RIP I-Man

The entertainment world was in shock from the news coming from MSNBC and the Don Imus show earlier this week. When racist banter over the airwaves brought the spot light of the American media to the morning show the collective jaw of millions of Don Imus fans dropped and the stunned masses uttered, “You mean he’s….still….ALIVE??????” What miracles hath Monday brought? Are we witness to the resurrection of the gray and crusty voice?

The faithful shared loving memories of the cranky man who bitched his way through the morning fog of their youth and the thought that now as they enter their senior years they may together sing complaint duets that shine a critical light on anything and everything but their own miserable lives broke a smile through their permanent scowls.

Crowds formed outside MSNBC studios in New York. Some came to pray the rosary, others to protest intolerance, and the rest complained about the price of a grande half-caff cappuccino.

It was clear to the network executives that they had an explosive situation on their hands, not just the backlash from the racially charged subject matter of the show but also the growing hysteria over the possibility of the resurrection of the dead. When the masses clashed over the beauty and blasphemy the execs knew it was time to come clean.

Imus was not in fact still alive. His dusty carcass had been discovered by a cleaning crew years ago. As with any miracle debunking, the faithful refuse to believe.

“But I hear him every morning on the radio”

“That”, explained an MSNBC executive, “is just a ‘best of Imus’ rerun”

“But I see him every morning on my television”

The exec nervously laughed, “yeah, ya see, we discovered if we put a cowboy hat on one of those old Muppet guys who sits in the balcony and complains, nobody would notice the difference”

“But what about racial injustice and intolerance brought forth against the people of color in this country?” screamed an indignant Jesse Jackson.

The now clearly embarrassed exec explained, “Umm well, ya see, instead of ‘the Best of Imus’ we accidentally played a Nelly record.

There were no miracles. The faithful were clearly despondent. But no one was more disappointed than the Reverend Al Sharpton. Nobody pops a chubby over the possibility to exploit racism like the good Rev. He cancelled all his talk show appearances and rallies and resumed hiding from Duke lacrosse players.

Rest in peace I-man you are truly a voice from the past. There was no resurrection last week. Well, at least not on Monday.

Blame Manny

The players are just filling their lockers at the Red Sox spring training facility in Fort Myers Florida. Coaches are introducing themselves to new players and sharing “the one that got away” off season fishing stories with old friends. The weather is abnormally cold for this tropical vacation land and even as the afternoon sun burns away the mornings frost a gray cloud covers the spirit of the 2007 Boston Red Sox. This malaise that paints the Red Sox blue and sucks the life out of this could have been contender is the fact that before it began the Boston Red Sox season is already over. There will be no championship, no playoff run, not even an above .500 record. Why? Because Manny Ramirez is late in reporting to spring training.

Overreacting? Not if you listen to the Boston media. It’s true that according to the contract the players union has with management, a player can report up until March 1st before he is considered late. And since Manny plans to arrive on the first, in other words “on time”, we will have to break out the quotation fingers when referring to him as “late”.
But why let the facts deny our hysteria. We never have before and I’ll be damned if we start now. Critics of Boston baseball pundits D&C or the CHB claim that they are making mountains out of mole hills. They are desperate to fill time and space with passionate condemnation of Manny’s “tardiness”.

It only stands to reason that if Manny is 9 days “late” in reporting to a week of jumping jacks and catch his entire season will be off by over a week. Think about this scenario: It’s September, the Sox are desperately trying to catch the leading wild card contender. The bases are loaded, and its Manny turn at bat…a fastball right down the heart of the plate…does he swing and connect? No!!! He’s 9 days behind. He’s still running down a fly ball in Tampa from three series ago. The Yankees are in town for a day\night double header. Do Manny’s heroics squash the evil empire? No!!! He’s still on a flight between Seattle and Anaheim.

And what about Manny’s teammates? How horrible must it be for them to play with a good natured future Hall of Famer, who averages close to 40 home runs a year with a lifetime OBP of .411 but is “late” to spring training. Sure, outwardly they pretend it’s no big deal. But behind closed doors they secretly are contacting Florida native Mike Greenwell and begging for him to come out of retirement. I’m sure Gator would be there “on time”.

Time drags slowly across the weeks of winter. We wait an eternity for baseball season to start. And now we have to wait some more. It is a season without hope and thus it is a year without a summer. No joy in the sun. The groudhogs predict 13 more months of winter. All because Manny is “late” for spring training.

WEEI Ruined My Life

Hello old friend, it’s been a while. It’s not that I don’t like talking to you; it’s just that I’ve been so uninspired. While some people can dump their thoughts into blogs as easy as downloading the latest YouTube candy, mine have to be coaxed, forced, finger down the throat until they spew forth like pea soup from Linda Blair. Usually this painful purging yields nothing worth sharing. For this I blame WEEI. WEEI has ruined my life.

As children we are warned about the dangers of sports radio. And while we may make pledges, promises, and sign contracts, we never imagine we could be sucked in and under its control. We even doubt its danger. With the highest ratings in all of Boston radio it seems like everyone is doing it, and everyone can’t be wrong.

This morning’s drive to work was the first time I said it out loud, my confession, “I have a problem”. It was during a commercial break between the flash and opening rant of D&C. I turned on WFNX and heard music. There was a Split Enz tune and something by Beck. Nothing I’d put on a desert island CD but just enough to expose the holes. It seems my passion for the Red Sox was the only thing holding together this barely functional soul. I am one sub 500 season away from removing its dusty husk and leaving it by the curb on Tuesday morning.

There was a time when music and the culture of art that surrounds it helped define me. Not to paint myself as some sort of former beret wearing bohemian discussing existentialism while stroking my goatee in a coffee shop. But there was a time when I swam in the empathy for those facets of life that Johnny lunch pale buzzes by in his 4x4. Now I know what the mighty K meant when he sang, “I miss the comfort of being sad”.

Funny though, even after my acceptance of my problem I was still tuning in to 850 A.M.. Like an alcoholic who knows he must stop drinking I kid myself and believe that just once more won’t make a difference. Again they take a topic of infinitesimal insignificance and beat it into the ground. What can they possibly say about the Patriots on Tuesday that they didn’t cover on “Patriots Monday”. What can they say about the Red Sox when no real news has come from the team in weeks. And does anybody really care if the Celtics or Bruins ever play another game.

The worst side affect of this disease is that music has become such a stranger. I listen to the same CD’s I did ten years ago. I know there is plenty of new music and a world of undiscovered old music. But I’ve become one of those guys I’d make fun of fifteen years ago, those whose idea of “new” music was the new Clapton box set or the latest Skynard tribute album. From cutting edge to trimming the hedges, I compile the same old songs on new mix cd’s.

I’ve never been through a twelve step program but I know that the first step is admitting you have a problem. I’ve done that and I’m stuck on the first rung. As of yet there are no support groups for this addiction. So I guess I’ll have to make it up as I go along. Cold turkey? That’s easy to say now, but what if they trade Manny? What happens when pitchers and catchers report to Fort Myers and forget about opening day.

And music, maybe mining the emotions presented by great art will disrupt my cocoon of fat, dumb, and happy. Maybe ignorance is bliss.

I see that this is going to take a commitment. I must listen to music on the radio at least one hour every day. I must read a book that doesn’t have the words “for Dummies” in it’s title, and I must watch a movie that was once at the Sundance festival. Oh god, I hope this isn’t like my exercise bike promise.

My presence on these pages, or lack thereof, will indicate my progress. Wish me luck.

Back on the Bandwagon

Two winters have past since we finally exhaled and breathed in victory. Funny, it smelled nothing like napalm. It was beautiful. We popped champagne, visited gravesites, wore the tee shirts and bought the DVD’s so that we could relive the beauty again and again.

Unfortunately there are some who can’t stop living in that moment. Another baseball season has come and gone, another town has raised a championship banner, and yet there are still members of Red Sox nation that want to cowboy up with idiots. Each trade or non tender of a 2004 player is a slap in the face. They wonder why we can’t preserve the team that brought us such joy. Why we can’t lock them in a mahogany box under the bed with our baby teeth and graduation tassels. And some are ready to jump off the bandwagon they jumped on just a few stops before October of 04.

Baseball is a dynamic game. Teams change from year to year. Players run hot and cold from week to week. The ecstasy lies in catching a wave and riding on top for a few glorious moments, not from long hair and handshakes but from high heaters and home runs.

Fortunately for Red Sox fans, the front office understands this. They understand that you don’t pay a player for what he did but for what he might do. They know that players in their thirties age in dog years. And the best chance to catch wave after wave is to develop several young players who will be the core of the team for many years.

And in case you feel you’re just not falling in love with the fresh new faces the way you did with those wacky, hairy idiots, remember this: WINNING CHANGES EVERYTHING.

How in love were we with the 2004 crew when they played .500 ball from early May to late July? Where was the hilarious hijinx when they were 10 ½ behind the Yankees in mid summer? The Red Sox are building a team with a good chance to win this year and an even better chance in the next few years. Now that is an idea we can fall in love with.

So save your DVD’s for a cold winter night. It is Opening Day at Fenway. It’s time to meet our future. It’s time for fun new names like Wily Mo and Coco. And it’s time to get your ass back on the bandwagon……PLAY BALL!!

Download of the Week #1

I’m carrying an empty basket down an isle of Stop & Shop, shopping for one and for one day, I plan to pay in cash thus completing the triumvirate of bachelor shopping. I take pleasure in this in the waning days of my single years. Elvis Costello’s “Green Shirt” starts playing over the stores intercom. “Ah, great song” I say semi audibly and then quickly check to see if anyone heard me. Is this happening? Have I slipped down to the next level of uncool? Is my hip veneer being peeled away? I’m grooving to tunes in the grocery store. I must confess it isn’t the first time. I fear, someday soon, I’ll be found in the cold cereal isle, holding up a Bic lighter and swaying to “How Soon is Now?”.

Songs in television commercials have also become more attractive. Having burned through the Sinatra and Beatles catalogs, marketers have modernized the soundtrack of selling. I’m not just talking about the safe and lame Lenny Kravitz or Dave Matthews. Little pockets of hip, or at least what this aging body perceives as hip, are selling us our soap suds.

This brings me to my suggested download of the week. Remember the commercial where the chick frosts the window of the subway car with the cool breath provided by the icy flavor of her chewing gum, and scratches her phone number for the group of horny degenerates she leaves behind. I always dug the music in this snippet and with a little googling was pleasantly surprised to find that this tune was provided by our local friends Papas Fritas.

The song is “Way You Walk” off the Buildings and Grounds LP. It has a solid grove providing foundation for the great pop melodic interplay between the male and female vocals, the signature of the Papas Fritas sound.

iTunes seems to be a little schizophrenic in it’s recognition of Papas Fritas. One day it will have three albums for download and the next day it has never heard of them. Maybe it’s because I haven’t updated my iTunes software in a month and am now 27 revisions behind. But the little extra effort in tracking down this tune will be rewarded.

Now if only I can track down the song in the WalMart commercial where the chick sings, “Here we are, with the sun, smiling on us…….”

3% Roger

Roger Clemens will soon be pitching for the USA in the World Baseball Classic. Beyond that, the future of possibly the greatest pitcher who ever lived is but speculation. Ahhh speculation. They say that baseball is America’s favorite pastime. But speculating, dreaming of the possibilities stretched out before us, before and throughout the season is a baseball fans favorite pastime.

Roger has stated that if he decides to play one more year there would be four teams for whom he would consider playing; the Astros, the Rangers, the Yankees and the Red Sox. The mere mention of the Red Sox amongst the possible prom dates has the nation hyperventilating. Even though the rational thinker places astronomical odds on seeing Roger slip on the #21 jersey in Fenway home whites, the affected are like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber when Lauren Holly tells him that the chances of them ever dating are a million to one. He smiles and says, “So you’re telling me there’s still a chance”

So what are the chances? I put them at 3%. This figure was determined by collecting historical data on free agent players over the age 40, whom have played for more than three teams in their career, factoring in ERA, WHIP, IP over the last three years and then pulling the figure 3% out of my ass.

There is about a 50% chance Roger will retire. His performance in the WBC will sway this decision either way. If he plays one more year he will most likely want to stay in Texas to be home, close to his boys. So there’s maybe only a 10% chance he will come to the northeast, if the money is right. The Red Sox would never win a bidding war against the Yankees. So the only possibility of Roger finishing his career in Boston, our 3% chance, the tiny peg on which we hang our hats, hopes and dreams lies within the romantic in Roger, the notion of coming full circle, riding in on a white Hummer and saving the faithful. The prodigal son has come home. We will slaughter the fatted calf tonight and out from his belly will pour $20 million dollars, Dunkin Donuts commercials and a possible second year option.

Right thinking members of the nation will poo poo this dream with logic. Like a sabermetrician who has swallowed a Thinkpad the arguments will be spit forth in numbers. How many innings are left in a 44 year old body? How many starts before he breaks down? What is the ROI vs. keeping Clement? How much of a rise in ERA can be attributed to American league batting?

In your own head these numbers ring true. Their cold steely logic, impenetrable, check mate you into submission and force you to join the head shaking chorus, spitting out your own numbers and condemning 3% fantasies. But it’s time to tell your ranch tooth to SHUT UP!

Baseball dreams are not built on probabilities but on possibilities, moments to unbelievable for the cheesiest Hollywood director to consider. It’s Kurt Gibson hobbling up to the pate in the bottom of the ninth to smack a homer off Eck. It’s Pedro coming out of the bullpen in game five of the 1999 ALDS. It’s Pudge using all of his body English to will a game seven in 75. And just maybe it’s October Roger setting down 27, ripping the numbers off his back and nailing them to the right field façade.

So in our final trimester of winter, while our right thinking brothers crunch numbers, we will scrape our windshield, shovel the walk and smile. Today we will be warmed by ridiculous fantasies. And at night we’ll pull the extra blanket in tight, fall asleep to Baseball Tonight and dream of 3% Roger.

Happy Valentines Day Suckers

Let me come right out and say it. I hate Valentines Day. I find it to be the most irritating day of the year. Before you start thinking that this is just another bitter rant from a lonely but lovable loser, I should tell you as someone who is recently engaged I consider myself very lucky and extremely happy…except on Valentines Day.

There are several things about the “holiday” that I find irritating. For starters it’s not a real holiday at all, just some made up crap by retailers to get you to buy their merchandise. Oh sure they try to dig up some story about a priest who married Roman soldiers to their fair maidens despite the Emperor forbidding such action. Or was it a monk sentenced to death because he fell in love with the king’s daughter, blah, blah, blah. An awful lot of money is going down in the name of a saint on whom we have such a tenuous grasp.

The retailers are a big part of the problem. In addition to inventing this ridiculous holiday, they keep changing the rules. Now that the idiots are hooked they increase the vig like a crack addict loan shark. Flowers and chocolate? How pedestrian. Unless there’s a diamond or keys to a Mercedes in that heart shaped box you just don’t love her. The pusher wouldn’t be in business if we didn’t buy the hype.

However what I find most irritating about Valentine’s Day is when I hear someone say, “It’s the most romantic day of the year”. It is in fact the least romantic day of the year and I can prove it.

For a man, Valentines Day is a game of zeros and minuses. If he does not produce some token of affection on this particular day he has failed, a big fat minus sign on his forehead. I hope you like sleeping on the couch. If he produces flowers, purchased at special holiday rates, and takes her out to dinner, he has met his obligation and is allowed to sleep in his own bed.

“Good boy, you’re such a good boy, here’s your Scooby snack”

For a woman it is the delusion of security as measured against the spoils of her peers. Oh look, he bought you a stuffed piece of crap that says,”I wuff you” when you squeeze it. I guess that means he really does wuff you. But wait Suzy got diamond earrings. That bastard, stuffed piece of crap, he is so dead.

My point is, how romantic is a gift or a gesture when it is given out of obligation or fear of retaliation. And how romantic is a day filled with so many insincere presentations.

If, however, on any other random day of the year a man buys his lady flowers just because he knows it will brighten her day or brings her to a special dinner just to enjoy the time with her that is sincere affection.

So guys if you are out there right now buying some token crap that you would never think of buying if it were not February 14th you are true suckers.

And ladies, if you think that crap has any meaning, you are delusional.

Having said that, Happy Valentines Day.

dg

Office Supplies...Playball!!

Every business has its office supplies; pens, paper clips, legal pads. Shopping lists vary amongst different professions. For a major league baseball team, along with the laptops, copiers and staplers, their supply lists include batting helmets, free weights and ace bandages. Every year, on an early February morning an eighteen wheeler pulls onto Yawkey Way in the Fenway, and is packed tight, filled with the business of baseball. Throughout the day hand trucks stacked with boxes are wheeled up the ramp of the trailer. Young, strong men carry heavy, awkward shaped pieces by hand as more senior members of the crew, familiar with the elaborate puzzle, direct placement.

Newspaper photographers snap pictures of the days work hoping for a shot revealing a recognizable piece of baseball accoutrement. Television crews frame their reporters with the truck just over their shoulder. Ground hogs be damned. Weeks before the first day of spring, the press is here to report on the unofficial beginning of summer. For this truck is heading for the sunshine of Fort Myers, Florida, the home for the Boston Red Sox spring training.

It’s now o.k. to exhale, to speak about baseball without feeling like a Christmas tree in July. It is now o.k. to speak of the possibilities, to debate the acquisitions, to forage for tickets and make summer travel plans. And though it will be almost two months before a single pitch is thrown in anger discussions of whom should be batting in the number two hole are already heating up.

The truck is packed. The press is now positioning itself for the shot, the picture that defines the beginning. A small crowd of loyal, probably unemployed, fans have gathered waiting to cheer the moment.

The eighteen wheeler begins to pull away. It is ten degrees, snow is falling, and a crowd of people have gathered to cheer a truck filled with office supplies. This is baseball in Boston. PLAY BALL!!

dg