What a difference a sweep of the Boston Red Sox makes. Whole new perspective. The big problem coming out of the series with Detroit seemed to be starting pitching; Mussina's ongoing futility in particular. Joba Chamberlain being inserted into the rotation amongst the potential remedies? Probably not. They won't use him on back to back nights, let alone throw him into the starting rotation during a playoff run.
A few days ago I actually wrote the following email:
"While their pitching looks like it will be great in the future, it's the same old story (since their last trip to the World Series) for the Yanks here in late August heading into the home stretch. Even if they make the postseason, do they have enough starting pitching to be competitive once there? I don't know. After a night like last night," Mussina's last start, "I'm inclined to say 'probably not'.
It's going to come down to Clemens' and Hughes' performances here down the stretch. Makes for an interesting dichotomy actually. On one hand we have a star in the twilight of his career trying to make one last run while raking in an obscene amount of cash. On the other hand we have a 21 year old phenom. Pettite and Wang have been dependable but we all know what's what with Mussina. There's no hiding it. You can pencil him in for a loss every time he starts from here on out. As such, margin of error for the rest of the staff: nil. Kind of like his margin of error when he steps to the rubber with an 88 mph fastball (92 mph if he's overthrowing). They got themselves into this mess, it'll be interesting to see if Torre can rally the troops enough to get them out of it and into the postseason. And what better test than the Red Sox?"
Well well well. Here we are. Three days later and I'm holding a broom. No, seriously.
We had a company wide meeting today. Everyone meets in this big room, sits around in a circle and someone from each department fills everyone else in on recent market developments and some procedural stuff. Blah blah blah. We eat donuts and bagels and then go about our slightly abbreviated days.
So I came in this morning and went to the meeting room to prop up a broom against a chair right in the middle of everything. Yeah, I know. This was premature but it was just a fucking joke. I figured people would come in and sit down one by one and have a little chuckle. The people who actually saw this did think it was funny. Everyone's always giving me a hard time so I figured it was only fair that I reciprocate. This was really my first opportunity to do so this season.
So this sales guy comes into the room, en route to the kitchen to get some coffee, and completely flips his lid when he sees the broom. Immediately, he takes the broom and puts it back in the closet and moves the chair back to the circle. Naturally, when he leaves the room moments later, I put the broom back on display. Then I leave the room once more to use the little boys room. When I come back, the broom's gone again. Co-workers who had already arrived for the meeting eagerly tell me how pissed this guy was to have to remove the broom for a second time.
Well, it's after-hours now. I'm sitting here in my cube writing this alongside the broom and a ratty old Yankee hat I coincidentally had in my desk drawer. They're going to be propped up against the Sox' biggest fan's chair, right in front of his computer when he arrives tomorrow morning.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Irishman of the Year
The Joyce clan, as I see it, began in Vailsburg, Newark, an upper middle class section of a now formerly upper middle class city.
My great-grandmother, whom I never had the pleasure of meeting, ruled her flock with an iron fist. Though Irish, the descriptions that have been passed down to me lend themselves better to the notion of a Victorian matriarch than a second generation mick. Difficult to say which came first; the upward mobility or assimilation. Chicken? Egg? I kid I kid. I am sure she was a wonderful woman. A wonderful woman who happened to dress like Queen Elizabeth I.
Bob, my grandfather, went to Notre Dame. His brother Jack went to Dartmouth. Upon graduation they set out to succeed their father in running the family business, a commercial contracting operation. For the purposes of the following anecdote, perhaps little else in terms of detail is warranted. Be that as it may, I am inclined to include also this generation's affinity for alcohol, canoodling, plaid pants, the United States of America, topsiders, and being Irish. For all of which was quite substantial.
Without further ado...
Though not sure what governing body resides over such ceremonious occasions, I can resolutely say that there is a certain organization in New Jersey that doles out an award for Irishman of the year. I can also say with confidence that my Uncle Jack, my grandfather's brother, from whom I seem to have inherited my unruly eyebrows and thick hair, has won the award at least once. And also that the ceremony had been attended with a religious fervor by all of the adult men in the family until the death of my grandfather in 1996, may he Rest In Peace.
On one of these occasions, as I'm sure was the case with all of them, an O'Connell, a Daly, an O'Brien, a Kerwin, and the Joyce brothers all overindulged. The Daly, a relation by marriage to my grandfather's sister, was an attorney with an affinity for golf and plaid pants that was without vice. This must have been one of the rare occasions he was able to extricate himself from the control of his domineering wife, my aunt. Normally, she told him when to jump and how high. Which was usually not often or not very high. Exceptionally vulnerable to the active ingredients in whisky, much like a child in a candy store to the ill-effects of a sugar buzz, he was an absolute mess by the ceremony's conclusion. Weekend at Bernie's style.
When all was said and done, my father, uncles, and grandfather (my father's father in-law) were reluctant delivery boys. And I can't help but laugh at the notion of my grandfather and my dad joining forces, as dew glistened on manicured suburban lawns and birds sang their morning songs, to prop up my uncle up against the screen door of his home only to ring the doorbell.....and sprint back to the car and speed away.
I can only imagine the inadvertant hilarity that ensued when my aunt found her true love that morning, drunk as a skunk, propped up against their front door as lawn sprinklers hummed away up and down the street and adjacent neighbors went for their morning papers, scratching their heads at what had befallen the Daly residence at its front entrance.
If you're interested in hearing my interpretation of the exchange, which includes impersonations, all you have to do is hand me a couple beers and ask. It's pretty good if I do say so myself. Just ask my mom.
My great-grandmother, whom I never had the pleasure of meeting, ruled her flock with an iron fist. Though Irish, the descriptions that have been passed down to me lend themselves better to the notion of a Victorian matriarch than a second generation mick. Difficult to say which came first; the upward mobility or assimilation. Chicken? Egg? I kid I kid. I am sure she was a wonderful woman. A wonderful woman who happened to dress like Queen Elizabeth I.
Bob, my grandfather, went to Notre Dame. His brother Jack went to Dartmouth. Upon graduation they set out to succeed their father in running the family business, a commercial contracting operation. For the purposes of the following anecdote, perhaps little else in terms of detail is warranted. Be that as it may, I am inclined to include also this generation's affinity for alcohol, canoodling, plaid pants, the United States of America, topsiders, and being Irish. For all of which was quite substantial.
Without further ado...
Though not sure what governing body resides over such ceremonious occasions, I can resolutely say that there is a certain organization in New Jersey that doles out an award for Irishman of the year. I can also say with confidence that my Uncle Jack, my grandfather's brother, from whom I seem to have inherited my unruly eyebrows and thick hair, has won the award at least once. And also that the ceremony had been attended with a religious fervor by all of the adult men in the family until the death of my grandfather in 1996, may he Rest In Peace.
On one of these occasions, as I'm sure was the case with all of them, an O'Connell, a Daly, an O'Brien, a Kerwin, and the Joyce brothers all overindulged. The Daly, a relation by marriage to my grandfather's sister, was an attorney with an affinity for golf and plaid pants that was without vice. This must have been one of the rare occasions he was able to extricate himself from the control of his domineering wife, my aunt. Normally, she told him when to jump and how high. Which was usually not often or not very high. Exceptionally vulnerable to the active ingredients in whisky, much like a child in a candy store to the ill-effects of a sugar buzz, he was an absolute mess by the ceremony's conclusion. Weekend at Bernie's style.
When all was said and done, my father, uncles, and grandfather (my father's father in-law) were reluctant delivery boys. And I can't help but laugh at the notion of my grandfather and my dad joining forces, as dew glistened on manicured suburban lawns and birds sang their morning songs, to prop up my uncle up against the screen door of his home only to ring the doorbell.....and sprint back to the car and speed away.
I can only imagine the inadvertant hilarity that ensued when my aunt found her true love that morning, drunk as a skunk, propped up against their front door as lawn sprinklers hummed away up and down the street and adjacent neighbors went for their morning papers, scratching their heads at what had befallen the Daly residence at its front entrance.
If you're interested in hearing my interpretation of the exchange, which includes impersonations, all you have to do is hand me a couple beers and ask. It's pretty good if I do say so myself. Just ask my mom.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Trouble with Alpha Males
I'll have to preface this entry by letting you all know that my sister has never ever been characterized as "tough" or a "tomboy" in her entire life. To the contrary, the very notion makes me laugh out loud. I should also mention explicitly that the following is an email I received from my sister who is doing monkey research in Costa Rica. It was brought to my attention a few weeks ago that this was not always clear. A friend of mine thought I was in Costa Rica. I assured him I spend my days in a cubicle just like him. :(
Hey Dude.
So all is well here. Two new girls arrived. One, a Canadian who is 27 and the other a Brit who is I think my age. Both very nice. Both a little overwhelmed I think. They aren't quite as tough as me. Ha ha. But seriously, they aren't. They have only been going in the field one day, then a day off, then one day, and another day off. I went right into two days in a row, and was all bloody and messed up but never complained. These newbies are getting pampered. And they got tired yesterday and just sat in the car for a few hours. I certainly never did that!
I'm saying this with a little sarcasm....they are very nice girls and I hope they don't get too overwhelmed.
I was aggresively chased my a monkey the other day. He ' s a new alpha male who has become quite a dickhead. That does not happen often, that they act out towards us like that. He chased one of my co-workers and I away from the group twice while aggressive coughing, which they very rarely do, so he meant business. I think it may be because he is new as alpha male, and that group had not been observed on a month, so he was just a little out of sorts. He has been fine since then. And no one has ever been attacked (bitten) by a monkey in 17 years of this project. So no need to worry.
Oh! I thought this was pretty funny........ I was at a bar last night meeting some of the other gringos in town...some Canadians and Brits that work for a computer company. I overheard Isaac describing me to some girls as ''kind of a tomboy'', and I laughed and thought he was being sarcastic. He turned around, and was like, '' Oh, I dont mean it in a bad way. But you are definitely sort of a tomboy.'' He was SERIOUS. I am fairly certain that is a first for me....being called a tomboy. When I asked why he thought that, he said "I don't know you just are....and you love Pearl Jam; that's pretty tomboy. And you might be tougher than me.''
I just thought that you might find that entertaining because I did. Ha ha. I'm a tomboy. ???????????
Vacation starts on the 26th or 27th. Going to Monteverde with some peeps. Supposed to be so amazingly beautiful. We're going to take a canopy tour of the rainforest. You get strapped into a harness and go on a zip line in the canopy. Supposed to be real cool. We'll see some active volcanoes too. You can see lava and everything. There is one active one very nearby me as well, that I can see on the way into and out of the field every day. Pretty cool, right?
Hey Dude.
So all is well here. Two new girls arrived. One, a Canadian who is 27 and the other a Brit who is I think my age. Both very nice. Both a little overwhelmed I think. They aren't quite as tough as me. Ha ha. But seriously, they aren't. They have only been going in the field one day, then a day off, then one day, and another day off. I went right into two days in a row, and was all bloody and messed up but never complained. These newbies are getting pampered. And they got tired yesterday and just sat in the car for a few hours. I certainly never did that!
I'm saying this with a little sarcasm....they are very nice girls and I hope they don't get too overwhelmed.
I was aggresively chased my a monkey the other day. He ' s a new alpha male who has become quite a dickhead. That does not happen often, that they act out towards us like that. He chased one of my co-workers and I away from the group twice while aggressive coughing, which they very rarely do, so he meant business. I think it may be because he is new as alpha male, and that group had not been observed on a month, so he was just a little out of sorts. He has been fine since then. And no one has ever been attacked (bitten) by a monkey in 17 years of this project. So no need to worry.
Oh! I thought this was pretty funny........ I was at a bar last night meeting some of the other gringos in town...some Canadians and Brits that work for a computer company. I overheard Isaac describing me to some girls as ''kind of a tomboy'', and I laughed and thought he was being sarcastic. He turned around, and was like, '' Oh, I dont mean it in a bad way. But you are definitely sort of a tomboy.'' He was SERIOUS. I am fairly certain that is a first for me....being called a tomboy. When I asked why he thought that, he said "I don't know you just are....and you love Pearl Jam; that's pretty tomboy. And you might be tougher than me.''
I just thought that you might find that entertaining because I did. Ha ha. I'm a tomboy. ???????????
Vacation starts on the 26th or 27th. Going to Monteverde with some peeps. Supposed to be so amazingly beautiful. We're going to take a canopy tour of the rainforest. You get strapped into a harness and go on a zip line in the canopy. Supposed to be real cool. We'll see some active volcanoes too. You can see lava and everything. There is one active one very nearby me as well, that I can see on the way into and out of the field every day. Pretty cool, right?
Monday, August 20, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Red Ball
I have this stressball on my desk. Today, as I worked, it suddenly began to roll accross my desk slower than I've ever seen anything role anywhere in my entire life, accross the length of my desk. Know how when you roll a ball really slowly it always ends up stopping pretty much immediately? Like once they deccelerate below a certain point, you know the end is near. Well, this ball was substantially below that point but just kept on going. And it rolled itself! Thank god none of my superiors walked by because I honestly spent a solid 2 minutes watching this red ball roll ever so slowly accross my desk like it was the most important/fascinating thing to ever transpire on god's green earth. Actually, come to think of it, it may have been.
Happy Friday.
Happy Friday.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Fade to Black...and Intermittent Vagaries
Nope. Not a Metallica reference. A James reference.
I figure I should get this down now before any and all memories thereof are lost and gone forever.
I am pretty sure I was in NYC for a bachelor party last weekend. This time it's James taking the plunge. I would like to preface everything I am about to spew into 0's and 1's by saying I could never live in NYC. Fun place to visit for a day or two but it's just too much....of everything. A city of excesses.
At 9:00, our first open bar commenced at 7:00, a buddy who never drinks (already married) ripped the sink out of the wall at the bar. Big sink too. He must have turned green and hulked out. Another buddy had to run into the bathroom and turn some valve off to keep the place from flooding. As if this weren't bad enough, he sat down at a table just outside the bathroom and ended up puking everywhere. Everyone I spoke to was pretty sure we were getting thrown out immediately... but they actually took the whole episode in stride. The staff was Irish so perhaps they're used to this sort of thing, yes?
Damage control entailed checking drunko into an expensive hotel while he was pretty much incapacitated. Some amongst us felt this was a dick move. I thought it was deserved. Only person allowed to put on a performance like this should be the one about to get married....and seventeen year-old girls. Apparently he woke up a few hours later and met us back out. By that point, however, I was no longer capable of making or holding onto memories. As such, I don't remember seeing him again.
During the aforementioned episode, Casey was conspicuously absent. All we knew was that he wasn't there. Honestly, knowing Casey, he could have been anywhere. Space, New Jersey, a penthouse apartment with Paris Hilton, backstage with a notorious reggae musician, the Caribbean, anywhere. Only after someone had made the trip downstairs to use the bathroom not decorated in vomit did we discover he had mistakenly put a $50 bill into the jukebox. So for about 45 minutes, while no one knew where he was, he was downstairs amongst strangers, flipping out, trying to set up the jukebox with $50 worth of music. He was found panic stricken, trying to use the last $20 worth. I'm pretty sure the bar is still playing his selections now.
The subsequent jaunt to the strip joint was uneventful. Obviously I did not pay for, nor did I receive, nor did I see anyone else receive for that matter, any lap dances. I speak only for myself when I say I wanted one very badly but for fear of retribution World War II dictator style, I respectfully declined. I assume my compatriots had similar rationales.
Later on, after we were done ignoring naked women for fear of varying degrees of retribution from girlfriends, spouses, and soon-to-be spouses, we went to another bar. En route, Timmy decided it'd be funny to lift up his shirt and press his chest and gut against the windows of various swanky Manhattan restaurants brimming with yuppies who had formerly served as inspiration for Sex and the City writers. This wasn't funny. IT WAS HILARIOUS!
Upon our arrival at the next bar, I was apparently singing Ween tunes loudly enough for everyone in Manhattan to be overcome by the majesty of Boog Nish, Ween's god. As drawing attention to myself is very uncharacteristic, I'm tempted to cast this memory aside as a implant, a fake, a phony. But Kev adamantly maintains the very same memory and his part in it. Afraid we'd get tossed for excessive belligerence, he had tried to make nice with the bartender on our behalf. "Do you like Ween?" he offered.
Apparently, the bartender loved Ween. Loved 'em so much, in fact, he went to Bonnaroo this year expressly to see them. Quasi-crisis averted. (It's funny when you bump into random people who like Ween. Doesn't happen often.) So the bartender told us there were tons of Ween tunes on the jukebox. Kev and the bartender urged me to put some on. I turned and walked toward the thing but must have been sidetracked by something shiny because I never quite made it. This is the part of the episode I remember best; walking toward the jukebox intent on picking out tons of Ween tunes. Only in a New York City bar would you find a jukebox stocked with Ween's catalogue. Ironically, the shiny object that diverted me from the task at hand brought with it the darkness that had only moments before been lifted. My inability to focus on anything was apparently amusing to watch though, because Kev couldn't stop laughing when recounted the episode for me the following day.
I can't say with any amount of certainty what happened between that moment and the following morning. The next thing I knew I was waking up in an apartment. Could have been anywhere. As luck would have it, when I looked to my left, on the other side of the couch: Kenyon. After a bout of nausea, I went to the bathroom where I discovered a uni-brow had been drawn in on my face. Kenyon confirmed I'd fallen asleep with my shoes on. I was unaware those rules still applied. At bachelor parties....they apparently still do.
Best of luck James!
I figure I should get this down now before any and all memories thereof are lost and gone forever.
I am pretty sure I was in NYC for a bachelor party last weekend. This time it's James taking the plunge. I would like to preface everything I am about to spew into 0's and 1's by saying I could never live in NYC. Fun place to visit for a day or two but it's just too much....of everything. A city of excesses.
At 9:00, our first open bar commenced at 7:00, a buddy who never drinks (already married) ripped the sink out of the wall at the bar. Big sink too. He must have turned green and hulked out. Another buddy had to run into the bathroom and turn some valve off to keep the place from flooding. As if this weren't bad enough, he sat down at a table just outside the bathroom and ended up puking everywhere. Everyone I spoke to was pretty sure we were getting thrown out immediately... but they actually took the whole episode in stride. The staff was Irish so perhaps they're used to this sort of thing, yes?
Damage control entailed checking drunko into an expensive hotel while he was pretty much incapacitated. Some amongst us felt this was a dick move. I thought it was deserved. Only person allowed to put on a performance like this should be the one about to get married....and seventeen year-old girls. Apparently he woke up a few hours later and met us back out. By that point, however, I was no longer capable of making or holding onto memories. As such, I don't remember seeing him again.
During the aforementioned episode, Casey was conspicuously absent. All we knew was that he wasn't there. Honestly, knowing Casey, he could have been anywhere. Space, New Jersey, a penthouse apartment with Paris Hilton, backstage with a notorious reggae musician, the Caribbean, anywhere. Only after someone had made the trip downstairs to use the bathroom not decorated in vomit did we discover he had mistakenly put a $50 bill into the jukebox. So for about 45 minutes, while no one knew where he was, he was downstairs amongst strangers, flipping out, trying to set up the jukebox with $50 worth of music. He was found panic stricken, trying to use the last $20 worth. I'm pretty sure the bar is still playing his selections now.
The subsequent jaunt to the strip joint was uneventful. Obviously I did not pay for, nor did I receive, nor did I see anyone else receive for that matter, any lap dances. I speak only for myself when I say I wanted one very badly but for fear of retribution World War II dictator style, I respectfully declined. I assume my compatriots had similar rationales.
Later on, after we were done ignoring naked women for fear of varying degrees of retribution from girlfriends, spouses, and soon-to-be spouses, we went to another bar. En route, Timmy decided it'd be funny to lift up his shirt and press his chest and gut against the windows of various swanky Manhattan restaurants brimming with yuppies who had formerly served as inspiration for Sex and the City writers. This wasn't funny. IT WAS HILARIOUS!
Upon our arrival at the next bar, I was apparently singing Ween tunes loudly enough for everyone in Manhattan to be overcome by the majesty of Boog Nish, Ween's god. As drawing attention to myself is very uncharacteristic, I'm tempted to cast this memory aside as a implant, a fake, a phony. But Kev adamantly maintains the very same memory and his part in it. Afraid we'd get tossed for excessive belligerence, he had tried to make nice with the bartender on our behalf. "Do you like Ween?" he offered.
Apparently, the bartender loved Ween. Loved 'em so much, in fact, he went to Bonnaroo this year expressly to see them. Quasi-crisis averted. (It's funny when you bump into random people who like Ween. Doesn't happen often.) So the bartender told us there were tons of Ween tunes on the jukebox. Kev and the bartender urged me to put some on. I turned and walked toward the thing but must have been sidetracked by something shiny because I never quite made it. This is the part of the episode I remember best; walking toward the jukebox intent on picking out tons of Ween tunes. Only in a New York City bar would you find a jukebox stocked with Ween's catalogue. Ironically, the shiny object that diverted me from the task at hand brought with it the darkness that had only moments before been lifted. My inability to focus on anything was apparently amusing to watch though, because Kev couldn't stop laughing when recounted the episode for me the following day.
I can't say with any amount of certainty what happened between that moment and the following morning. The next thing I knew I was waking up in an apartment. Could have been anywhere. As luck would have it, when I looked to my left, on the other side of the couch: Kenyon. After a bout of nausea, I went to the bathroom where I discovered a uni-brow had been drawn in on my face. Kenyon confirmed I'd fallen asleep with my shoes on. I was unaware those rules still applied. At bachelor parties....they apparently still do.
Best of luck James!
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Cancelled
John from Cincinnati was cancelled after one season and ten episodes. I can't say I'm surprised. That was one strange show. I am a little annoyed, however.
HBO must not have known what they had on their hands when they signed contracts, no? Think about it. They either didn't think it'd be a strange show, in which case they must have slept through their meetings with Milch, or, they overestimated their viewers- in terms of the kind of challenge for which they were prepared- a distinct possibility given the success of other HBO shows with fringe content. As with most things, the reality is likely a combination.
I think this show had a quality to that it shared with jazz. Most people don't listen to jazz, though most people freely admit they don't listen to jazz because they don't understand it and not because it isn't worthwhile. This show was challenging in that it required active consumption; something that makes most Americans uncomfortable if the mindless bullshit enjoying success on TV is any indicator.
HBO must not have known what they had on their hands when they signed contracts, no? Think about it. They either didn't think it'd be a strange show, in which case they must have slept through their meetings with Milch, or, they overestimated their viewers- in terms of the kind of challenge for which they were prepared- a distinct possibility given the success of other HBO shows with fringe content. As with most things, the reality is likely a combination.
I think this show had a quality to that it shared with jazz. Most people don't listen to jazz, though most people freely admit they don't listen to jazz because they don't understand it and not because it isn't worthwhile. This show was challenging in that it required active consumption; something that makes most Americans uncomfortable if the mindless bullshit enjoying success on TV is any indicator.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
The Yanks
This season has been an odd one. I'm not used to watching the Yankees play from behind, let alone from far behind, for the majority of a season. It'd gotten to a point where the glass was half empty in my mind. It's unusual for my typically bleary outlook to spill over into my baseball. I'd begun thinking about what changes needed to be made and addressed before next year. I'd been a whipping boy for any and all baseball conversations in and around the office. And I was without ammunition. What could I say? The Yankees were below .500. I took it on the chin. Gay porn style.
Well my friends, the times they are a'changin. Albeit against lesser opponents, the Yankees have done what has been necessary to make their season relevant again. Well, everything except address their bullpen whoes with a noteworthy addition to their staff. They have, however, dropped the dead weight that was Scott Proctor and Mike Myers via trade and assignment respectively. If only Farnsworth was a marketable entity. If recent history teaches us anything, it's that void that is Yankee middle relief will cost them in the postseason.
Last night's game seems to me a punctuation mark to this resurgence. A resounding "us vs. them". Great to see the Yanks dispose of division foes all the while defending each other without hesitation. No brawl but two bench clearings highlighted by Clemens' retribution and dismissal from the game.
"I heard somebody chirping when I was talking to Lyle [Overbay] ... Tony Pena is running his mouth off and I was like, 'What's this guy running his mouth off for?' This dude is a quitter. He managed a team and quit in the middle of the season because he couldn't hack it," said a sour grapes Josh Towers.
I am guessing he was referring to the incident that began at first base and soon after featured A-Rod questioning, as he stepped toward the mound, "Are you talking to me? Is he talking to me? Are you talking to me?!"
It seems the breath of the Yankees ability to polarize is as far reaching as ever this year. And I couln't be happier about it. I can't wait til they take first place from the Red Sox.
Well my friends, the times they are a'changin. Albeit against lesser opponents, the Yankees have done what has been necessary to make their season relevant again. Well, everything except address their bullpen whoes with a noteworthy addition to their staff. They have, however, dropped the dead weight that was Scott Proctor and Mike Myers via trade and assignment respectively. If only Farnsworth was a marketable entity. If recent history teaches us anything, it's that void that is Yankee middle relief will cost them in the postseason.
Last night's game seems to me a punctuation mark to this resurgence. A resounding "us vs. them". Great to see the Yanks dispose of division foes all the while defending each other without hesitation. No brawl but two bench clearings highlighted by Clemens' retribution and dismissal from the game.
"I heard somebody chirping when I was talking to Lyle [Overbay] ... Tony Pena is running his mouth off and I was like, 'What's this guy running his mouth off for?' This dude is a quitter. He managed a team and quit in the middle of the season because he couldn't hack it," said a sour grapes Josh Towers.
I am guessing he was referring to the incident that began at first base and soon after featured A-Rod questioning, as he stepped toward the mound, "Are you talking to me? Is he talking to me? Are you talking to me?!"
It seems the breath of the Yankees ability to polarize is as far reaching as ever this year. And I couln't be happier about it. I can't wait til they take first place from the Red Sox.
My Sister & Her Machete
Everything is good here. Today is a bagaces day for me. I'm going grocery shopping soon because it ' s my turn to make dinner. I'm making breakfast ....for dinner.
So my last two days in the field were pretty sweet. I got lost alone for the first time, awesome. All of the sudden Juanca (a 33 yearl old Tico that i work with) yells 'Intergroup!!!!!' and he and this girl Katie start RUNNING down the steep hill we are on. An 'intergroup' is when the group of monkeys you are with that day comes into contact with a separate group of monkeys. Same species and everything, just a different group. It gets crazy, sometimes just a lot of screaming and running, sometimes it gets bloody and warlike. So it's a very interesting and exciting thing to witness. This would be my first. So I'm pumped and start running behind them (the monkeys run super fast when this happens so we couldn't see them, just hear all the screaming).
Then I fall and slide down on my ass about 20 feet, and end up tangled in vines when I finally stop. Every time I moved, the tangling got worse. Like a bug in a spider web. My machete was all stuck in tangles, every loop on my backpack was twisted up in vines, and my legs and arms were stuck. It was pretty hilarious if you weren't me. But I had a bit of trouble getting myself out, so I missed the intergoup, and lost the two people I was out with. Awesome. I did find them after about 45 minutes, so that was alright.
I also saw my first boa constrictor two days ago. It was 6 feet long. The monkeys LOVE alarming at snakes, so it's helpful to know where the snakes are. The monkeys just all mob around it and yell their snake alarms, so you can tell exactly where the snakes are. Also a good thing for us.
Yesterday it rained for 5 of the 14 hours we in the forest. That was sucky. It rains HARD here. Like nothing I've ever seen. It's nuts. We can't take any good data on the monkeys in the rain because they go high up in the trees and visibility is poor. So we just have to babysit them...follow them around, sloshing through the mud soaked to the bone. Luckily this one kid Isaac is HILARIOUS and kept me laughing hysterically the entire time. Which is good because it might be hard to laugh after sliding down a muddy cliff on your ass and getting stabbed by acacia trees and bamboo all along the way. Right after I slipped down a cliff and was trying to keep up with this guy Joey who SPRINTS everywhere, even in the pouring rain, I was climbing over the roots of this GIGANTIC old Pichote tree that's all twisted and creepy looking and lowering myself down to the ground because there was a bit of a drop on the other side. This tree, like a lot of old trees in the forest, had this big gaping hole in its base, but was so huge that the hole is as tall as me, making it like a cave. I guess from me climbing on the roots and causing a disturbance, swarms of bats starting flying out of the hole!! I had to duck a little and it startled me at first, but it was sooooooo awesome to watch. Such a cool thing to be alone in the forest in Costa Rica and get to see something like this. There were so many of them. And they just took off.
So everything is great. Every day is a really cool adventure of some sort. Gotta go grocery shopping; also an adventure because of my terrible Spanish.
So my last two days in the field were pretty sweet. I got lost alone for the first time, awesome. All of the sudden Juanca (a 33 yearl old Tico that i work with) yells 'Intergroup!!!!!' and he and this girl Katie start RUNNING down the steep hill we are on. An 'intergroup' is when the group of monkeys you are with that day comes into contact with a separate group of monkeys. Same species and everything, just a different group. It gets crazy, sometimes just a lot of screaming and running, sometimes it gets bloody and warlike. So it's a very interesting and exciting thing to witness. This would be my first. So I'm pumped and start running behind them (the monkeys run super fast when this happens so we couldn't see them, just hear all the screaming).
Then I fall and slide down on my ass about 20 feet, and end up tangled in vines when I finally stop. Every time I moved, the tangling got worse. Like a bug in a spider web. My machete was all stuck in tangles, every loop on my backpack was twisted up in vines, and my legs and arms were stuck. It was pretty hilarious if you weren't me. But I had a bit of trouble getting myself out, so I missed the intergoup, and lost the two people I was out with. Awesome. I did find them after about 45 minutes, so that was alright.
I also saw my first boa constrictor two days ago. It was 6 feet long. The monkeys LOVE alarming at snakes, so it's helpful to know where the snakes are. The monkeys just all mob around it and yell their snake alarms, so you can tell exactly where the snakes are. Also a good thing for us.
Yesterday it rained for 5 of the 14 hours we in the forest. That was sucky. It rains HARD here. Like nothing I've ever seen. It's nuts. We can't take any good data on the monkeys in the rain because they go high up in the trees and visibility is poor. So we just have to babysit them...follow them around, sloshing through the mud soaked to the bone. Luckily this one kid Isaac is HILARIOUS and kept me laughing hysterically the entire time. Which is good because it might be hard to laugh after sliding down a muddy cliff on your ass and getting stabbed by acacia trees and bamboo all along the way. Right after I slipped down a cliff and was trying to keep up with this guy Joey who SPRINTS everywhere, even in the pouring rain, I was climbing over the roots of this GIGANTIC old Pichote tree that's all twisted and creepy looking and lowering myself down to the ground because there was a bit of a drop on the other side. This tree, like a lot of old trees in the forest, had this big gaping hole in its base, but was so huge that the hole is as tall as me, making it like a cave. I guess from me climbing on the roots and causing a disturbance, swarms of bats starting flying out of the hole!! I had to duck a little and it startled me at first, but it was sooooooo awesome to watch. Such a cool thing to be alone in the forest in Costa Rica and get to see something like this. There were so many of them. And they just took off.
So everything is great. Every day is a really cool adventure of some sort. Gotta go grocery shopping; also an adventure because of my terrible Spanish.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
USC....the other one.
Steve Spurrier is up in arms after two recruits were denied admittance to the University of South Carolina after he told them they wouldn't be. He's actually threatening to leave if the school's standards are not relaxed to accommodate the athletes he so desires.
The University of South Carolina is not a school renowned for it's academics. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Mediocre at best, USC should be commended for attempting to maintain some semblance of admittance standards in the face of Steve Spurrier and the university's football machine. I presume these standards are already lower for football players, as they are at every "big time" football school. To assume, as Spurrier must have, that anyone who meets the NCAA's minimum requirements will get a free pass from the admissions board is nothing short of ridiculous. Maybe they should add Dean of Admissions to his job description?
He's tried to make this an issue of credibility. More specifically, his is compromised if he tells recruits they will be able to get into the school when he is, in fact, without a say in the matter. Well, who told Steve Spurrier he should guarantee admittance to every kid he speaks to? He's a college football coach. College. I'll say it again, COLLEGE.
Maybe he should give the NFL another try. Judging by Vince Young's wonderlic test, their admittance standards are at least as lax as the University of Texas. Then, he won't have to be burdened by academics and their ivory tower standards. Then, he'll have to worry only about being consistently out-game planned by smarter coaches. Which at least, provided he remembers his last go round in the NFL, he'll see coming.
I say let him go.
The University of South Carolina is not a school renowned for it's academics. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Mediocre at best, USC should be commended for attempting to maintain some semblance of admittance standards in the face of Steve Spurrier and the university's football machine. I presume these standards are already lower for football players, as they are at every "big time" football school. To assume, as Spurrier must have, that anyone who meets the NCAA's minimum requirements will get a free pass from the admissions board is nothing short of ridiculous. Maybe they should add Dean of Admissions to his job description?
He's tried to make this an issue of credibility. More specifically, his is compromised if he tells recruits they will be able to get into the school when he is, in fact, without a say in the matter. Well, who told Steve Spurrier he should guarantee admittance to every kid he speaks to? He's a college football coach. College. I'll say it again, COLLEGE.
Maybe he should give the NFL another try. Judging by Vince Young's wonderlic test, their admittance standards are at least as lax as the University of Texas. Then, he won't have to be burdened by academics and their ivory tower standards. Then, he'll have to worry only about being consistently out-game planned by smarter coaches. Which at least, provided he remembers his last go round in the NFL, he'll see coming.
I say let him go.
Friday, August 03, 2007
GFY
It's happening. I have absolutely nothing to say. That undeniable itch to spew blog in all directions has slowed almost to a complete stop. I can't put my finger on it. Wait!
I've been extremely busy at work lately and it's been slowly robbing me of my will to live. I feel adults, parents in particular, are generally failing children in this particular area. I'm not sure I'd be this affected if my parents had warned me how terrible life becomes after graduation. At least I'd have seen it coming. I could have used a little, "Seamus, the vast majority of your life will be excruciatingly painful from 22 beyond," in high school and college. This is perhaps too heavy a concept to dump on a pre-pubescent kid. But surely I'd have conducted myself differently in high school and college had I known. Or at least I would have been prepared.
There are seven days in every frigin week. Seven! For five days out of every seven, ever notice how no one ever asks, "What are you doing tonight?" No one. Ever. It's like the Pearl Jam "Do the Evolution Video" where everyone's in an identicle cubicle connected to their computers by tubes protruding from the ears and notstrils. We're barely even human for the vast majority of our existence. And, for me, the malaise is usually so thick, the terms of this existence don't even bother me until I have a week like this one.
Things I hate hearing that I always hear at least 50 times on Mondays and Fridays:
"So what's on tap for the weekend?"
"TGIF!"
"How was the weekend?"
"Too short! Yours?"
"Happy Monday!"
"I feel like I was just here."
"I feel like I never left this desk."
"Someone kill me. Please."
Um, yeah, I'll take a whisky please. Stat.
I've been extremely busy at work lately and it's been slowly robbing me of my will to live. I feel adults, parents in particular, are generally failing children in this particular area. I'm not sure I'd be this affected if my parents had warned me how terrible life becomes after graduation. At least I'd have seen it coming. I could have used a little, "Seamus, the vast majority of your life will be excruciatingly painful from 22 beyond," in high school and college. This is perhaps too heavy a concept to dump on a pre-pubescent kid. But surely I'd have conducted myself differently in high school and college had I known. Or at least I would have been prepared.
There are seven days in every frigin week. Seven! For five days out of every seven, ever notice how no one ever asks, "What are you doing tonight?" No one. Ever. It's like the Pearl Jam "Do the Evolution Video" where everyone's in an identicle cubicle connected to their computers by tubes protruding from the ears and notstrils. We're barely even human for the vast majority of our existence. And, for me, the malaise is usually so thick, the terms of this existence don't even bother me until I have a week like this one.
Things I hate hearing that I always hear at least 50 times on Mondays and Fridays:
"So what's on tap for the weekend?"
"TGIF!"
"How was the weekend?"
"Too short! Yours?"
"Happy Monday!"
"I feel like I was just here."
"I feel like I never left this desk."
"Someone kill me. Please."
Um, yeah, I'll take a whisky please. Stat.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
I Have an Announcement
Before my 26th birthday, before it's too late, I want to announce my official re-interest in the game of professional basketball. It's been a long time. Much has happened since we last slept together. I beat acne. I started shaving. I stopped picking fights. I'm a phenomenal drinker. The list goes on. Without further ado, however, I would like to announce that I am a fan of the Boston Celtics.
This couldn't be more convenient. As I believe I have mentioned previously, I was a Boston Celtic fan until I moved to Chicago via New Jersey just prior to 8th grade. At the time, becoming a Knicks fan was a no-brainer, given the veracity of the Knicks v. Bulls rivalry. Now, years later, I live in Boston. I like Boston. Well, actually, this depends on a vast array of time sensitive, ever changing factors I won't get into right now. But my thirst for argument and controversy is quenched during the baseball season. And besides, I can only take so much. And now, having lived here for four years, I am afforded the opportunity to embrace the Boston Celtics once again. Moreover, I can do so with clear conscience.
During my hiatus from the NBA, I have maintained a quiet admiration for certain aspects of the game, albeit from a safe distance. As evidenced by my inability to play the game with any level of competency worth mentioning, I have never stopped appreciating its requisite athleticism or its beauty when played the right way. It is because of the latter actually, that I've been able to maintain an interest in college basketball despite my alma matter's ongoing futility.
I have always liked Kevin Garnett. His intensity, loyalty, ability, and sense of humor have made this an easy task; from his 12 years in Minnesota, his well-rounded game, to the old Marbury & Garnett ESPN The Magazine "All Nude" ads. I expect more of the same this upcoming season. Only now, I will get to see it in person and on a regular basis.
Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett, welcome to Boston.
This couldn't be more convenient. As I believe I have mentioned previously, I was a Boston Celtic fan until I moved to Chicago via New Jersey just prior to 8th grade. At the time, becoming a Knicks fan was a no-brainer, given the veracity of the Knicks v. Bulls rivalry. Now, years later, I live in Boston. I like Boston. Well, actually, this depends on a vast array of time sensitive, ever changing factors I won't get into right now. But my thirst for argument and controversy is quenched during the baseball season. And besides, I can only take so much. And now, having lived here for four years, I am afforded the opportunity to embrace the Boston Celtics once again. Moreover, I can do so with clear conscience.
During my hiatus from the NBA, I have maintained a quiet admiration for certain aspects of the game, albeit from a safe distance. As evidenced by my inability to play the game with any level of competency worth mentioning, I have never stopped appreciating its requisite athleticism or its beauty when played the right way. It is because of the latter actually, that I've been able to maintain an interest in college basketball despite my alma matter's ongoing futility.
I have always liked Kevin Garnett. His intensity, loyalty, ability, and sense of humor have made this an easy task; from his 12 years in Minnesota, his well-rounded game, to the old Marbury & Garnett ESPN The Magazine "All Nude" ads. I expect more of the same this upcoming season. Only now, I will get to see it in person and on a regular basis.
Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett, welcome to Boston.
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