it would be, it would be so nice

Seriously I hope the music person at Dodger Stadium was on the ball (ahem) last night. Or at least played “Loretta” by the Nervous Eaters. Or, in honor of the game-winning hit, “Fist City” by Loretta Lynn. And I know I broke up with the Dodgers a decade ago, but this was just an amazing end to a game I wasn’t paying attention to at all until I saw the score in the eighth inning at the gym.

Ho hum series tied WAIT WHAAAAAAAAT

Since about June or so I’ve forgotten how wonderful baseball can be. Amazing how that realization is easy to come by when you’re watching two good teams battling it out.

Despite my defection (you can’t spell it without “defect”) to the Mets, as a native Los Angeleno I am hoping for a Freeway Series. In which case I’ll be rooting for the Angels, because I haven’t forgiven the Dodgers that much.

Otherwise, let’s go Twins and Rockies.

ETA: I didn’t hear this, but apparently Vin Scully said, “Matt Holliday is the loneliest man in all of Los Angeles as 51000 echo to the sky.” I miss that man.

oh please

Congratulations to the Philadelphia Phillies for riding a remarkably passable starting rotation and streaky offense and incredible douchitude all through the year and winning the World Series despite Monday’s Act of God and the Cinderella Rays who reached midnight and turned into a pumpkin. Hopefully this means you can FINALLY stop using Jose Reyes’s extended finger baserunning for motivation since, you know, YOU WON THE WORLD SERIES AND EVERYTHING.

So long as John McCain loses the election I’ll be able to almost kinda swallow this horrible horrible outcome.

an open letter to the los angeles dodgers

Dear Los Angeles Dodgers,

I write to you in a state of disrepair (much like your bullpen in Game 4 of the NLCS! Lolz!). Throughout this postseason I have vacillated from disappointment to envy, disillusionment to schadenfraude, dismissal to–finally–vague interest.

Last year this was not the case. Last year, after I coaxed myself out of numbness following the Mets Collapse™, I managed to be brought along for the October fun by the Jesus Rockies and Eye Candy Sizemore and all those goddam Red Sox fans I know. This year has seemed futile except for Tampa Bay (and I await AndyMarkyMikeyJohnnySully’s FAAACKKKK YOOO. GO SAHX!) and, lo(l) the ever-underwhelming Cubs. But I wasn’t that invested with their fates.

The one common thread between this October and last: searing hatred of the Phillies.

Now Dodgers, you know how I feel about you. You know that I was in love you, prepared to give you my life, but you went and betrayed me during a period that should have solidified our coupling. You gave me Kirk Gibson hobbling around the bases. You gave me Hideo Nomo (the thing eventually broke down and nearly set the house on fire but it was lovely for a while). You gave me Mike Piazza, and then you took it away. This to me, as a hormonally unbalanced teenager, seemed like the ultimate betrayal. So I left you for the Mets. And though they may treat me badly, like I’m Meredith Baxter Birney in a Lifetime movie, I don’t feel betrayed by them. Beaten, abused, unsatisfied, unfulfilled, sure. But never betrayed.

You had the opportunity to do something good for me just this once, to–if not win back my love–earn my respect. And you let those clowns from Philadelphia just walk all over you. You were never a stand-up guy, Dodgers. It’s funny to think about it ten years later, but I knew that walking out on you was the best decision I could’ve made. I knew that the feverish passion I had for you was a product of my youth, of timing. I knew it would dissipate. Because I knew in the end you wouldn’t give a damn anyway.

Perhaps I should thank you for ten years ago. For instigating my shifting of loyalties. Because man, I may be disappointed, but at last I’m not the one who has to look at you right now: sitting there on the couch, belly hanging over your belt, dozing off with a beer in one hand as cheesesteaks rain on your fat head.

Thanks for nothing,

-Your Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

congrats, sox

In honor of the Red Sox sweeping the Rockies, I present you with limited photographic evidence of a Halloween party this weekend where my costume was “Masshole” (aided by a shirt from one Masshole and a Sox hat from another). It, coupled with the accent, was apparently so authentic that I had dudes convinced I was Boston all night (in spite of my non-whiteness!), all of whom kept talking to me about the Sox and would come up to ask the score at various points in the night.

Behold some frightening images:

I think I was pretending to be Pedroia.

Oh, also:

The sad thing is that these photos were taken early in the night, and I progressively started to look even worse/drunker. I really dove headfirst into this characterization. YES, THAT MUST BE IT.

GOOD LUCK BUDDY

Yes yes, the Sahwx kicked the shit out of the untouchable Rockies last night. Ho-hum. There are more pressing matters! Like this!

In the parlance of our times: ZOMGLOLZ. That is some gloriously deluded, transparent, possibly desperate/certainly solicitous bullshit.

In the event it’s taken down:

FREE housing during WORLD SERIES Games (Wed-Sat) Men only

Men 18+ who are sober are welcome to stay the days and nights of the world series at my one small room apt.

Must share thi one room together
No drugs or drinking

send phone to contact you

Me: bi-male-student in music and law

How very accomodating! But only men, huh? That seems a little sexist, but I guess maybe he wants to just foster a good-natured sense of fraternity. Oh! But that little tiny inconsequential “bi-male” throw-in mention at the end of the post? Well. I wonder what he has in mind?

Also: no drugs or drinking? These are baseball fans during the World Series for Chrissake. Boozing is expected. And if they’re Sox fans? Fackin’ maandatahwry. Though he is in Boston, and what Sox fans are gonna need lodging unless they’re displaced natives? Maybe he’s hoping for some of that sweet sweet devout Rockies fan penis–I mean piety. Piety! There are certainly no shenanigans to be had in this fun-free zone of no drinking or drugs. And especially NOT sinful touching! Unless it involves sharing the tiny futon after reading some Leviticus 18:22, quelling the unsated vague feeling–some would say desire? No! It can’t be! You’re a MAN!–in the pit of your stomach while you and Bi-Male spoon and/or reluctantly, just to gauge the ambiance, surreptitiously touch hands or legs or feet under the sheets and lingering to see if he pulls away instantly or–hope of hopes!–lets his hand/leg/foot linger as well as you are wearing your Papelbon/Ortiz/Beckett jersey or perhaps Holliday/Matsui/Tulowitzki vest. Hey Bi-Male: alcohol generally helps these conversions. I mean…just sayin’. Not that I’d know or anything. Cough.

Or maybe he’s fishing for some perverts and is part of some reparative therapy group and is trying to fulfill a quota or something. Perhaps he’ll chain you to the radiator a la Ricci.

In any event: Godspeed, Bi-Male. You are certainly a more enterprising man than I.

[note to self: I wonder if this shit works.]

…

[note to Bi-Male: call me?]