, as they say, tomorrow is, in fact, another day. Another day to let the world see past your modesty. Because modesty isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Everyday when I do get up, I listen to some band you've never heard of. I'd tell you who they are, but then you'd like them and you'd tell your friends. They would go, 'wow, awesome,' and the cycle would continue until they'd get popular. If they got popular, they'd sell records. They sell records, they get cash. They get cash, they get women. They get women, they get laid. They get laid, the music falls off a cliff. I've seen it happen. Do you want this awesome band to suck? You would want to take that from me? I didn't think so. So, until I tire of them, I will need to keep you in the dark. I'm sorry. But know, they rock. Hard.
You'll notice the name of this entry is, "Maximum Chillocity." It has come to my attention that other people have been using 'chill' in their online publications, or to describe where they live. Like Chill Land, or what have you. Here, you are getting the maximum possible chillocity. It's a ten on a scale from 1->10. No matter what Chris Guess would have you believe, there is no eleven. Ten is it, and you are here. Welcome. I don't throw modifiers around like they are pennies.
The last uptight moment I had was in 1996. I let a friend borrow my Starter jacket and some project rat stole it from them. That pissed me off. The incident didn't derail me though, I bought another one. But, a few weeks later, when someone asked to borrow that one, I said, "no way, dude," and started to walk away. I got halfway to English class and realized I was being an uptight ass prude. So, I walked back there and gave them the Charlotte Hornets Starter jacket right off of my back. Yea, MAXIMUM chillocity. I haven't slowed down since, and have no intentions to.
This was just a taste. Just a taste of what you'll be seeing in the coming weeks, months, years. All brought to you by the fine folks at Google. The day of my corporate sponsorship is here, and you will all reap the benefits of my wisdom. It's time for the first pitch of the Red Sox/A's game, so I must bid you ado. I hope you enjoyed my first pitch: Two seam fastball, low and away.
Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, we need to get a few things straight: I'm actually 6'3. Hardly nothing. I weigh, on a good day, 225lbs. There's a good chance I could crush you in hand to hand combat. I'm twenty seven. And, truthfully, I rode in in my 4.6 Range Rover (that I paid cash for). I don't need to sweat anymore, and I only eat Filet-o-Fishes straight off drive in. I like them hot. At that perfect temperature where the tarter sauce tastes like heaven with bits of pickles in it. It's true that most people refrain from eating fish at a national fast food chain. Not me. That's something else you need to know about me: I like risks. I see one, I take it. Believe me when I say, at fast food restaurants, I only eat fish. That and the occasional choco shake. I don't like to know that me going to bed tonight is guaranteed. It gives me half stock.
And, in fact, I did dunk once. I was being modest. I like to be modest because it gives me a reason to get up in the morning (if I make it to bed). All the people that I've been modest too, by default can't know the full extent of what gets me off. So, as they say, tomorrow is, in fact, another day. Another day to let the world see past your modesty. Because modesty isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Everyday when I do get up, I listen to some band you've never heard of. I'd tell you who they are, but then you'd like them and you'd tell your friends. They would go, 'wow, awesome,' and the cycle would continue until they'd get popular. If they got popular, they'd sell records. They sell records, they get cash. They get cash, they get women. They get women, they get laid. They get laid, the music falls off a cliff. I've seen it happen. Do you want this awesome band to suck? You would want to take that from me? I didn't think so. So, until I tire of them, I will need to keep you in the dark. I'm sorry. But know, they rock. Hard.
You'll notice the name of this entry is, "Maximum Chillocity." It has come to my attention that other people have been using 'chill' in their online publications, or to describe where they live. Like Chill Land, or what have you. Here, you are getting the maximum possible chillocity. It's a ten on a scale from 1->10. No matter what Chris Guess would have you believe, there is no eleven. Ten is it, and you are here. Welcome. I don't throw modifiers around like they are pennies.
The last uptight moment I had was in 1996. I let a friend borrow my Starter jacket and some project rat stole it from them. That pissed me off. The incident didn't derail me though, I bought another one. But, a few weeks later, when someone asked to borrow that one, I said, "no way, dude," and started to walk away. I got halfway to English class and realized I was being an uptight ass prude. So, I walked back there and gave them the Charlotte Hornets Starter jacket right off of my back. Yea, MAXIMUM chillocity. I haven't slowed down since, and have no intentions to.
This was just a taste. Just a taste of what you'll be seeing in the coming weeks, months, years. All brought to you by the fine folks at Google. The day of my corporate sponsorship is here, and you will all reap the benefits of my wisdom. It's time for the first pitch of the Red Sox/A's game, so I must bid you ado. I hope you enjoyed my first pitch: Two seam fastball, low and away.
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