Hold me. I'm scared.

Theo leaves Sox

By Globe Staff

In a stunning development, Red Sox general manager Theo Epstein has declined the club's offer of a three-year extension of his contract, and will leave the organization.

The Red Sox announced this evening that Epstein will continue to work with the club for several days "to assist in an orderly transition and to prepare further for the upcoming GM meetings and other off-season activities."

“My decision not to return as general manager of the Red Sox is an extremely difficult one,” Epstein said in a statement to the media. “I will always cherish the relationships I developed here and am proud to have worked side-by-side with so many great people, in and out of uniform, as together we brought a World Championship to Boston.

“In my time as general manager, I gave my entire heart and soul to the organization. During the process leading up to today’s decision, I came to the conclusion that I can no longer do so. In the end, my choice is the right one not only for me but for the Red Sox.

Epstein had been expected to accept a three-year deal worth $1.5 million per year but after indications that he would take that offer, he changed his mind. The three-year deal Epstein signed in 2002 expires at midnight tonight.

Well kiss me in the morning and then just walk away. I am shocked. He's leaving. Everyone has him in the bag and as it turns out, we don't.

This is a hair-raising development. Granted, it ain't the end of the world, but he's the guy who put the '04 Sox together. The one with the balls to jettison Nomah. He courted Curt. He got us The Greek (er, Jewish) God of Walks. Brookline's favorite son... leaving? 'Scuse me. I need to put my head between my knees for a moment.

Happy Effing Halloween, Boston. Now what? And more importantly, who?

This here is John McCain's buttprint.

Apparently, the Daily Show is giving away the couch. The late great couch, which is an object of obsession for some (ok, so maybe just this dude...), and a warm memory for the rest of us.

I definitely respect them capitalizing on the nostalgia. That's a whole lotta opt-in names.

We don't have room for two couches in the apartment, but maybe if we got it for the cats, they'd leave the couch we paid for alone.

And so it begins. Finally.

No official news conference yet, but we've got Wonder Boy for another three years.

And Terry Francona has moved to Boston. By God, I could listen to that man talk for years. YEARS. Best speaking voice in baseball. If he ever decides to leave managing, he should totally be a national TV analyst. I think Fox could usher in a new era by having Tito beat the shit out of McCarver before taking over. Or, I could beat the shit out of McCarver. That'd be fun.

But I digress. I want Francona in the Sox dugout (rocking away in his moments of stress) for a good long time.

Changes are afoot in Boston, and that can be trying. Some of them I welcome, others chafe, and still others I wish to hasten.

A fond farewell to Kevin Millar and Bill Mueller. Probably the same for Johnny Damon. He's a great leadoff guy, but probably too rich for our blood. Which is a shame. He works well on the team. Foulke should be sent packing, he is a big hassle. I wish we could keep Wells forcibly, and I would literally sing "Please Don't Go Girl" to Manny in falsetto if I thought it could keep him in Boston. I would also like Renteria to be sent to deep space and jettisoned, but it looks like we're stuck with him.

Y'see, I can't be a football fan because I have plenty to worry about in the winter.

UPDATE: Even Renteria Can't Understand Why Sox Didn't Sign Cabrera

Softly, softly catchee monkey. I could catch a monkey.

Ok. I'm done messing around. Give the man his damned money. Larry, step off and let him wear the man pants in the front office. This whole "a deal could be struck today" business is driving me nuts. I need to gear up and start worrying about 1B, 3B, CF, LF, and you know, THE ENTIRE STARTING ROTATION. Let's get this party started right hey hey ho ho. Millar and Mueller filed for free agency. Wells is itching for the Padres (WTF, Dave? Dick move, my friend.). Theo's gotta get on the stick. So give him the stupid $1.5M so he can get wheelin' and dealin'. The weather's getting cold and I just finished weepily reading The Teammates, so I need renewed Red Sox ack-shun.

In other Red Sox news, I feel I need this (the shirt, though I'd take the namesake as well) and I'm not sure why.

And, a year ago today, I called my father at 5am (his time) and we shared in some euphoria.

Me! Me!

There's a new edition of The Elements of Style, Strunk and White's seminal pocket guide for good writing. I'm pretty sure it was Mr. Strunk who turned me against the word "utilize" for life. For this, I thank him. He's shown me the light on countless grammatical and stylistic matters. And, you'll think this is insane, but the book is actually a good read. It is the perfect example of the vigorous prose he advocates. It's engaging, economical, and hilarious. After it, you'll pick up Nabokov and mutter at his frivolous excess; his use of $20 words (ok, maybe not, but you'll think about it). You'll pick up Hemingway and his humble verbs and nouns arranged in their correct order, sprinkled judiciously (see? I just used an adverb, and I'm beating myself up about it right now!) with adjectives will become a symphony.

The new edition is hardbound in bright red cloth. It contains illustrations by a children's book/New Yorker cover artist. It's an illustrated fourth edition of AWESOME. And it will be mine. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.

I cannot believe it took Daily Candy to alert me to its existence. I'm slipping.

Who's excited? Anyone? Anyone?

Ok.

It's so, Joe!

Hooray for the white hot White Sox and their South Side full o' fans!!!! Three cheers for Freddy Garcia! Let's hear it for Jermaine Dye! Yippee for small ball!

Somewhere in Texas, Ozzie Guillen is making out with his players, coaches, possibly even his GM. He earned some frickin' tongue, folks.

Rest in peace, Shoeless Joe.

I don't suppose there's any way Mr. Konerko will be persuaded to come to Boston after this. Pity.

I hope he takes my Post-Colonial Proto-Modern Aestheticism seminar.

Literatae of Harvard,

Forget your brooding crush on the "wunderkind." You don't have to pretend any longer.

The original geek girl crush is returning, after an 8-year hiatus, and then a brief reinstatement, and another hiatus (rockin' is a demanding job, dude). Don't forget your horn-rimmed glasses.

Dammit. Shoulda gone to Harvard. Way cooler than the on-again off-again presence of the Princess Herself.

Finally, if you want to hear from the man himself: he (like me, you, and your great-aunt Phyllis) has a blog.

Truthiness and bacchanalia for all! And a bag of Cheez-Its for the chick a few rows over.

So, Ms. Claire and I had the pleasure of attending a taping of the Colbert Report yesterday. Less pleasureable was the long and windy walk to the studio over on 10th. However, the show itself was pretty good (I mean, it's always fun to wait outside for an hour and a half before being herded into a foggy studio to watch Stephen Colbert cock his eyebrow... in PERSON for FREE... with 50 of your closest friends from NYU).

Greg Behrendt, who is not that into me, was the guest. He was a little antsy, but the interview went pretty well, followed by the two of them "taking calls" from women with relationship questions. I have to say, while Colbert's interviewing abilities need time to develop, I like how they'll use the guest's particular talents (Stone Philips's gravitas, Behrendt being a "comedian") to do a little scripted-ish bit. It's a good diversion from the Daily Show format. It has great possibilities. It's hard to tell whether he'll be able to get compelling/funny interviews without breaking the character, which sort of demands that he focus on himself. I don't know if this will hold up, but I'm interested in the effort.

Colbert was gracious in the warm-up Q&A, after we waited around for a couple of years for the whole thing to start (completely different ballgame from the Daily Show... The Report's definitely still working out the kinks, it would seem). The set provides endles entertainment, as we spotted a collection of Nancy Drew (or Hardy Boys) novels shelved next to a miniture set of 10 Commandments tablets and a wooden duck. And there's now an eagle's nest next to the desk (if it's always been there, I unsurprisingly did not notice). It has turkey feathers in it, but whatever.

Meanwhile, is it a fan site if it seems to be run by the show itself? Discuss.

Another question: What happens in one of the many instances of Jon Stewart taking the day off? Does the Report fly solo (sans-split screen love-fest) with a new show? Do they defer to, as the Rock dubbed him last week, Big Jon? These are the itching and burning questions, people.

Editorial assisting is what pays the bills, so I'll be focusing on that for a bit. If you miss me, you should read this or this. Not because I wrote them, but because you're a good person who deserves it.

Ahem.

I find the constant high whine emanating from above my cubicle to be extremely disturbing. I call on the Facilities Department to convene on the 11th floor to find and eradicate the source of the noise.

I'm pretty sure I could do that.

From Reuters:

SIMI VALLEY, California - President George W. Bush on Friday called a U.N. report that implicates Syrian officials in the assassination of former Lebanese Prime Minister Rafik al-Hariri "deeply disturbing" and urged the United Nations to take up the matter as quickly as possible.

Bush told reporters at the Ronald Reagan presidential library that the U.N. report suggested the Hariri assassination "could not have taken place" without Syrian involvement.

Hariri and 20 others were killed in an explosion in Beirut February 14. U.N. investigators implicated senior Syrian officials in the bombing.

"The report is deeply disturbing," Bush said.

He said he had asked Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice to request that the United Nations "convene a session as quickly as possible" to discuss the report.

I would really like to adopt this "reacting and urging results" system to my job. One of our freelancers emails to ask why, after 45 days, he has not received a payment. I issue a statement (by which I mean write him back) that reads: "I find it deeply disturbing that you have not yet been paid. I urge the Accounts Payable Department to rectify this matter as soon as possible."

Then I'll go clear brush in Crawford for six weeks.

I know that being President means doing a lot of "calling on so-and-so to do such-and-such" from a podium, but maybe the White House should at least make it look like he's working at something other than bringing about the apocalypse. At least give him a phone to hold.

He showed "it" to me, bought me an ice cream cone, and told me not to tell my parents.

This new ad for eBay makes me wildly uncomfortable. It's something about the spokesman's cadence, the calm way he approaches the "it," as it sits defenseless on its little pedestal. The look he gives the camera... is it coy? Knowing? Does it seem to anyone else that once the camera's off and the "it" and he are alone he's going to do naughty things to it? Or maybe fire up his own camera for a personal movie of some kind?

Really, the moment that icks me out the most is this:

I know, it's a pronoun made out of foam or something, and not a little kid or your grandma. And perhaps the man's wedding ring is meant to make me feel more comfortable with him, but I think his wife would disapprove of this little encounter. Either way, I'm pretty sure that I don't want to know what "it" is, nor do I want to be anywhere near it. Because this dude could be lurking somewhere in the shadows nearby.

If you haven't seen the spot, crafted by eBay's new agency BBDO, you can catch it on the website. Its weirdness is better conveyed in video than my little screenshots here.

live funny. sales tax free.

Sarah Silverman is from New Hampshire. How did I not know this? Her sister was in Adam Sandler's fourth grade class.

So, is there some kind of funny Jew conspiracy out of the very Catholic and Ice Frog (if not Irish... I happen to be both) New Hampshire? Do two make a conspiracy? Well, when you're talking about Jews, it probably does. Either way, she's a funny lady and I'm delighted to count her among my fellow statesmen (though we've both defected...).

Read her profile in The New Yorker here.

See the trailer for her upcoming movie Jesus is Magic here.

And do keep an eye out for the Aristocrats on DVD. She tells one of the best versions of the joke.

Also, buy NH Maple Syrup.

she's not the kind to need or use an alibi

My baseball season has been officially over for a week, and I'm experiencing some withdrawal. The days are getting shorter and cooler and while I'm way excited for the White Sox in the World Series, I'm also getting wistful for the regular season baseball. Less worry, more romance. I have, therefore, turned to Ken Burns's Baseball.

Now, I watched this in fits and starts with my dad when it originally aired, so it's familiar ground, but man. It still rocks. Plus I'm much more of a fanatic now, and therefore paying closer attention. It's an intellectual orgy on many levels for me. A full-on historic study of baseball (touching on its relationship to the Civil War, which was my pet historical topic as a child... That's right. I listened to the Andersonville Diaries on tape whilst going to sleep). Baseball musings by people like Billy Crystal and George Plimpton. And, a connection that I had forgotten about, namely the Vassar Connection.

They are everywhere, Vassar Connections. Sometimes they're a little "c." People in your building, at work, next to you on a plane. The Vassar Baseball Connection is a big "C" because those intrepid ladies of Vassar Female College were the first women to play organized baseball, beginning in 1866.

This photo was taken in 1876, shortly before a public outcry against the "vulgarity" of women playing baseball shut them down. The team pictured here called themselves the Resolutes. How fuckin' cool is that? The Resolutes! Brilliant! I may just have to make a request to the powers that be at the old alma mater to scrap this Brewers business for the Resolutes. Or we could go whole hog (and ignore the gents) and be the Resolute Roses. Look out!

Dork I may be. But if baseball's good enough for early Vassar women and Walt Whitman, by golly it's good enough for me.

I'll buy you flowers and tell you I love you.

Ok, so I've been neglecting the blog a little. But I have an excuse! And I'm gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.

Monday, I waited in line for three hours with 1000 of my closest douchebag friends for free concert tickets. I debated with my comrades-in-arms (a.k.a. the dude in front of me and the dude behind me) whether this made me crazy or just crazy like a fox. I'll let you know how that turns out.

You may wonder if money's not being exchanged, how could it possibly take three hours to distribute tickets to a free concert? Well, the people of Wall St. Rising have reinvigorated the craft of artisanal concert tickets, an art - nay, a calling - that has been practiced for years all across this great nation of ours, from the rocky coast of Maine to the deserts of the Southwest.

They grind the pulp for paper with a manual apparatus, all the while singing "'Tis a Gift to Be Simple."

They whittle fine quill nibs out of feathers from free-range Greylag geese.

They milk baby squid of their ink before rereleasing them into the wild.

They talk to one another on fancy walkie-talkies, by which I mean soup cans with string.

Once the paper has dried, they tear them into unique shapes and write out the name of the show and venue in Latin, fully vocalized.

Each ticket is hand-wrapped in gold thread before being given to you, the concert-goer, in a tagged and numbered commerative gift box.

Just playin' Wall Street Rising! I have no idea why Wall Street must "Rise," but I'm very excited for the shows! I will endeavor to behave properly at each one.

baseball baseball baseball, I made you out of clay...

In recognition of the just-ended Jewish High Holidays, I'd like to take a moment to write something about the Red Sox.

It's related. I swear.

As was brought to my attention by the very nice Mr. (or Ms.) Kaspit of Quicksilver, the 2005 Boston Red Sox had three (count 'em, 3) members of the Chosen on the roster. They later apparently made history (I think) by all playing in the same game at the same time. Three Jews, one diamond, endless possibilities.

Those three mensches are Gabe Kapler, Adam Stern, and Kevin Youkilis. Kapler, you may remember, has a year or more to recover from his Achilles tendon injury and will not likely return to the Red Sox (he's unsigned after the '05 season). Stern's fate is anybody's guess as he's mostly PawSox fare, as far as I know. The people, they love Youk, the most patient hitter in baseball, so we could see him manning first or third in '06. He sorta gets my vote for a regular position, despite being a creepy drunken feature on On The DL's Not-So-Blind items. He is Euclis, Greek God of Walks. Also, apparently, the Greek God of Hideous Shirts. Youk, darling, if you lay off the raver section of H&M and the Boston-equivalent of Murray Hill girls (scratch that, I'm gonna go ahead and say you should just flat-out not accompany Mr. Foulke when he's out tomcatting around... you might contract something icky), we could have a beautiful future as position-player and devoted fan. Mark my words.

As a full-blooded Red Sox fan and honorary Jew I'm delighted by the Sox and their Tribal affiliations (Dominicans and Jews! Sweet! Though we've lost a lot of Dominicans lately, I guess... stupid Mets). They missed the frickin' bateau on the Jackie Robinson thing, so they might as well pick up some points somewhere. Not that it's the same thing.

image from lidsforyids.com

Red, Red [Communion] Wine.

So, I'm reading Alex Kuczynski's Critical Shopper column today in Thursday Styles (shuddup, sometimes I run out of things to read in the Times... Seriously. The afternoon is LONG when you're in the doldrums of an editorial cycle, people). The column itself is about QVC. She watched many hours of it, which sounds like a very specific ring of my personal hell (just a bit higher up than being forced to listen to skinny scary Murray Hill girls order things like a large hazelnut coffee with extra skim milk and four Splendas or crazy romaine-based salads dressed only with salt). Kuczynski powered through, though. And she mentioned one item for sale that caught my attention: the talking Bible.

Oh, the possibilities. Does it talk when you open it? Do you flip the pages as it talks and read along? Is it a tablet PC with a stylus? Does Stephen Fry give voice to the King James as he did the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? If so, where do I sign up for this super-cool mission, and will Mos Def be joining me?

Google-ho!

No. No, it is none of those things. It's not nearly as exciting as I'd hoped. The talking Bible is a tool for ministry groups abroad. Behold (I'd post it here but blogger's being bitchy about formatting, sorry).

It's basically a glorified tape-player concealed within your standard Gideon's Bible cover (almost looks like a stash box...a stash of Jesus). And it doesn't look like you can even open it up to swap the New Testament for that old R.E.O. Speedwagon you have kicking around. And, according to the Mission's website, they're having some trouble with the battery power (it keeps crapping out in the middle of Revelations).

The main goal (to bring the Bible to people who don't read), is considerate, I guess. However, a mission to distribute 10,000 Talking Bibles in each of 10 key languages, seems to be a misguided effort. It's nice to want to help people, but a tape deck isn't going to keep the AIDS or the starvation at bay, Christian soldiers. I think we want to reevaluate [y]our priorities. Just sayin'.

And I feel fine. No, really.

Claire and I debated the merit of this over the weekend, but I want to know does anyone have any hard data on whether or not the recent spate of natural disasters is a signal of the End Times?

I'm not a Doomsday-lovin' foot-washin' Baptist or anything, but for the past year or so, things have been hairy. Tsunami in Asia, thousands dead. The threat of avian flu. Hurricane Katrina. The ginormous quake in Pakistan. Now, apparently, even my ancestral home of NH isn't safe... they've had severe flooding and have requested the President declare a state of emergency. If the White Sox win the World Series (the year after the Red Sox did), we better look out for the Cubbies in '06 and the coming apocalypse.

Yeah. This is weird. I'm rooting for the Angels.

So, I resent that it's come to this. As I write, I'm watching the Yankees-Angels game. And I'm into it. I'm nervous, because I desperately want the Angels to win (or, the Yankees to lose). I thought I was going to get calmer after the Red Sox were eliminated. Not a chance. I'm all worked up watching the Angels.

Now, ordinarily, I hate the Angels. They offend my old baseball town sensibilities. It really sticks in my craw that they have their names on their home uniforms. What is with that? Are Anaheimers incapable of keeping them straight based on their numbers? I hate the red logo on red hat. I hate the Thunderstix. I hate the Rally Monkey. I don't define myself as a Dodgers fan but I find it offensive that the Angels have changed their name. Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim? Do we look stupid to you, Arte Moreno?

Right now, In spite of myself, I am in love with them, their silly color scheme, and their names on their damned uniforms. They lit that Mike Mussina right up tonight. I love that Vladi Guerrero (we wants him for ourselves, Precious). I'm into the Molinas. I enjoy Orlando Cabrera. Erstad, Figgins, the whole lot of them.

Go you Angels. I begrudgingly offer you my support tonight.

Eventually, Snowball will be born as a higher life form. Like a snowman.

Gothamist directed my attention to the fact that I missed the Cat Show this past weekend. Curses!

Of course, I'm disappointed that I didn't get to ogle the Abbyssinians or American Curls. However, the real travesty is that Claire and I didn't realize our chance of becoming full-fledged cat ladies by entering our children into the Feline Agility Competition. Yes, this is a real thing. People actually get their cats to do things like jump through hoops and "dance" around weave poles. The goal is completion of the course, with speed as a tiebreaker. And the best part is, anyone can enter. Like this fellow here, who appears to be having none of the thrill of competition.

Now, I'm pretty sure that if confronted with weave poles, Gus would find the nearest stack of newspapers and sit on them. Or suss out some packing tape to eat.

Appomattox could be a championship barfer. And I just know that Obediah could outlast any pesky rubber band left on the floor. Alas, I'll have to be satisfied with getting them all raucously stoned and turning them loose on the cat tunnel.

Check out the feline agility photo gallery. Some of them appear to be sort of into it.

There is no joy in Mudville...

Well, I had to haul ass to get to a TV to watch (stupid frickin' 4pm start), but I got to kiss my baseball season goodbye.

It hasn't sunk in completely yet.. or at least, I'm retreating the comfort of being disappointed in the Red Sox. A good run to end in loading the bases with no outs and getting nothing done.

As I have mentioned to anyone willing to listen, I'm happy to lose to the White Sox if we're going to lose to anyone. They're an old team with a long and checkered history. Here's hoping they can throw off that Black Sox curse. And, it's nice not to have the stress of moving on and playing with zero pitchers (whither Pedro? Derek Lowe?).

However, winning is fun, and getting a taste of it last year has spoiled me, if only a little.

Another bright side? I've begun compiling my shopping list for next Spring. Theo, you may expect a memo soon.

Other requests: Unload Renteria, Mr. Dead Spot in the Beginning of the Lineup. He's no good. Too fragile. Get that Orlando Cabrera back. Also, a new 2nd baseman, please. And though I love K. Millar and John Olerud... maybe one first baseman for the price of one would be advisable. You can use the difference to buy Vladi to play center and trade JD for some good pitching prospects (and then monkeys will fly out of my butt). Think of it... a power-hitting Dominican enclave... perhaps that would inspire Pedro to beg you to take him back?

Oh, right. And don't forget this time: PITCHERS.

On another topic entirely: Why is Sweaty McCrazyEyes named Comeback Player of the Year? And will some girl please explain to me the appeal? I mean, really. Pretty he ain't. Scary and bigger than an aircraft carrier, yes. But cute and charming, no.

image from boston.com

Yes, but what is Mohammed ElBaradei's poopal velocity?

The Ig Nobel prizes have been handed out by the Annals of Improbable Research, and I must admit, the winners' work is much more interesting than helping to slow nuclear weapons proliferation.

The Ig Nobel for fluid dynamics went to some scientists who studied how far and how fast a penguin can poop.

When nature calls, brooding chinstrap and Adélie penguins are reluctant to leave their nests and expose their eggs to the cold. Instead, they simply point their rear outward, lift their tail, and fire. The departing excreta typically reaches distances of about 40 centimetres.

A worthy pursuit to be sure. Other prizes were awarded to the Nigerian 419 email scam artists (for literature), and the MIT student who invented an alarm clock that runs away from you after you snooze.

Read the (short) article in full at the New Scientist. They use the phrase "poopal velocity" twice.

Screw you, MLB. And the horse you rode in on, ESPN.

What's with the 4pm start today, guys? Didn't you know that I'm AT WORK at 4pm, leave (if I'm lucky) at 5pm, have a 45-minute commute, and need 5 minutes to get settled and assume the position of nerve-wracked anxiety on the couch? That's nigh on two hours that I am not able to watch post-season baseball. What the hell? It's a game on the East Coast played with a Mid-Western team, so MOST of the fans are working while you're broadcasting. There doesn't appear to be a scheduling excuse, as the Sox-Sox are on ESPN The Ocho with the Yanks-Los Angeles California Angels of Anaheim of the Earth of the Solar System of the Universe on reg'lar ESPN at 8.

Buncha jerks.

Oh, and I hate your fucking Gamecast. There, I said it.

Serenity now!

Tony. I don't think I have to say anything. We both know what went wrong, and it won't help anyone if I fall into a blind rage. I imagine Mark Belhorn is chuckling to himself in Anaheim, and frankly, that's enough.

You were nervous, you were trying a little too (thanks, Mom) hard. Settle down, Chief. Just because you came to a team that falls behind or loses in spectacular fashion doesn't mean that you should contribute to that trend. So pull it together.

As I told another member of the Faithful yesterday, Tony Graffanino doesn't have the same mythic-collapse-describing ring to it as Bill Buckner, but do continue playing as if trying to erase the whole thing.

New day, new game in the Fens. Wake on the hill.

As Hart Brachen rightly notes, there ain't anyone who does hope better than a Red Sox fan.

Eats, Shoots, and Applies Eyeliner.

Slate's "Has Been" column today has a great discussion of Harriet Miers's penchant for grammar sticklerism. Chief Justice John Bob is also a lover of good grammar, spelling, and punctuation.

Don't get me wrong, this makes neither one qualified and/or not scary. It's small comfort for me regarding John Bob, because he has *some* judicial experience and that combined with knowledge of how to write clearly will help him write opinions that will be less open to wild and possibly damanging interpretation (of course, we don't have any earthly clue what those opinions will be).

As regards Harriet, though, Slate makes an excellent point. If she's so obsessed with spelling, grammar, and punctuation, how has she managed to associate herself with a man whose inability to speak the language routinely makes my ears bleed? Of course, I also want to know how she has managed to apply a C.C. DeVille-style amount of eyeliner (with a Sharpie, it would seem) every day for decades without managing to be laughed out of any professional advancement...

I suppose the real question is: how does she feel about MLA citation?

Josh, gas up the Gulfstream. We're going to Davos.

Or, more accurately, Monstein (which is accessible to the village of Davos by bus... naturally) Switzerland.

Monstein is home to "the last beer stop before heaven," where they make good Swiss beer, apparently. This beer is also brewed at 1600 meters above sea level, which requires special kettles and even a certain kind of yeast that can thrive in thinner air (ah, Swiss precision). The brewery itself uses all local ingredients and is trying to bolster the income of the village of Monstein and help save it from having cantonal funds for the school and post office revoked.

Josh asked me recently whether they make good beer in Swiss-land, and I had to confess relative ignorance. I mean, Hurlimann, while having a funny name, isn't anything to write home about. I don't know where we can find this Monsteiner Bier (they're not making all that much of it), so we might have to wing our way to Davos, hop a bus to Monstein and get a tour of the highest brewery in Europe.

Ok, so forget Little Switzerland. Let's just go to the "big" one.

We interrupt your Red Sox-related programming...

For New Glarus, Wisconsin. America's "Little Switzerland." Yes, such a place exists. I was doing some Googling for a different post, and I landed upon this gem of a website. They have Swiss-themed activities and festivals, and pictures of ladies with giant steins of beer. Do yourself a favor and go to the website. And click on the link for the New Glarus song. You won't regret it.

The actual Glarus in Switzerland (what New Glarners would likely call "the old country") is beautiful. I've been hiking there with my dad (he pretty much ran vertical circles around me while I huffed and puffed). It's full of farms with harmoniously-belled cows. It's a little slice of heaven.

I'm sure New Glarus is quite lovely, but what amuses me is the idea of a "Little Switzerland." Is it where you go to get high-grade chocolate with 80% cocoa solids for half the price? Where you get genuine handbags for twice the price? Or maybe just shipments of Rivella, the soda made with lactoserum? Does everything happen on time there? Flawless public transport?

Reminds me of a recent episode of Arrested Development, in which Michael ventures into Wee Britain to suss out his father's connections to housing developments in Iraq. Wee Britain is full of people with bad teeth and they drive in the wrong side of the car. Michael is then struck by a Mary Poppins puppet that's gone awry (was that what it was? My mind's a sieve). In New Glarus, perhaps they have some kind of puppetry involving the monk on [Old] Glarus's crest. Road trip to Wisconsin, anyone?

Shake it off.

Well, for crying out loud. Apparently, Matt "Gapefruit" Clement (remember when he started the All Star game? Yeah, where'd that guy go?) said he hoped that the White Sox got all their hits out of the way today. Riiight. 'Twas mighty kind of you to serve them all up personally, Matt. Do me a favor and pay more attention to your damned mechanics than your stupid creepy rapist beard. Are you just glueing a scrub brush to your face? Either way, if your gracious teammates manage to battle back, you may be *gulp* handed the ball again, so please remember that you're likely to throw more strikes if you add pulling your head out of your ass to your pitching motion.

Ok, here's the thing. And this is important: We kinda need to beat the White Sox because I can't abide Jurassic Carl Everett beating the Red Sox to get to the league championship. It will not stand. He waves his bat around like a dickhead. Only jerks do that (see also Gary Sheffield). And I don't want Mr. "I don't believe in Tylenol, cortisone, or dinosaurs for that matter" Everett to go to the ALCS. It ain't right.

In typical Red Sox fan alarmist fashion, I'm starting to concoct karmic reasons why we should win. Also, I'm cooking up my post-season shopping list. I can tell you who's on the top of the unload list... Matt...

How about that Jose Contreras?

Stupid Bartolo Colon. Since when did you give up four in the first three innings?

T-minus two hours, five minutes

Ok. So it all begins at the very inconvenient hour of 4:09pm today. I'm very annoyed to have to watch most of it on the gamecast at work before hauling ass to get home and catch a few innings on ESPN.

I do wish the Red Sox weren't playing the White Sox in the first round. I like those White Sox. Their manager is a character and they have a lot of great players (Jurassic Carl notwithstanding). Their history is fraught with disappointment, scandal, and drama. They (and the South Side of Chicago) have been waiting a long time. I hate the Yankees and the Angels desperately, so I'm sad that I have to root against the White Sox by default. They're a deserving team.

That said - Big Papi, you go out there and crush them.

Similarly - Vladi, you go out there and knock Mussina around.

What does Norman Chad have against me and my friends here?

In this Washington Post column (sorry, reg. required), sent to me by Will, Chad breaks down who he'll support in the Series based on each team's fans.

Yankees and Red Sox fans. The only reason I prefer the pinstripes devotees is that they are easily identifiable: loud, obnoxious, pushy, opinionated, never wrong -- and always sitting next to you no matter what saloon you're in. At least you can spot the Derek Jeter idolatry and Jersey beer belly from five bar stools away.

Red Sox fans are trickier. They lay low, lull you into a false sense of security, then just when you are most relaxed -- bang! -- it's the woe-is-me-and-the-curse-of-

the-Bambino-and-don't-get-me-
started-on-Bill-Buckner-and

-sure-
now-we've-got-our-first-
World-Series-title-since-1918-
but-we're-still-20-championships-
behind-the-Bronx-Bombers routine.

It takes a nickel to get a Red Sox fan started and maybe 50 bucks to shut him up.

A common disclaimer among a fewof my associates is that they'd root for the team if it weren't for the dickhead fans. It's irrational and silly, because there are a lot more of us who have been afflicted with love of the Red Sox since birth than there are Northeastern frat boys from San Diego who just adopt them, but I can understand deriding a group after observing a few stand-outs. I feel the same way about pink Yankees hat-wearing chickies who show up at a Sox-Yanks game in the Bronx on a date.

Being too literary and condescending? This is a new charge. And one that mostly annoys, because like many Red Sox fans, I'd rather be left alone to worry and tear at my clothing in peace. I have long felt that, because the Red Sox had a long World Series drought, we fans consoled ourselves with having interesting, exciting (even impossible) seasons. It's ultimately about winning (especially now that we have a taste for it), but a little less than you'd think. We want to retell the games, the weird moments when luck intervened or broke us down. You remember where you were and who you were with when Fisk-Buckner-Dent-Boone happened.

Of course, I don't see how it is much less obnoxious to have a knee-jerk sense of entitlement because you have the best mercenaries that money can buy than it is to have a thoughtful, connection to a really old team who plays in a beautiful relic of a park in a really old town. The Yankees and Yankees fans seem to think that they get to win because they always win and that’s the natural order of things (part and parcel of New York City’s center of the universe complex).

Too much yarnin' about the Red Sox might irritate listeners outside of Portsmouth, Lynn, Burlington, and Providence. But I think this column is a cheap shot, and it reeks of a green monster that does not reside in the Fens. Perhaps Norm wishes HIS column could spawn a book much like Bill Simmons' did.... ??? Sorry dude. You're going to have to get a bit more literary... Good luck with that.

images of fellow faithful from boston.com

Opinions? We've got 'em.

I realize that the 2004 World Series win cast a spotlight on my favorite nine (or, um, you know... forty) - can they do it again, do they deserve to go to the playoffs (this fellow seems to believe otherwise... and bemoans those poor 26-championship Yanks having to *sob* fly to Anaheim) or would they ever get to go to the playoffs if the wild card didn't exist (see article above)? Gone are the days when we could fly under the radar. There's a title to defend, so everyone wants a piece of explaining why they can't or don't deserve it or how they're not the same team as last year and won't make it happen. I resent this emerging cottage industry. Dammit, I'm a native (dyed-in-the-wool, from-the-womb) fan! I'm the one with opinions borne of experience and years of observation! You can't criticize them! You can't pay attention to them! That's what I do.

Excited as I am, I do agree with the Soxaholix that the champagne celebrating in the Sox clubhouse made me nervous (and in the Yanks locker room, it was annoying, with Torre's bizarre weeping, "boohoohooo we won as usual, what a surprise. I'm overwhelmed!"). A nice punctuation on the year with a trouncing of the Yankees, great to get into the post-season in the wild card spot (the last three WS champs were wild cards, BTW, you naysayers...), but I'd appreciate a little reserve. I didn't dump a beer on my cat in celebration. Both the cat and I know that there is much work to be done. They should have been a wee bit contrite. "Sorry about nearly giving you all a frickin' coronary for the past few weeks. We're glad that it worked out and we're going to pull it together for you because we love you as much as you love us." Let's not forget, guys, I'm not getting paid a gazillion dollars for this. All I get is the enjoyment of watching you play. And hopefully watching you win. You get paid either way. You clinched the wild card last year, and the year before. So maybe we can consider this routine, and remember the hard work is ahead? Hey, I'll be the first to say that you deserved the wild card, and I am THRILLED to have more fall baseball to watch. It wasn't my ideal situation (Anaheim-Chicago-Boston-Cleveland), but I'll take it. I'll take it and like it. You go out there and make me proud.


image of wally the green monster from bosoxclub.com

Wild Sox.

Well, the weekend was dramatic, if not quite as dramatic as it could have been. I had hoped for some brawlin', but even Randy Johnson's short temper held up under the strain of having the umpire call some of his pitches balls. There were no major plunkings or curses exchanged. It's been a seriously civil season between the Yank-me's and the Red Sox.

Anyway, the Red Sox came out of the weekend with the wild card. While the YES Network announcers liked to remind us all that it's the 8th year the Sox have come second (the most in the history of professional sports), I'm pleased to be headed into the playoffs as a wild card.

I did my part for my team (on this blog, and at home... boy have I consumed a lot of New England beer lately). I'm pleased that other members of Red Sox Nation have taken their roles seriously as well:

I gotta give respeck to this guy. Well done, my friend. You are a true fan. If I wasn't afraid of getting my ass kicked for this in Brooklyn, I would have done this also. I didn't burn anything this year, but the postseason is young. I may set fire to every pair of white socks I have by Tuesday. You never know.

Meanwhile, the big question now is who's it gonna be for MVP? Will it be this man:

Or Mr. Alex Rodriguez (who apparently "doesn't care" if he get is or not. Riiight.)? Big Papi, you have my meaningless vote. You have come through in countless games. Walk-offs, tying it up, sometimes singlehandedly winning it for us. You deserve it, man. And at 29, let me be among the many to say I hope you'll grace us with a long career in Boston, like your clutch-hitting predecessor Yaz.

And to the rest of you, 2005 Boston Red Sox: Thank you for a great season. You continue to be the loves of my life. Now go get 'em.

Oh, and also: Mr. Schilling - Well done.



images from boston.com