August 31, 2004

creepin' like the D.R.E. 


heh heh heh

August 23, 2004

You think you made it out... 

and they suck you right back in. I tried to give up on these guys, to not care at all. I find it difficult though, they turn it on like they have this past week and it gives you hope. The next real test will come in the first week of Sept. The
Angels and then the Rangers. That will be the make or break point.

Here we go again.

August 06, 2004

austin powers sox to a playoff spot... 

you read the headline here first. i hope we read it again sometime later...

now we have a guy that looks like shrek, and a guy that voices shrek.

Red Sox pick up Myers from Mariners

Associated Press

Boston Red Sox-Seattle Mariners: The Mariners traded left-handed reliever Mike Myers to the Red Sox on Friday for a player to be named later or cash.
Myers joined Seattle before spring training and went 4-1 with a 4.88 ERA in 50 relief appearances this season. He pitched 27 2/3 innings, allowing 29 hits and 17 walks while striking out 23.

sox rock! 

...well, sorta.

sox songs

August 05, 2004


this current group of sox "players" need to go see the wizard. they have something in common with the tin man - namely no heart, and the cowardly lion - no courage. I am so sick of watching this utterly disgusting, disappointing team, that I can't even turn to the television set anymore. this team bores me on a nightly basis. they were lucky to string together two wins in a row against the devil rays. until meeting tampa, they hadn't won a road series since Bill Monboquette was in the starting five. Kevin Millar is the second coming of Brian Daubach and "Tito" is Grady the Second. I am so fed up with watching this group of has-beens that I'm contemplating buying pinstrips! I can only hope they go on a terrific losing streak so as to squash any hopes of making the playoffs. Why would you want that? So that they can get beat by the Yankees again? I'm fucking disgusted. they're almost relegated to Bruins status in my book.

August 03, 2004

Once a jackass...... 

always a jackass!
Clemmens gets tossed!

You're Gone!

hatred so strong... 

an email from jay

saturday night, fleet boston pavilion - the opening act for the finn brothers is some dave matthews-esque character named martin sexton. he's ugly and annoying, singing all "guitar solos" into a distorted microphone. however, most of the audience seems to love this guy, screaming and yelling out songs. the rest of us grind our teeth and pray for tim and neil to save us. sexton goes on and on and on, adding beatbox to his list of annoying vocal sounds.

his fans scream as he tears into what must be his big emotional ballad, which sounds like the big emotional ballad that preceded it. martin's face contorts as he hits the big falsetto high point of the song. whether out of stunned reverence or, as in my case, indifference, a hush falls over the crowd... and then, a lone voice... "yankees suuuuuuck!"

sometimes i love this city.

August 02, 2004

no more nomahhh (or nomahhh no more...) 

from the remy report, by A. Knoefel Longest

read the rest here... you'll need to scroll down a bit

We all know the scene.

The pitcher in gray receives the ball back from his catcher and turns to the mound, scraping at the rubber with his left foot as behind him a ripple of awareness spreads through the Fenway crowd. Ladies and Gentlemen, now batting for the Red Sox, the announcement is made as a thin, compact batter in white walks with his head down, toes in slightly, with short, measured steps behind the catcher as the crowd rises in patches and applauds, the shortstop…number five…Nomar…Gar-cia-ppara. The crowd, front to back, top to bottom, roars to life as the shouts come out around the park from all sections—come’on Nomar; let’s go Five; come’on now Nomie, base hit. Nomar stands just outside the box, left foot forward and leaning back on his right heel, his white pants extending down to his black cleats, the elbow-length sleeves of a red undershirt below his white jersey, “Red Sox” stitched in red across his chest and a stark red number 5 on his back. At the center of the image are his wide black wristbands and black batting gloves, with which he holds his black bat in his left hand and leans it against his left shoulder as the right hand busies itself with the edges of his gloves and wrist—a tug at the glove, a pat on the wristband, a tap to the bottom of the wrist, then a tug at the right wristband, back and forth, tap, tug, pat, over and under—before the hands part in one movement as the body moves forward. All at once the left hand brings the bat to the shoulder for one tap at the same instant the right arm goes down and the right leg steps into the box; then, like alternating see-saws, the whole process rocks the other way as the right hand goes up to secure the helmet at the same time the left arm brings the bat to the plate for one tap and the left leg steps into the box. From the plate the bat is swung back and around with one hand (the right hand gives the helmet a final press) then caught and windmilled around counterclockwise in wide arcs as the body rocks back and forth, balancing with the metronomic tap of each toe in the dirt (left, tap, right, tap, left, tap), and continues on until the pitcher 90 feet away comes set, locking the bat in place just behind and above the shoulder (top still wagging independent of its handle) as the shoulders shift back and the feet set in place—rocking back just slightly, the left heel bobs off the ground in rhythm. The pitch is delivered, and in a furious instant this tightly wound top bursts open and forward as feet, hips, shoulders, hands and bat all explode toward the ball, lashing it out in the opposite direction, the force of the swing carrying the body into a full lean low over the plate, shoulders across the box and knees bent deep, the right shin nearly scraping dirt as the head follows the ball off the bat. The ball shoots over the infield and in a series of quick steps he is across the box, head up, left hand still clutching the handle of the bat before he is two steps up the line, then flips it across his body at the same moment the head goes down and he sprints toward first, elbows locked and knees driving; he looks up rounding first and finds the ball rolling in the outfield, up against the wall between two outfielders, and as he digs around second the head goes down again and the body tilts in a full sprint, dashing toward the bag as the ball is relayed in he sweeps in one quick slide ahead of the tag and pops up instantly on the bag. Fenway echoes with full, deep cheers from around the park, and among them a second set of calls go out, again from every section of Fenway—alright Nomar; ‘at a boy, Five; ‘at a way to get us started Nomie. Nomar stands alone now at second, in the middle of the field, at the center of Fenway Park and at the epicenter of Red Sox baseball. His foot still on the bag, he sets his hands on his hips, and from the farthest seat away, way up deep in the bleachers, you can see the red block 5, clear and unmistakable.