7/05/2005
THOUGHTS
The thoughts contained below have been redacted due to their judgmental quality. I'll not post any opinions in this space any longer. Plus my legs are still tingling from the permed hair that whispered across them at Shea Stadium!
OH FUCK IT:
The Cubs and especially their middle relief are as thin as Denny's coffee.
_________________________________________________________________
The Sunday CSTB Day at Shea was a great time, despite the fact that the Mets lost. Dontrelle Willis dominated and got his thirteenth win. My zone in Section 5 was peaceful, despite rumors on other blogs. I sat with a couple (he is in the awesome band Oxford Collapse, she is a fan every team in the MLB, it seems) and chatted about Bill James' books, baseball in the 1920s, a grandpa in Ohio who hates Manny Ramirez, and how I channeled Watler Payton in my youth (read: dreams).
Florida Marlin Juan Pierre should write a self-help/motivation book. It should be called BUNT YOUR WAY ON. Four minutes into the game, he had already scored. Every boss should give it to his lazy, complaint-making workers.
LAZY, TIME-SUCKING MORON: I can't do it.
BOSS: Well, Timmy, bunt your way on. Look at Juan Pierre. He's 4'7", 85 pounds, and manages to fucking cross the plate about 11 times a game. I need these documents collated by 3:30.
You can't keep the guy off base. David Wright, playing 3B for the Mets, crept down the foul line anticipating a bunt, so Pierre basically guided the ball in between Wright and the shortstop. It was like he was chipping onto a putting green or a bowl-cutted, vintage Jimmy Connors lightly volleying the ball back over the net.
My only problem with the game was that the woman in front of me had a long, twisty, poorly-highlighted perm she kept running her hands through and flinging against my bare legs. This is one of those eww-hair things, a second-cousin to finding a lock of pubic hair in a tuna salad sandwich. If you don't believe me, let it happen to you about 18 times then get back to me. The seats at Shea provided no leg room, so I finally had to jump to another seat--which wasn't too difficult, except it's the kind of thing that makes you look homophobic, like when straight guys go to the movie and insist on a one-seat buffer, so no one will get the crazy notion they might start sucking each other's cocks during the chase scene or something. Oh well.
The woman's other faults:
A worn "Mets" scrunchy on her right wrist.
Talking on her cell phone during "God Bless America."
Being alive.
She also had a hubby who brought along an identical-looking sidekick. They sat there and maybe said five words to each other the whole time. Know those grown-ups whose favorite sport is track, and they are sunburned and chew tobacco and perhaps pleasure themselves to fantasies involving Shania Twain or Faith Hill? And they are sinewy muscles who insist on wearing aerodynamic eyewear, drinking negative-eight calorie beer and are also ignorant and skeptical of the world at the same time? That's the vibe these folks gave off. They were clearly not part of the CSTB package.
You could tell they were really worked up/quietly enjoying the hell out of their Oakley blades, too. Adjusting them frequently with bony clean fingers with nicely manicured nails.
DAMMIT, THEY ARE NOT ON MY FACE TIGHT ENOUGH. I NEED THEM TO FEEL LIKE SOME KIND OF FROG WEAR. AND TO WEIGH AS MUCH AS A PIGEON FEATHER AND TO FUCKING HUG THE SHIT OUT OF MY FACE. AND TO NEVER MOVE ONE MILIMETER UNLESS I SAY SO. THEY NEED TO BE ACCURATE. PRECISE. THESE GLASSES HAVE TO BE MY OWN FUCK YOU TO THE WORLD. AND THE ARMS NEED TO LOOK LIKE TINY SCULPTED CANOE PADDLES AND THE LENSES HAVE TO BE HOT BLUE MIRRORS. AND THEN I WILL PULL MY BASEBALL HAT DOWN TIGHT SO THAT NO ONE CAN GAUGE MY REACTION TO ANYTHING WHICH IS ALWAYS SULLEN AND MEDICATED-LOOKING, ANYWAY. I AM GOING TO FINISH THIS LIGHT BEER. I WILL BELCH THREE TIMES, AT THE APPROPRIATE INTERVALS AND THEN BEGIN AN INTENSE RE-HYDRATION PLAN. AND WHEN I HAVE TO URINATE, I WILL GO INTO THE MEN'S ROOM AND DO SO. NO ONE BETTER LOOK AT MY PENIS, WHICH HAS ITS OWN PAIR OF SUNGLASSES ON AND IS TRIPLE WRAPPED IN GLAD SANDWICH BAGS SO AS TO AVOID GERMS. URINATION AND TRAVEL TO THE MEN'S ROOM SHOULD TAKE ME 5 MINUTES AND 37 SECONDS. IF I CAN DO 5:12? EVEN BETTER. THAT WOULD BE A RECORD FOR ME. A PERSONAL PUBLIC EVENT URINATION RECORD.
OH FUCK IT:
The Cubs and especially their middle relief are as thin as Denny's coffee.
_________________________________________________________________
The Sunday CSTB Day at Shea was a great time, despite the fact that the Mets lost. Dontrelle Willis dominated and got his thirteenth win. My zone in Section 5 was peaceful, despite rumors on other blogs. I sat with a couple (he is in the awesome band Oxford Collapse, she is a fan every team in the MLB, it seems) and chatted about Bill James' books, baseball in the 1920s, a grandpa in Ohio who hates Manny Ramirez, and how I channeled Watler Payton in my youth (read: dreams).
Florida Marlin Juan Pierre should write a self-help/motivation book. It should be called BUNT YOUR WAY ON. Four minutes into the game, he had already scored. Every boss should give it to his lazy, complaint-making workers.
LAZY, TIME-SUCKING MORON: I can't do it.
BOSS: Well, Timmy, bunt your way on. Look at Juan Pierre. He's 4'7", 85 pounds, and manages to fucking cross the plate about 11 times a game. I need these documents collated by 3:30.
You can't keep the guy off base. David Wright, playing 3B for the Mets, crept down the foul line anticipating a bunt, so Pierre basically guided the ball in between Wright and the shortstop. It was like he was chipping onto a putting green or a bowl-cutted, vintage Jimmy Connors lightly volleying the ball back over the net.
My only problem with the game was that the woman in front of me had a long, twisty, poorly-highlighted perm she kept running her hands through and flinging against my bare legs. This is one of those eww-hair things, a second-cousin to finding a lock of pubic hair in a tuna salad sandwich. If you don't believe me, let it happen to you about 18 times then get back to me. The seats at Shea provided no leg room, so I finally had to jump to another seat--which wasn't too difficult, except it's the kind of thing that makes you look homophobic, like when straight guys go to the movie and insist on a one-seat buffer, so no one will get the crazy notion they might start sucking each other's cocks during the chase scene or something. Oh well.
The woman's other faults:
A worn "Mets" scrunchy on her right wrist.
Talking on her cell phone during "God Bless America."
Being alive.
She also had a hubby who brought along an identical-looking sidekick. They sat there and maybe said five words to each other the whole time. Know those grown-ups whose favorite sport is track, and they are sunburned and chew tobacco and perhaps pleasure themselves to fantasies involving Shania Twain or Faith Hill? And they are sinewy muscles who insist on wearing aerodynamic eyewear, drinking negative-eight calorie beer and are also ignorant and skeptical of the world at the same time? That's the vibe these folks gave off. They were clearly not part of the CSTB package.
You could tell they were really worked up/quietly enjoying the hell out of their Oakley blades, too. Adjusting them frequently with bony clean fingers with nicely manicured nails.
DAMMIT, THEY ARE NOT ON MY FACE TIGHT ENOUGH. I NEED THEM TO FEEL LIKE SOME KIND OF FROG WEAR. AND TO WEIGH AS MUCH AS A PIGEON FEATHER AND TO FUCKING HUG THE SHIT OUT OF MY FACE. AND TO NEVER MOVE ONE MILIMETER UNLESS I SAY SO. THEY NEED TO BE ACCURATE. PRECISE. THESE GLASSES HAVE TO BE MY OWN FUCK YOU TO THE WORLD. AND THE ARMS NEED TO LOOK LIKE TINY SCULPTED CANOE PADDLES AND THE LENSES HAVE TO BE HOT BLUE MIRRORS. AND THEN I WILL PULL MY BASEBALL HAT DOWN TIGHT SO THAT NO ONE CAN GAUGE MY REACTION TO ANYTHING WHICH IS ALWAYS SULLEN AND MEDICATED-LOOKING, ANYWAY. I AM GOING TO FINISH THIS LIGHT BEER. I WILL BELCH THREE TIMES, AT THE APPROPRIATE INTERVALS AND THEN BEGIN AN INTENSE RE-HYDRATION PLAN. AND WHEN I HAVE TO URINATE, I WILL GO INTO THE MEN'S ROOM AND DO SO. NO ONE BETTER LOOK AT MY PENIS, WHICH HAS ITS OWN PAIR OF SUNGLASSES ON AND IS TRIPLE WRAPPED IN GLAD SANDWICH BAGS SO AS TO AVOID GERMS. URINATION AND TRAVEL TO THE MEN'S ROOM SHOULD TAKE ME 5 MINUTES AND 37 SECONDS. IF I CAN DO 5:12? EVEN BETTER. THAT WOULD BE A RECORD FOR ME. A PERSONAL PUBLIC EVENT URINATION RECORD.
