Dave is totally gonna write a jam about this.

(photo from Fuseblog)

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

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

Dude…do you have any Funyuns?

And I Ain’t Missin’ You At All

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Observation

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

Un pregunta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or perhaps I watch too much TV.

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

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

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

The Name is Tek, Varitek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Word of the Day is "Hinske"

(Photo from Boston.com)

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

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

Bang on the Drum All Day

(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said, “he’s just that good.”

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

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

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

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

(So good!)

(So good!)

(So good!)

This Campaign Sponsored by Hooters and Bud Ice

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

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

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

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

It’s All Julio’s Fault

(Photo from Boston.com)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your brother is a celebrity,” Seb said.

So it would seem.

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