Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Days Numbered and Flying By
MLB Extra Innings, for the last two nights, has eschewed the NESN broadcast for FSN Detroit. And I'm not happy about it - especially having missed Donnie O and Rem Dawg react to Frank the Tank hopping out of the box seats at Comerica Park and sprinting through the quad towards the gymnasium (honey, is KFC still open?).
But, of all the stinky ca-ca poo-poo other pxp and color teams in baseball, the Tiggers have a decent crew...even though they force corny jokes and Rod Allen the color guy sounds too much
like Joe Morgan.
And when Joe Morgan's astute "that's a cutter, Jon" and "when I played in the big leagues" and "I'm a hall of famer" and "did you ever answer the hotel door without a towel when the maid knocks" (true story) comments come into play, it can give you the shakes. And shingles. And I heard it attracts bears.
So, the apartment is almost bare, save for the TV and laptop and microwave. It has a new occupant, as of Sept. 1, and the trip-tick is all set and squared away for the drive from God's Country to Milwacky. There may be a spot in the backseat for anyone who wants to jump on the three-day perversion excursion, so email for space availability. Must like long walks on the
beach, backgammon, and Sarah MacLachlan's live CD.
Hey pal, it's Livan freakin' Hernandez' glove, not the T-206 Honus Wagner card.
Here's the Tom Brady article in GQ that everyone's crowing about. The verdict: who cares?
First off, and I'm not the journalism police by any shake, but it's not a good read. I didn't get the ebb and flow of it.
Secondly, who cares? The literary incindiary device - Tom looks at porn, gasp, oh no! - and #12's speaking in euphemisms about being in a social crowd with several unsociables was a seven page la-dee-freakin-da, to me.
Will Tom's squeaky clean image take a hit? Not as long as he's hitting Deion and David Terrell. And even still, the article - which is supposed to delve into any dirty laundry (well, maybe a
sock, but that's a different breed of cat...) - didn't even scratch the surface of what really makes him tick. It left out any dirt on he and Bridget, his family, his off-the-field life, and whether or not that gigantic, gorgeous house on Ocean Road in Narragansett is really his. (My Mom swears it is.)
One cool thing on the FSN broadcast happened in the 4th inning. The Tigers' Craig Monroe, wearing a microphone for a "Sounds of the Game" feature, got a 95 MPH necktie courtesy of Jonathan Papelbon. All you heard was a whistle as the pitch screwed past the mic.
Here's something to think about next time you want to drunk dial someone. This is good, but Pat O'Brien's drunk dials are the world's best.
Don't Mess With Texas, eh? I think that whole state has about three brain cells and they don't get along.
I'm not even going to get into the policies and mental aptitude of our President. It's a given that he's an eejit. But usually you can sleep tight knowing that despite him bumbling through the day, the folks he has insulated himself with are competent.
They're not.
Because anyone with a millimeter of p.r. savvy would have set up Cindy Sheehan in a nice comfy chair in the Texas White House, given her a nice cup of coffee, and had Tweedle Dumb and First
Lady Botox sitting, looking intent, and concentrating on every word. At least it would've been good window dressing and showed that the obstinate buffoon at least had a functioning heart to
make up for the distinct lack of a functioning mind.
Nope. Not even close. Instead, this has turned into a round-the-clock embarassment for the Bush administration. If there is a scoresheet for this, Ms. Sheehan is winning by a wide margin.
And, as only the Texas Theatre of the Absurd could provide, Bush's Texas "neighbors" are getting their facetime. One guy decided he'd just go out in the yard and shoot his shotgun a few times. The Secret Service and other law enforcement officers responded immediately, but this good ole' boy just said he was practicing shootin' them there clay doves and that you'd have to make any assumptions as to a secondary meaning "fer yerself."
Today, another member of the Waco Chapter of Mensa drove his pickup truck over hundreds of small wooden crosses bearing names of fallen U.S. soldiers. This d-bag was arrested and will hopefully be drawn and quartered. They still do that in Texas, right?
Ok, enough pontificating. Enjoy your night.
One.
But, of all the stinky ca-ca poo-poo other pxp and color teams in baseball, the Tiggers have a decent crew...even though they force corny jokes and Rod Allen the color guy sounds too much
like Joe Morgan.
And when Joe Morgan's astute "that's a cutter, Jon" and "when I played in the big leagues" and "I'm a hall of famer" and "did you ever answer the hotel door without a towel when the maid knocks" (true story) comments come into play, it can give you the shakes. And shingles. And I heard it attracts bears.
So, the apartment is almost bare, save for the TV and laptop and microwave. It has a new occupant, as of Sept. 1, and the trip-tick is all set and squared away for the drive from God's Country to Milwacky. There may be a spot in the backseat for anyone who wants to jump on the three-day perversion excursion, so email for space availability. Must like long walks on the
beach, backgammon, and Sarah MacLachlan's live CD.
Hey pal, it's Livan freakin' Hernandez' glove, not the T-206 Honus Wagner card.
Here's the Tom Brady article in GQ that everyone's crowing about. The verdict: who cares?
First off, and I'm not the journalism police by any shake, but it's not a good read. I didn't get the ebb and flow of it.
Secondly, who cares? The literary incindiary device - Tom looks at porn, gasp, oh no! - and #12's speaking in euphemisms about being in a social crowd with several unsociables was a seven page la-dee-freakin-da, to me.
Will Tom's squeaky clean image take a hit? Not as long as he's hitting Deion and David Terrell. And even still, the article - which is supposed to delve into any dirty laundry (well, maybe a
sock, but that's a different breed of cat...) - didn't even scratch the surface of what really makes him tick. It left out any dirt on he and Bridget, his family, his off-the-field life, and whether or not that gigantic, gorgeous house on Ocean Road in Narragansett is really his. (My Mom swears it is.)
One cool thing on the FSN broadcast happened in the 4th inning. The Tigers' Craig Monroe, wearing a microphone for a "Sounds of the Game" feature, got a 95 MPH necktie courtesy of Jonathan Papelbon. All you heard was a whistle as the pitch screwed past the mic.
Here's something to think about next time you want to drunk dial someone. This is good, but Pat O'Brien's drunk dials are the world's best.
Don't Mess With Texas, eh? I think that whole state has about three brain cells and they don't get along.
I'm not even going to get into the policies and mental aptitude of our President. It's a given that he's an eejit. But usually you can sleep tight knowing that despite him bumbling through the day, the folks he has insulated himself with are competent.
They're not.
Because anyone with a millimeter of p.r. savvy would have set up Cindy Sheehan in a nice comfy chair in the Texas White House, given her a nice cup of coffee, and had Tweedle Dumb and First
Lady Botox sitting, looking intent, and concentrating on every word. At least it would've been good window dressing and showed that the obstinate buffoon at least had a functioning heart to
make up for the distinct lack of a functioning mind.
Nope. Not even close. Instead, this has turned into a round-the-clock embarassment for the Bush administration. If there is a scoresheet for this, Ms. Sheehan is winning by a wide margin.
And, as only the Texas Theatre of the Absurd could provide, Bush's Texas "neighbors" are getting their facetime. One guy decided he'd just go out in the yard and shoot his shotgun a few times. The Secret Service and other law enforcement officers responded immediately, but this good ole' boy just said he was practicing shootin' them there clay doves and that you'd have to make any assumptions as to a secondary meaning "fer yerself."
Today, another member of the Waco Chapter of Mensa drove his pickup truck over hundreds of small wooden crosses bearing names of fallen U.S. soldiers. This d-bag was arrested and will hopefully be drawn and quartered. They still do that in Texas, right?
Ok, enough pontificating. Enjoy your night.
One.
