My Dearest Adam

prospects, HUH. what are they good for???

2011-12-26T11:35:00.000-08:00

(the following is a reply to an email i just wrote regarding trading kids in our farm system to bulk up our team. forgive the possible inaccuracies, although i got most of it right...i just woke up...and i typed it all in about 4 minutes.)

the thing is, yes. rookies, or prospects, do have seasons of struggle. i remember when everyone was all in fits over cano's first few seasons, wanting to trade him due to his fielding and, well, lack of TENURE / SUPERSTAR status, really. and here we are. cashman stood by him, knowing he was still developing, and the ALL SO SOUGHT AFTER VETERAN FREE AGENTS would only continue to age and their career numbers would decline and we'd be right back at square one, looking for YET ANOTHER VETERAN FREE AGENT to fill his shoes. yes, not all prospects develop into KEEPERS. but, robbie went on to post some amazing numbers and acquire a silver? glove (if not gold. again, it's the offseason and i'm barely awake right now...)

what the san francisco giants wouldn't do for a robbie cano today...

and, inasmuch as i am FINE with freeing ourselves from ian kennedy, turns out he really DID have the potential cashman had stood by in 08. (although he and hughes hadn't quite developed enough to be in the 4th and 5th spots.) however, they...along with cano and a handful of others, were sought in exchange for JOHAN SANTANA. well, where is santana now? and how many seasons has he MVP'd for the mets? imagine, instead of a future of developing prospects (much like jeter, rivera, pettitte, posada, etc. etc. who forged a dynasty and have remained as invaluable to the yankees) we would be looking to replace johan.

i am a firm proponent of holding onto valuable prospects. 2010, the san francisco giants utilized madison bumgarner in the world series. the kid was in AA when the season began. and where was their $127 million dollar VETERAN, barry zito? not even on the roster.

the future is NOT formulating a team of HAS-BEEN VETS with lengthy contracts that usher us into a 92 wins season, behind the red sox...

the future is patiently grooming our prospects and wise trades or FA acquisitions. after all, was ANYONE thinking MVP for a guy named DAVID FREES last december? if you were, i applaud you. lol.

anyhow. this is the foundation of my philosophy behind building another dynasty. not unlike the vision buck showalter has had for the various championship-bound teams he's been asked to assemble over the years.

as a side note, it was BUCK who preceeded OUR dynasty. when jeter, pettitte, posada, and rivera were rookies. and rivera was extremely close to being traded, due to his COMPLETE INABILITY TO START. patience and vision. and here we are. we will always have the BEST CLOSER IN THE HISTORY OF THE GAME.

just food for thought...

2011-09-28T21:59:00.000-07:00

oh my GOODNESS! where to START?

well, i just wanna give a shout out to REIMOLD (spelling insignificant, really) and to the other dude (ANDINO?) for SMACKIN THE SNOT out of the ball on JONATHON PAPELBON'S WATCH.

i wanna thank the RED SOX for manufacturing one of the FUNNEST septembers i've had in a long time...

i wanna thank the TAMPON BAY RAYS for being pesky lil shites and makin boston SWEAT...

i wanna give a shout out to all 90 of the batters across the League (both American annnnd National) who were routinely HIT BY BOSTON PITCHERS UPON VARIOUS PARTS OF THEIR PERSONS...

god...who am i forgetting?? oh, i wanna give a shout out to LESTER for pitching on 3 days rest and looking JUST AS BAD TODAY as he has for a while now...

i wanna give a shout out to the 2010 RED SOX TEAM who, while missing ALL THE PRIMADONNA OVERPAID PHENOMS WHO WERE HERALDED AS THE NEXT WORLD SERIES MESSIAHS FOR 2011, went out there and played some BADASS BALL as minor leaguers called up and whatnot, GUESS WHAT BOYS? YALL scored only 1 less win last year than when ALL THE PRIMADONNAS RETURNED FROM THEIR VARIOUS REAL OR IMAGINARY INJURIES and after THEO SOLD THE FARM TO GET CARL "don't axe me to do shit for this team," CRAWFORD & "YO," ADRIAN GONZALEZ!

(and them kids only had to hit 53 batters, nearly half as many as the 2011 INPENETRABLE STARTING ROTATION OF AWE AND WONDER we all beheld and read about and were made to HEAR about on a daily basis from december til, well, TIL NOW.

GOD BLESS THE BALTIMORE ORIOLES FOR BEING GUTSY, GRITTY, AND SHOWING THE WORLD: "WE GOT FOR $85 MILLION WHAT YOU AIN'T GOT FOR $160 MILLION!" *

*(mind you, YO ADRIANS SALARY AND BONUS AREN'T REFLECTED IN THAT SUM, AND RUMOR HAS IT: IN THE END, THE BOSTON RED SOX WILL MORE THAN LIKELY HAVE OUT-SPENT THE YANKEES IN 2011. jus sayin.)

wow. before closing, i wanna thank JESUS and the Academy and the makers of Red Bull and MLB EXTRA INNINGS. hat's off to the red sox for their historic moment, witnessed by MOST of us...never before accomplished in baseball: the GREATEST COLLAPSE IN ALL MAJOR LEAGUE HISTORY. i knew ya'll had it in you. thanks for making our dreams a reality. good night and God bless!

Intergalactic Domination and Clam Chowder...

2011-08-24T22:20:00.000-07:00

In 2009, the New York Yankees had a regular season record against the Los Angeles Angels at Anaheim of 5 wins and 5 losses.

...The Yankees also had a regular season record against the Boston Red Sox of 9 wins, 9 losses.

When I consider this season of 2011, many questions arise as I look ahead and look behind.

With 33 games remaining, and presently sitting atop the American League East, I realize: unless the Yankees have some epic collapse, they will more than likely make the post-season...as will the Red Sox...as well as the Texas Rangers and the Detroit Tigers.

The irony of looking ahead is the inability to predict anything. Take, for example, the regular season records mentioned above. Fact is, the Yankees never had to face the Red Sox in the post-season that year, due to the fact that the evil Anaheim faction obliterated the skanky Red Sox from any further post-season activity and sent them evil bitchez home to cry in their imitation clam chowder...

(Note to self: did you ever send Anaheim flowers?)

And yet...all of 2009...What did the Yankees and their fans hear all season long? How inept and lifeless the Yankees were, especially against teams playing .500 or above...and how the Yankees were about to really get the living snot beat out of them if they made the playoffs...and had to face real teams...

(I can still hear Joe Buck's voice in my head. And McCarver.)

(I should sue them for emotional damages. I'd like a Maserati. And a mansion to park it in...)

...In the end, what was all the fuss about? Nothin'.

You see, in October, the baseball world becomes entwined in possibilities and impossibilities.

Sure, stats show "aptitude," and "propensity."

We see trends and mind-blowing effort from individual players all across the League...but in October, all that Major League White Noise gets distilled down to one concentrated grenade-like team emitting one continual sonorous hummmm...predestined toward one unquenchable goal...

...a single entity, willing and present, seeking complete annihilation and victory over all who would oppose it, or stand in it's unquenchable path...it's destiny: to obliterate the world as we know it and take over the entire galaxy by their superior dominance, victorious badassness, and opulent excellence.

This is, after all, why it's called, the "World Series."

(Uh huh. It's a good thing the Yankees have been taking over the galaxy as much as we have. Could you imagine the state of the universe if the Red Sox had continual galaxy domination and influence? Black holes would shoot things back out at us and the Earth would tilt right off it's axis in a very understandible rejection of such an overt violation of Natural Selection...)

This is another example of empirical evidence proving one endless truth: God is a Yankee fan.

In a best of 5 series where someone like Kenny Rogers (DET, 2006 ALDS) can become Cy Young...and bugs can cause a rookie pitcher to collapse on the mound while slathered in DEET faster than a Crisco-slathered house of cards...where do all the regular season stats and possibilites fit?

(For: the Yankees went on to beat the evil ANAHEIM FACTION and advanced to the WORLD SERIES against the evil PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES...where they actually BEAT THEM, TOO. Incidentally, the New York Yankees had a .333 1 win/ 2 losses record against the Phillies that season. And spared the planet from a Phillies domination. Again.)

In 2011, the Yankees have a losing record against just 2 teams: the Red Sox and the Detroit Tigers. Is this a cause for concern?

Again, when a team like the SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS can have a regular season record against the SAN DIEGO PADRES of 12 losses in 18 games...and the Padres opt to go on some 10-game losing streak just 2 weeks before the end of the season, does it matter if you never hear from them again?

Yet those very Giants find a way to skate past the ATLANTA BRAVES (with whom they had a 3 wins/ 4 losses regular season record), and even over-power the PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES (3/3) and take on one of the hottest hitting teams in the entire league (the Texas Rangers, sporting one CLIFF LEE) and STILL found a way to WIN IT ALL...after entering the post-season with merely 92 wins....hell: Anything is possible, indeed.

Ask Bill Buckner.

October is different.

Or is it??

Perhaps for SOME teams, the regular season wins are all that matter. Take, for instance, the 2011 Red Sox team. They presently have a losing record against 7 teams: CHICAGO WHITE SOX, CLEVELAND INDIANS, PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES, PITTSBURGH PIRATES, SAN DIEGO PADRES, TAMPA BAY RAYS, and the TEXAS RANGERS.

However, they DO have 10 wins against the Yankees. (And, oddly, even WITH 10 direct losses, the Yankees remain neck in neck for 1st place in the AL EAST. Why is this?)

...And, more importantly, as some may assume: What IF the Red Sox and Yankees actually have to face one another in the ALCS...? Is it a SURE WIN? I'd like to submit some interesting facts regarding the Red Sox batters. It's consistent with my theory that PRETTY MUCH ALL M*THERF*GGIN TEAMS GEAR UP AND PLAY US LIKE WE'RE HOLDING THEIR FAMILY HOSTAGE AND ONLY A WIN WILL RETURN GRAMMA SAFELY TO HER ROCKING CHAIR...

Below, you can see in GREEN the batting averages of Red Sox players against the Yankees this season. Just below each BA, OBP, and SLG in GREEN you can see each players actual career numbers, for instance: Jacoby Ellsbury normally bats .275. and yet, against the Yankees, he has batted .348...

Interestingly, all but Gonzalez, Crawford, and Youkilis are batting well above their typical career numbers. Remember: career numbers span beyond just one season. Are the Red Sox overplaying the entire American League? Clearly no. These numbers simply represent their batting averages against the Yankees, so far this season.

Now, let's look at how the Yankees have batted against the Red Sox this season, in comparison to their career numbers:

Clearly, Eric Chavez, Russell Martin, and Eduardo Nunez are playing exceptionally well, even against the evil Red Sox, compared to their career averages.

After crunching many stats, and perusing trends and looking for that needle in the haystack to give me just a glimpse as to what I can expect this October, I am keenly aware of one final answer:

I have no clue.

But, one thing I do know is this: Inasmuch as the regular season is one fraught with excitement, endurance, injury, and defeat...it is possible to bring one's A-GAME to a particular team each time you oppose that team throughout the regular season. (Especially when you're getting beat to a pulp by teams like the CHICAGO WHITE SOX and the SAN DIEGO PADRES, CLEVELAND, PITTSBURGH, TAMPA BAY, AND TEXAS, right Boston?)

I firmly believe IF the Yankees discover themselves in the ALCS opposing the Red Sox, the laws of October baseball and superhero playing will have long since passed for the Red Sox. After all, they will have to eliminate either Detroit or Texas before they ever even see us. Therefore, there is NOTHING to say we will even have to ever see them again. But, if we do, I firmly believe we will all play according to our actual career numbers...and...this is extremely unfavorable for them lyin' cheatin' evil clam chowder eaters.

The Yankees at Fenway: Hit Us at Your Own Risk, Boston

2011-08-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

...And so it begins. Again. The New York Yankees will saunter on over to Fenway this weekend, beginning tonight, to face the evil Red Sox. No doubt the beer is flowing, "sick day," calls have been received GLOBALLY, and all things CLAM CHOWDER are giddy as shit.

Let them be giddy.

The Red Sox and Yankees are presently tied for the American League East Division within Major League Baseball. And water is still wet.

Aside from that whole EPISODE against the INEPT AND DEFENSELESS (and OFFENSIVELESS, i might add) BALTIMORE ORIOLES...the Red Sox have been exceedingly prolific and effective in winning games via the HIT THE SHIT OUT OF A HANDFUL OF PLAYERS WITH PITCHES strategy.

Theo is slumming, Tito has no balls, and not one person on the planet has raised an eyebrow over this fact. To date, the Red Sox have managed to hit 60 players with pitches, and something tells me that number will rise by at least a half-dozen by night's end Sunday.

Motives. Let's begin there. Hell, I'm just gonna be honest. THEY HAD NO REASON TO SMACK THE HAPLESS ORIOLES AROUND...and yet: they did. And, funner than fun: THE ORIOLES SMACKED BACK. Get this now: the team with the LEAST amount of batter's being hit by pitchers, the Orioles were systematically assaulted by the team with the MOST amount of batters being hit by pitchers.

So, perhaps that whole ORIOLES thing was just an act of fun for Boston. However, if one pays close attention, one will see fun trends. Like Red Sox pitchers targeting a Right Fielder, eliminating him from the series, and then clocking everything to Right Field.

Jon Lester will begin the series versus Bartolo Colon tonight. Lackey faces CC Saturday, and Satan Himself (oh, yeah, I mean BECKETT) will face (of all pitchers) Freddy Garcia.

So let's make it simple. For the most part, obviously, each team is equal in offense and defense. Each team has weaknesses: i.e. Starting Pitching, and each team wants the Division title.

In 2009, the Red Sox smacked the Yankees around for 9 before the Yankees woke up, SMOKED THEIR SORRY ASSES FOR THE REMAINING 9, AND THEN WALTZED INTO THE WORLD SERIES AND WON... Therefore, these LOSSES to Boston thus far in 2011 mean NOTHING to the overall true purist Red Sox/Yankee enthusiast. Anything CAN and WILL happen. The past means NADA, and do not fool yourself in believing this isn't DOWNRIGHT WAR.

'tis.

Lester v. Colon. Advantage: Lester.
Lackey v. CC. Advantage: CC.
Beckett v. Garcia. Advantage: Satan's minion, Beckett.

Thus, clearly the Red Sox COULD sit on their heels and gladly accept 2 possible wins. However, I firmly and wholeheartedly do NOT believe that is what they will seek. HELL NO. AT FENWAY??? THEY MUST SWEEP. I mean, hell. They went 0-6 to start off the season AT FENWAY and made most of their following want to mame and torture them. And most recently, they just got SMACKED AROUND by CLEVELAND. AT FENWAY. The tide must turn.

Now, let's configure HOW.

Being that their chief WEAPON is the HIT BY PITCH to win games, systematically targeting the greatest asset to a series, I have several thoughts regarding their possible approach.

FRIDAY. LESTER. Consider it a WIN. But SATURDAY, LACKEY, this will be a loss. How to set the dominoes in order to avoid said loss....hmmmm. How bout this. Since Lester is such the KING OF THE HBP, and Saturday's game is versus SABATHIA, wouldn't it make perfect sense to lay down a BOATLOAD OF BUNTS to Sabathia and disrupt the game (like Torre and the 2009 Dodgers attempted to do against Pettitte at Los Angeles) in order to win? (insert: GOD BLESS JONATHON BROXTON *HERE*)

Thus. The laying down of bunts. Fielded by 1st and 3rd basemen, right...cause we all KNOW that CC AINT GONNA BE FIELDING THAT SHIT; I say the Red Sox will target Teixeira and "Whoever's gonna be playing 3rd," thereby eliminating those players from the rest of the series, or at least the LACKEY game, where said BUNTS will be aplenty.

And, of course, Lackey will target key players for further DL stints to pave the way for BECKETT to go out and HIT NOT ONE PERSON, BUT SHINE LIKE THE NOON DAY SUN.

(After all. This IS to be a National Broadcast, and we musn't allow the world in on our little SECRET OF SUCCESS, the HBP.)

Equally concerning for the Red Sox: both Varitek and Saltimaccia's INABILITY to catch base stealers. The New York Yankees are presently 3rd in the ENTIRE LEAGUE for stolen bases. Bottom line there: doesn't matter WHO Boston has catching. I believe, however, Varitek will catch tonight and Sunday. AFTER ALL, THIS IS TO BE A NATIONAL BROADCAST AND VARITEK IS DAH CAPTAIN. uh huh.

So. Who's got a target on their back, leg, head, elbow, etc. etc. this weekend? Welp, the safest answer is the usual suspects: Jeter, Cano, Granderson, Martin; as these tend to be their FAVORITE'S FOR INJURY PROMOTION (or POSSIBLE ON-FIELD FIGHTS WHICH MIGHT LEAD TO EJECTIONS AND SUSPENSIONS AND FINES.)

(For the Yankees, that is. As Boston has YET to have ANY ACCOUNTABILITY paid on their incessant on-field actions. But this isn't all that shocking...being that ex-Yankee manager and current Bud Selig lackey JOE TORRE is head over On Field Behavior.)

I say Lester will go after Russell Martin, Mark Teixeira, and someone else who he just feels like hitting. Eliminate Martin and Teixeira from Saturday's BUNT GAME and maybe get someone else on the DL for a bit. Pave the way for Lackey to possibly do well and get the win.

However. Russell Martin doesn't hit particulary well against Lackey ANYHOW. Plus, Lackey's never faced Franky Cervelli nor Eduardo Nunez. Thus, I say: Friday night, Girardi MUST have Martin catch and Eric Chavez play 3rd. If EITHER get hurt, NEITHER will be needed Saturday. Plus, Lester's never faced Eric Chavez. That will piss him the HELL off, and Chavey is hot as of recent. Put Chavey on 3rd. Mark will hold his own and let the chips fall.

Saturday, enter Francisco Cervelli and Eduardo Nunez. If Nunez is put into Friday night's game: I have NO DOUBT that both HE AND BRETT GARDNER will BOTH be plunked hard...as Boston will have NO REMEDY against their amazing success at working walks and stealing bases.

SIT NUNEZ FRIDAY.

Andruw Jones is more successful against Lackey (.333 BA) and should be in Right Field on Saturday.

SIT SWISH ON SATURDAY.

The key to beating Beckett is disrupting him and working his pitch count by the 3rd inning. I say all base-stealers, hot hitters, and walk-workers MUST face him and play so WICKED SMALL BALL against him. In that event, I'd like to see Nunez and Gardy back to back...and have some concern over Russell Martin's involvement in Sunday's game v. Beckett due to his .000 batting average against him. Cervelli is .286 against Beckett...

There are many question marks as to how each team will approach this series. I do not believe the Red Sox will simply come out of their slimy little pits in the earth and show up and play ball. From their continual actions this year of utilizing the HIT BY PITCH to achieve an advantage over an opponent, I believe the Yankees must prepare themselves for this approach.

And hell. If one is adept to FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE, and we WERE to go TOE-TO-TOE in retaliation, I say HIT PEDROIA AND GONSALEZ. Without THEM, the Red Sox are null and void.

Not that I wouldn't prefer a line-drive to the leg of ANY of the aforementioned Red Sox Starters.

Or Papelbon.

Both legs with HIM, though...

2011-06-15T09:05:00.000-07:00

Introducing another possibility entirely for tomorrow's game against the evil Texas faction at Yankee Stadium, in the form of a pitcher.

Brian Gordon may very well be replacing Bartolo Colon tomorrow. Uh huh. Sure, we've speculated; Noesi? Phelps? D.J. Mitchell? Our boy Manny Banuelos?

But, the Brass have announced this most recent signing of Gordon from the Philadelphia Phillies minor league affilliate, the Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs.

Uh huh. the Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs. Associated with the evil and smarmy Philadelphia Phillies. Kinda makes you wonder how close the Phillies ever were to being known as the Philadelphia Philly Valley Pigs. But, that's neither here nor there. Some labels need not be in writing...

The haters will basically describe this transaction as one where the Yankees broke into Gordon's little home and terrorized him and made him sign a contract. Uh huh. Like a Pitching Acquisition Home Invasion. Uh huh.

Well, I've read where Pitching Acquisition Home Invasions happen all the time. But generally they occur in the Japan Industrial League...And I do believe those Pitching Acquisition Home Invasions usually involve wontons. Uh huh. Wontons...and nunchucks. Now, I haven't read anything about this most recent signing of Gordon with the Yankees having anything to do with neither wontons nor nunchucks, so shut the shit up all you Philadelphia Valley Pig Yankee haters out there, got me?

The New York Yankees ain't the Japanese Industrial League.

The haters will tell you how Gordon was kidnapped against his will from his beloved evil Iron Pig team within the benevolent and hermetically sealed womb of the Phillies minor league detention center for the perpetually inept; and forced him to actually agree to receive money for his services...and possibly an ongoing opportunity to pitch in the Majors for the most successful team in the history of the game of baseball...

God, how cruel and unusual. Get Amnesty International on the phone...

or would it be better to call the S.P.C.A.??

As a converted outfielder, Gordon pitched in 2007 and 2008 posting some kickass stats: 168 Games, 366.2 Innings, with a 3.09 ERA, with a 1.156 WHIP, 2.1 BB/9, and a 7.7 K/9. In 2008, however, Gordon was forced to align himself with the evil Texas faction.

(Ironic, isn't it?? We're facing Texas with the very "sloppy seconds," with whom they had zero interest in developing)

...hell no...not when they can chase down Cliff "Primadonna Elitist Bitch" Lee...

(whom they no longer have as he went to the evil Phillies after we pretty much laid our Texas Hold Em cards down with Lee stating we didn't want him)

(and poor evil Texas couldn't afford to keep him, or so they say, so the bitch ran off to the Phillies)

(and then skip ahead a few months and here we are to today: taking this guy Gordon from the Phillies and cartin' him back to face the evil Texas faction.)

yep: it all began with Texas. That's irony. Texas irony. The kind with tabakka and spurs.)

So far in 2011, Gordon with the Iron Pigs has had outrageously good numbers, 5-0 with a 1.14 ERA in 12 games, nine of them starts. He had 56 strikeouts and just seven walks.

Noesi, conversely, has 1-1 with a 3.92 ERA in four starts for Scranton/Wilkes-Barre and is 1-0 with a 1.76 ERA in four long-relief appearances. And Phelps is 4-4 with a 2.95 ERA in 12 starts in the minors.

Now, inasmuch as I would love to see my boy Noesi take the mound on Thursday, I still see this Gordon signing as a good move on the part of the Yankees. It enables the organization to continue developing our prospects, as well as maintaining a zero-risk relationship with Gordon, as he is utter and complete DFA material if he does poorly. Thus, in essence, we're buying time and protecting our prospects and their futures...

Yes, it may appear as though the Brass have opted to overlook the prospects and went 'a-shopping,' for someone 'better;' however, in reality, if our kids got injured or shelled, their futures could be severely impacted.

(Can anyone say Chase Wright?)

Gordon basically has no future, presently, with the Phillies, et.al. as a career minor leaguer...and now has an opportunity to step up and show the world what he's got.

And let me tell you, ain't nothin sweeter, I theorize, than to be just hangin out with your fellow Iron Pigmen on some idle Tuesday and to receive a call saying, "You may be pitching at Yankee Stadium on Thursday, get mentally prepared."

I theorize he got on a plane. Puts a whole new spin on the phrase, "When pigs fly."

40 hit batters...and still counting...

2011-06-10T23:22:00.000-07:00

The Boston Red Sox: Hit Me with Your Best Shot?

2011-06-08T06:51:00.001-07:00

The Red Sox and their Nation must be so very proud of the accomplishments of their "Ace," Jon Lester, especially given his most recent outing against the New York Yankees at Yankee Stadium, June 7, 2011.

Lester presently holds 8 wins to his season outings. Kudos. Sure am glad I spent time on my knees in prayer when his health was failing, and his future looked exceedingly doomed. A cancer survivor, yes, I admit, a tear filled my eye when I first beheld him back on the diamond...and back on the mound. It makes today's game all that much more intolerable to behold...as well as the mounting patterns I behold from not only Lester, but Lackey, and the Red Sox organization, as a whole.

Mark Teixeira was not the most recent victim of Lester's propensity to hit batters with pitches. Actually, he is in fairly good company. 35 other batters across the league can understand Teixeira's discomfort...some more than others, obvioulsy. This may be due to the fact that of the 20 rostered Red Sox pitchers, only 8 have not hit a batter with a pitch this year. Lester leads the Club with 9 hit-by-pitches in 13 games. John Lackey comes in 2nd place in the bean-ball effort with accomplishing 7 hit batters in 8 games. There are 10 other Red Sox pitchers who have hit at least 1 batter...well, actually somewhere between 1 and 5, each.

In this graph, you can see the dates of the games, the pitchers who hit batters, the hit batsmen, and their position within their clubs that day. I find it interesting how there have been 8 hit DH's...coincidence, perhaps. 5 hit Short Stops, 5 hit Centerfielders...etc. etc. But what I truly find intriguing is how in less than 11 innings from May 20th, 2011 through May 21st, 2011, Marlon Byrd was hit 3 times by 3 separate Boston Pitchers...who somehow managed to actually throw strikes and only had difficulty with THAT particular batter. . . until he finally ceased presenting himself to bat, due to his emergency injury requiring hospitalization.

I find it especially interesting how these hit by pitches have increased in activity, especially in the month of May. I smile in spite my frustration at this disgusting trend and unrelenting continuum from the hands of Red Sox pitchers to the opponents they face and ask you: If, "Once is interesting, twice is curious, and three times is a pattern," then what do you call 36 times out of 60?

New York Yankees @ Anaheim: High and Tight or Right and Wrong?

2011-06-06T15:29:00.000-07:00

On the average, umpires are 90% accurate in calling balls and strikes. This means on the average, 30+ pitches are called incorrectly during Major League Baseball games. MLB Umpires have been found to consistently call a strike zone that is not defined by the MLB Rulebook.

Mike Estabrook was the Home Plate umpire for tonight's game, the New York Yankees at Anaheim. The rookie Ivan Nova versus the accomplished ace veteran starter, Jered Weaver.

As some may not know, MLB actually "grade," their umpires. Mike Estabrook's stats as Home Plate umpire are interesting, to say the least. Of his officiating at Home Plate, 75% of the time he will call a "strike," where the ball is clearly above the strike zone. Conversely; Only 25% of pitches located below the strike zone will be called "strikes."

In just 4 games Estabrook has officiated as Home Plate umpire in 2011, he has observed an average of 9.5 runs per game, while only issuing 5.5 walks. However, his "SOPG," or "strike outs per game," is one of the highest in the league at an average: 15.5.

Ivan Nova, encountered this challenge of Estabrook's 75% bias of "shoulder high pitches must be thrown in order to have them called for strikes," in the 1st inning. Achieving one out, Aybar singled off of a fastball thrown by the rookie. Nova then logged a "wild pitch," with Abreu at-bat, advancing Aybar to 2nd. Unfortunately, Abreu doubled off Nova after 5 pitches, sending Aybar home. Then we encounter a "passed ball," by Russell Martin, advancing Abreu to 3rd. Well, what the hell?? Now's a good time to walk someone, eh? Why not Torii Hunter? With only 1 out, perhaps we can force the double play. And that's about when Homeplate Umpire Estabrook began to get creative with the strike zone. With 2 pitches, the damage was done...

Skip ahead to the 4th inning. Branyan singles on a curveball straight over the plate, Trumbo also had his eye on that curveball that he finally received on the 5th pitch, landing both Branyan on 2nd and Trumbo on 1st. Nova then chose to stick with all fastballs with Mathis' at-bat, but no matter where he threw them, it seems Estabrook believed bases should be loaded...

Borjous came up to bat, he singled, Branyan scored, and I believe the trainwreck could have been far worse had batters like Izturis not struck out, popped out, or flied out. Because of Ivan Nova's 2 whole strike outs, I don't believe 1 of them were a Called Third Strike. Damn it, huh, Estabrook?

Weaver, on the other hand, did a fabulous job at pitching above the belt and logged 8Strike Outs, in addition to the bullpen's 3. I have no idea how many were "Called Strike Outs," but then again, I don't give a shit. Just take a look at Weavers pitching pfx for the game. The green dots are deemed BALLS and the red are CALLED STRIKES or deemed strikes via fouls or swinging strikes.

Poor officiating has ruined many otherwise amazing opportunities in Major League Baseball games. Rarely are these "mistakes," ever mentioned, however. Just another loss. Just another win.

...Unless your name just so happens to be Jim Joyce or Armando Galarraga.

Bud Selig: Money & Power...not necessarily in that order...

2011-04-21T11:42:00.000-07:00

As the Commissioner of Baseball, Bud Selig became the first person to own a major league sports team while simultaneously holding ultimate authority over all aspects of the sport...

His father was a successful car dealer, and Selig's college roommate was Herb Kohl, who went on to own a chain of department stores, a seat in the Senate, and the NBA's Milwaukee Bucks. After college, Selig went to work at his father's car dealership, and eventually became a millionaire.

In 1970, Selig bought the one-year-old Seattle Pilots baseball team out of bankruptcy for $10.8-million, and announced that the team would become the Milwaukee Brewers. Selig was hailed as a hero in his home town, for bringing big league baseball back to Wisconsin after the National League's Milwaukee Braves had left for Atlanta four years earlier. Over the next 23 years, Selig's Brewers finished in last place or next-to-last 12 times, and made the playoffs twice. Then, in 1992, baseball's owners decided that Commissioner Fay Vincent had been too sensitive to fans and players' perspectives, and not attentive enough to the owners' needs.

They pressured Vincent to resign, and Selig was named "Acting Commissioner" on 10 September 1992. To the casual baseball fan, the arrangement might sound peculiar. But if you're a baseball aficionado, you'll probably understand that it's worse than that. The Commissioner's Office was established in 1920, in the aftermath of scandal: eight players for the Chicago White Sox had been accused of taking bribes to intentionally lose the 1919 World Series. The game of baseball was condemned for being fixed, and baseball's owners understood that if fans questioned the game's integrity they'd buy fewer and fewer tickets.

So they invented the post of "Commissioner", and hired a famous and well-respected judge, Kenesaw Mountain Landis. Landis was given a lifetime contract, so he couldn't be fired, and his only responsibility was to take whatever actions he deemed to be in the best interest of baseball. One of Landis's first acts was to ban the eight "Black Sox" players.

As a car dealer who owned a baseball team, Selig's impartiality as Commissioner was often questioned, but not nearly enough. Putting an owner in charge of baseball's integrity was like asking a team's catcher -- instead of an umpire -- to call balls-and-strikes. Selig's daughter, Wendy Selig-Prieb, took over as "acting president" of the Brewers, and Selig's investment in the team was -- not immediately, but eventually -- placed in a trust.

During the 1994 season, players went on strike, and Selig took a hard line against them. On 14 September 1994, Selig announced that the remainder of the season would be cancelled. It was the first year without a World Series since 1904. In January 1995, Selig reassured fans that there would be a 1995 season, but "with the best players willing to play" -- meaning scabs. Spring training opened with minor league players in major league uniforms, but the fans' and media's reactions were so negative, Selig relented. The strike was settled before the season began, by acceding to almost all the players' demands. Canceling the 1994 World Series, then, accomplished nothing for baseball, except to discourage and alienate its fans.

In 1998, Selig was promoted from "acting" to "official" Commissioner of Baseball. By then it was common knowledge, visibly obvious to any observer, that several of baseball's biggest stars were bulking up with the use of steroids. With sluggers' new artificially-enhanced strength, home run records that had stood for decades were topped and topped again. Selig did nothing until, several years later, public trials and non-fiction books documented how the game had been juiced.

In 1999, Selig announced that he was negotiating to have corporate advertising sewn onto the sleeves of players' uniforms. Another uproar led to the scuttling of those plans, so far. Also in 1999, Selig finally vacated his office in the Brewers' ballpark -- not for ethical reasons, but because County Stadium was being torn down. It was replaced by one of those new faux old-fashioned stadiums with fewer seats and higher prices.

At the 1999 World Series, Selig was embarrassed when fans voted banned-for-life Pete Rose to baseball's "All-Century Team". The ceremony, at Atlanta's Turner Field, was the first time Rose had been allowed inside a major league ball park since his 1989 expulsion from the game, and he got the longest, loudest ovation of any of the all-time greats -- more applause than Ted Williams, or even Atlanta's beloved Hank Aaron, and much, much more than Selig. And immediately after the ceremony, before the game, Rose was required to leave.

In 2000, Selig had Major League Baseball take control of each team's websites. Shortly thereafter, baseball began requiring fees from fans who wanted to listen to radio play-by-play on-line. Pop-up ads were triggered on every page at mlb.com, so fans who cared enough to click ten pages of statistics got ten pop-up windows.

In October 2001, Selig announced that 25 of baseball's 30 teams had lost money that year, and the game was $4-billion in the red. When skeptics wanted to see the teams' books, the Commissioner would not allow it. Selig decided that baseball's financial problems were caused by having too many teams in smallish cities, and he announced that at least two teams would be eliminated by the start of the 2002 season. He wouldn't say which two, however, so fans of four struggling teams -- the Florida Marlins, Minnesota Twins, Montreal Expos, and Tampa Bay Devil Rays -- spent the off-season worrying. The press finally decided the Expos and Twins were on the chopping block. Twins fans sued, and as spring training loomed for the 2002 season, Selig announced that the Expos and Twins could continue playing baseball after all, as his "contraction" plans would be delayed at least another year. There's been no public announcements of contraction since.

On 9 July 2002, baseball played its annual All-Star Game in Milwaukee. The score was 7-7 in the 11th inning when the teams ran out of pitchers, and Selig announced the game would end as a tie. 40,000+ fans at the stadium booed, chanted "refund, refund", and started throwing trash onto the field. Millions watching on television must have given Selig the finger. "This is not the way I wanted [the game] to end," said Selig. "I was in a no-win situation," he added.

In 2002, Montreal Expos owner Jeffrey Loria wanted to dump that team and buy the Florida Marlins instead, an unprecedented switch. But after thirty-plus years of consistent losing, Loria's Expos had alienated almost all of Quebec and Canada, suffering dismal attendance, meaning Loria had no prospective buyers. Their games weren't even being broadcast on local TV or radio. So Selig had baseball itself -- a consortium of all the other owners -- buy the Expos. For several years, the Expos played many of their "home games" in San Juan, Puerto Rico. When they played in Montreal, the stadium was always close to empty, as Selig had made it clear it was just a matter of time until the team left Quebec. The Expos now play in Washington, DC.

Loria, meanwhile, was immediately allowed to buy the Marlins. His ex-partners in owning the Expos have sued Major League Baseball under the U.S. Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act.

In 2003, Selig announced that the league that won each year's All-Star Game would have home-field advantage in that year's World Series. Traditionalists were aghast. For a century, the home-field advantage for the championship had rotated each year, a seemingly fair system. But now, one of the most important factors in baseball's showcase event -- where the games are played -- may be decided when the second-baseman from a last place team hits a bad-hop grounder at the All-Star Game, months before.

In 2004, Selig announced that the logo for Spiderman 2 would be embroidered onto to tops of first base, second base, and third base in major league parks, as a promotional tie-in for that movie's release. Fans were again infuriated, and the New York Yankees refused to go along with the plan. Eventually Selig relented. Also in 2004, 12 years after becoming Commissioner, Selig sold his interest (local fans would say "disinterest") in the Milwaukee Brewers.

In smaller cities with baseball teams, Selig has repeatedly issued veiled threats to get state and local governments to underwrite new stadiums. "We love having Major League Baseball in [insert name of city], but the game just won't be viable here unless the team gets a new stadium." Unlike other private companies, most major league teams now conduct their business in buildings constructed and maintained by tax dollars.

Under Selig's watch, baseball has also added a few wrinkles that have proven popular with fans. The playoffs now include "wild card" teams, meaning it's no longer a prerequisite that teams have to finish in First Place. And they've added interleague play, where National and American League teams face each other during the regular season.

When he is interviewed by reporters, Selig really, really tries to be seen as a big softie with a sentimental love of baseball. Maybe he is, maybe he does. Selig says he cried when the Milwaukee Braves left for Atlanta in 1966. He cried, he says, at the end of Kevin Costner's last baseball movie, For the Love of the Game. Selig also says he vividly remembers going to a ball game at Yankee Stadium in 1949. It was his birthday present from his mom, and he remembers where he sat. "Up there," he says, pointing toward the right field upper-deck seats. "The Cleveland Indians played the Yankees. I think Bobby Avila may have hit a couple home runs." Memory is a tricky thing, but 1949 was Avila's rookie year. He played in only 31 games, and he hit no home runs.

As the game's Commissioner, Selig has done more damage to baseball than Pete Rose ever did. And those who still care about baseball can only wait and wonder what Selig will come up with next.

(thanks to NNDB.com)

a little facebooking with an avid phillies fan. enjoy.

2011-02-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

been pretty silent on your side of the fence. what? someone douse victorino with another beer, er what?? oh. lidge blow another save? mybad. shoot me some shit soon or i hex your team. amen.

‎9 days til p's and c's....4 aces...beat that hand

‎55. this is the number that makes the sun glimmer, the birds sing, and the waterfalls...fall? yeah. time for a smoke and way the shit more caffeine.

oh btw. your boy cliff is a sassy little bitch. mybad.

he actually complimented your squad yesterday....on their PAST accomplishments

so what. he's a tool. victorino has more integrity in his little finger than...wait. am i talking about shane victorino's body parts before noon again? wtf?!

AND ANOTHER THING. CLIFF LEE SHOULD BE COMPLIMENTING MY TEAM. HOW MANY GODDAMNED RINGS DOES THAT SKANK HAVE, ANYHOW? (yeah. red bull number one is kickin in.)

EVEN SHANE VICTORINO HAS A WORLD SERIES RING. i mean, come on

maybe he wasn't complimenting...maybe it was sympathy (Sympathy for the Devil

please. mister "my back. my poor back. i can't get any of my post-season teams to a world series championship cause i'm an elitist primadonna bitch?" yeah. meanwhile he SYMPATHIZES over my boys who are on like their 16th season of MOMENT BY MOMENT, DAY BY DAY, YEAR BY YEAR LABOR, STRUGGLE, DEFEAT, AND VICTORY? uh huh. sympathize that you'll never have 5 world championship rings, mr. lee. im sure this soothes mr. pettitte's deepest needs inside: the need for YOU to THINK OF HIM. sympathize that no ONE TEAM truly knows WHAT THE HELL to expect from you because you are NOT a team player...have sympathy for those who are CLEARLY uncut for your form of integrity, honor, committment, and GLORY.

elitest primadonna bitch...I looked it up in the dictionary and it said...Professional Baseball Player

you know i'm right. deep down inside you know this. and i respect that you will stand behind your team and it's members. but...hell, am i really going to say this? yes i am. I HAVE MORE RESPECT FOR THAT EVIL ROY HALLADAY than cliff ELITEST PRIMADONNA BITCH lee.

god. don't tell anyone i know that i just gave halladay props... :)

BUT! i like shane victorino more than halladay. and victorino is a dog. so, just balancing out the scales for your reference point beneath the point of zero

thanks....the balance is re-established in the universe

in parting, kind sir, i'd like to say something. i respect the phillies. there's no discounting this team. hell, i have to have SOME modicum of respect for pretty much ANYONE out there playing the very game that promotes the beating of my heart. from infinity to infinity, i have a baseline respect for every person attached to this game, because i love the game. but your phillies. i will FOREVER be in debt to them for that whole 2008 thing. lordhavemercy, my chest tightens and i feel the unquenchable forcings of a smile when i contemplate HOW your BADASS team confronted those smarmy fucking tampa stupidass bay losers...how tampa believed that their little "come from behind in the 7th and pull all kinds of shit and win with a walk-off," maneuver would work on your boys; which had been their little modus operandi all season. well, THAT, and their EFFERVESCENT BULLSHIT ENTITLEMENT PHENOMENON.

well, in the end. your boys arrived at the OK CORRAL with their guns loaded and their post-season poise, reason, moxie, and execution capabilities. they never flinched. they never relented. not even when LORD DARTH SELIG propogated a NEW MLB RULE of postponing the game RIGHT WHEN THE FUCKING RAYS TIED THE SCORE.

your boys were calm, cool, collected, and THEY had the "acumen of a seasoned pro." they were calculated, they conspired, and they excelled. when the veneer of "HEY, WE'RE JUST THE LITTLE TAMPA BAY RAYS YOU'RE PICKING ON," tactics of manipulative bullshit didn't work, and the "HEY, BUD PROMISED US WE'D WIN SO HE COULD GO INTO HISTORY WITH PROOF THERE IS PARITY IN MLB," didn't work...the masters of illusion and confusion and "taking it by force in the latter innings," got a little dose of their own godamned medicine.

by my boy Mr. U. with that fake throw to first that actually gave jason asshole bartlett the green light to run home: where the ball was waiting in the glove of carlos ruiz. it was one of the greatest moments i will ever spend loving your team. and one of the longest moments.

so...55 days, baby. thanks for the shit i requested. i shant hex your team. i haven't alot of high-aspirations for my team this season, but i do eagerly await the beauty, joy, frustration, and elation i will find on those diamonds. yours, mine, and ours. best of luck to your men.

and this is why I love the game....I can smell the grass on the infield right now...

2010-10-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

a friend of mine was talking the other day about his Dodgers...and his concerns for next season. having only encountered this guy right after once again enduring YET ANOTHER game of ALCS failure...another collapse...another episode of hopes dashed against the jagged rocks of despair...i found myself unable to do much other than listen.

(rather...i occupied space nearby while he spoke.)

i theorize i was seemingly stunned. speculating. wondering...

since last weekend, i've subjected myself to 35 consecutive innings of loss. (yeah, there was that 1 inning of something close to my team actually playing well)...but aside from that: 35 innings of total shit. 35 innings of ARE YOU KIDDING? 35 innings of "playing chicken." and yet, somewhere around the 29th inning of epic failure...i realized we may not be playing chicken. we may not be playing anything. including baseball.

my friend hesitated for a moment in his incessant Dodger bitchfest over the divorce and judge and "what if (this)," and "what if (that)," just long enough for me to interject.

DUDE. HAVE YOU BEEN FOLLOWING MY STUPIDASS TEAM AT ALL?

he waved his hand in dismissal and said, "Dude. Jesus. Be glad your team made it."

as i walked away a short time later, i found myself literally speaking to myself aloud. "Be GLAD? Be glad we MADE IT? Why the hell would ANYONE want to deal with shit like this? Isn't it better to simply never make it to the post-season?"

and i mused on these thoughts.

ive mused for plenty of days recently. and not-so-recently. ive mused all season, and even prior to the season. the off-season...

is this normal? do normal people immerse themselves so much into something as remote and obscure as the game of baseball? do they continually check on the status and welfare of teams and players and prospects and...do they read history and spend hours on end in the winter watching documentaries on the remote and obsure game of baseball??

well, i don't care what normal people do.

not one damned bit.

this is how i'm wired. this is what i trip on. and that's that.

but i do sometimes envy normal people. like the cashier at the chevron, or my coworker, or even my Dodger friend (well, actually, no, i don't envy him)...but...somewhere on the planet are people completely oblivious to what today means. people who are seeing today as just some idle wednesday...lookin forward to this weekend and halloween and all that.

good for normal people.

they say freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.

i wonder if i presently embody that definition with regard to my yankees...

cause, somewhere aroung the 28th, 29th consecutive inning of SHIT yesterday a thought occurred to me: it's over. tomorrow is our last game, or next to the last game. we will not advance and it's time to let this year's team rest.

let it be.

i don't generally give up on any challenge...but i generally weigh possibilities and principles behind that to which i invest myself.

my investment now is open to freedom.

not gripping tightly to an impossible feat against all odds...cause, well, sometimes we get so caught up in the struggle that we forget why we started the fight. it is reasonable to contend...for the yankees to try...to make every effort to play to the best of their ability and so on and so forth and blah blah blah

but dude. all godamned season long we have had a rocky and inconsistent team. all godamned season long i have held breath after breath after breath only to have NO GODAMNED CLUE what we were doing or HOW we were doing it.

yeah...the record showed we were tops. we held the east and all that. but...how the HELL were we the BEST? cause, we were often: SHIT. and if WE were shit, AND the best...then youre telling me the rest of the league is WORSE THAN US?

THAT was hard to comprehend.

which brings us to san francisco and texas and the phillies and us.

and...i guess on paper and within the realm of the Championship Series and Division Title winners and wildcard and all that other crap: we're the final 4 best teams.

hardly.

as i say farewell to this 2010 season with an exhausted and grateful heart, i am reminded that every season ends...and every ending season is hard to face.

but what i really miss, already, is seeing my team play well.

magic math...and the 2010 post-season forecast...

2010-09-16T15:44:00.000-07:00

stats. dig it. based upon my calculations:
the greatest threat for the yankees is tampa bay.
minnesota is not to be overlooked.
giants, atlanta: OUT.
rockies: IN.
whomever takes the alcs will face the phillies and beat them.

thus:
YANKEES v. TEXAS > YANKEES
TAMPA BAY v. MINNESOTA > TAMPA BAY >

YANKEES v. TAMPA BAY > ?

PHILLIES v. COLORADO > PHILLIES
CINCINNATI v. PADRES > CINCINNATI

PHILLIES v. CINCINNATI > PHILLIES

of course, we've eliminated the AARON BOONE, BUCKY DENT AND BILL BUCKNER factors...i'm jus sayin...

of A.J. Burnett, scope rifles, and compasses that point North...

2010-08-03T16:56:00.000-07:00

I am at a complete loss with regard to A.J. Burnett's display of incredulous mayhem and uncontrolled devastation last night against the pathetically insipid Toronto Blue Jays...

This is to say, I WOULD hate him with the fire and passion of a thousand suns...but the time for that has come and gone. The depth of emotions welling up from my USUALLY WILLING TO FORGIVE AND FORGET, heart...has evolved into TODAY'S COMPLETE DISGUST AND WILLNGNESS TO ASPHYXIATE, heart. Hate is ineffective. Strangulation would suffice...

However, strangulation might require a step-ladder, 6 minutes alone with A.J., and, if successful, might eventually involve local and/or federal authorities. We have already clearly established, months ago, my predisposition toward authority figures. Me no likey.

Thus...back to the proverbial drawing board: There is a problem. There is no solution.

I don't care much for entertaining the concept of unsolvable problems.

...not where my best interest is concerned...

It is in my best interest not to be entwined with losers and defeat. It is in my best interest for my team to play well. I do not care much for losers and defeat. I would rather stab myself in the eye with a dull end of a half chewed pencil than sit patiently, while delusionally believing defeat is acceptable. It is not.

I consider such defeatest metalities to be rooted in defeatest hypotheses. Such hypoteses are repugnant, egregious, detestible, and just flat out annoyingly borderlining on flagrant Loserdom.

I would never rent an inch of space in Loserdom. I believe solutions exist to all problematic situations. I also believe some problematic situations indicate the need to run, don't walk...and to dust one's feet off from the Loserdom origin to which the problem initially existed. And after said running from said problematic situation, to gleefully kick one's heels in the air while realizing the liberation from said problematic situation...for...even escape can be seen as a profitable solution.

However, there is no escaping A.J....nor his portrayal as Home Run Derby Pitcher for the All-Star Toronto Blue Jays at Yankee Stadium last night.

This problematic situation is not one where escape and gleeful dust-flinging is possible.

The blood-letting to Canadia is over. I hope...

Yet, when a pitcher grants as many runs in ONE INNING as they gave up in the ENTIRE MONTH OF JULY, one must assume a problem is, indeed, at hand.

When a pitcher can sport a 1.99 ERA on May 4th, 2010 and a mere MONTH LATER (June 4th, 2010) enter into a downward spiril of losing EACH AND EVERY GAME (6/4; 6/10; 6/16; 6/21; 6/26; 7/2) one might seriously consider thinking about making a decision as to whether a problem is or is not at hand.

Said problem is at hand. Said problem is one which must be addressed. Said addressing of said problem should be swift and precise. Perhaps mercilessly addressed. I believe this seemingly inconsistent, yet, continual problem of defeat at the hands of A.J. Burnett must be met squarely in the middle of the forehead with the precision of a laser from a scope rifle... equipped with automatic bullet drop compensation, AccuPoint telescopic sights, and Kill Flash filters.

For...the problem with A.J. Burnett may be such that any reasonable and valid solution may seem too evasive or elusive...

But I like to think of the possibility of problem-apprehension.

Like a bank robber, reckessly careening a stolen get-away vehicle down the Pacific Coast Highway while blasting Anthrax's "Metal Thrashing Mad," we must stop this problem by PIT Maneuver...grab the skanky little felon by 4-point restraints and inject us some halcyion on said problem and make the problem do as we say. No Mirandizing. No lawyers necessary. No Bail. Comply. Or else...

In 2007, the Yankees witnessed a similar situation involving a 5-time All Star, 7-time Gold Glove winning pitcher; Mike Mussina. During that season, many similarities we presently enounter with A.J. Burnett, we encountered with Moose. Consistent inconsistency was what we, as fans, grew to expect, know, and endure. By August 27th of that year, Moose had allowed 32 runs in 3 starts and the Brass got upset. It was decided that Moose would be sent down, lose his slot in the rotation, and work through his mechanics. Or else.

The Yankees raised up a (then) unsmarmy and quite effective kid known as Ian Kennedy, (presently with the Arizona Diamondbacks, thank God.)

When Moose returned on September 12, 2007, (after 1 stint of relief pitching...the only time in his career he had ever thrown as a reliever) Moose was from thence forward: GOOD MOOSE.

In 2008 Mike Mussina went on to amass 20 wins in one season, having never accomplished that feat within his 18 seasons as a pitcher. We fans look upon those shaky weeks back in 07 with Kennedy slotted in place of Moose with ironic recollect...one of relief...one of disappointment...and ultimately one of gratitude. For even Moose, himself, admitted his need to address his own mental hurdles of personality, temperance, and his temendous need fora dose of humility. The very Drain-O required to empower, again, a phenominal pitcher who had seemingly imploded after 17 seasons...

Is this scenario plausible or even reasonable for our present-day A.J.? Is A.J. Burnett requiring some sending down to work on mechanics? And if we were to send A.J. down, is there a Kennedy to raise up?

A.J.'s velocity is consistent with his career numbers involving his fastballs and sinkers. Inasmuch as his strike out rates are down, his walks are consistent with his career numbers. If mechanics or injury were suspect, velocity would be effected. It isn't. He is still commanding his fastballs and sinkers...so what gives? He had a 1.99 ERA on May 4th, but presently has a 4.93. WHAT IS UP? Of his 5 starts in April, he lost 1; May outings yielded 4 wins of 6 games started...and then June he lost all 5 starts...July 2nd he went out 6.2 innings, allowed ZERO runs...and went on to win 4 more starts in July, allowing only 7 runs all month...so, yesterday he gives up 7 runs in the 5th inning...???

After his previous outing of July 17, 2010, where he was yanked off the mound after just 2 innings...he went on to explain to the media that he had cut his hands pretending to be Kevin Brown with the clubhouse doors in between the 1st and 2nd inning. This was after lying to his team and manager about cutting himself shaving. Uhm: Red Flag?

Oddly, I haven't heard any excuses for last night's fireworks blasting off the icky bats of 11.5 games behind us: Toronto...

Bottom line is: Last night's shelling of 7 runs in 1 inning...and A.J.'s 6 consecutive losses of June are, indeed, of serious concern. If A.J. performs this way in September and simply hands us a month of losses, what will become of the season? Is there a solution? Is there a problem?

The only possible "Kennedy's," at triple-A Scranton have been on the chopping block for trade fodder. Ivan Nova and Zach McAllister were main candidates for the Danny Haren acquisition. The Brass has been willing to use Nova, but tonight we are handing the game over to Dustin Moseley and his 3.24 ERA. Why would we skim past using Nova or McAllister who clearly have more innings and better ERA's? Because we don't want them to go all Tyler Clippard on us and become worthless to any team looking for major league level pitching, that's why.

So now what? Trust A.J.? Audition kids? Don't forget, we are limiting Phil's hughes innings. Will Sabathia and Vasquez be able to hold the whole house of cards together?

And...I theorize...this is where the hate-of-a-thousand-suns comes in. A.J. Burnett and his $84-million arm had better get a compass and figure out which way is North. If Tampa Bay can amass consistent performances by 5 children earning a total of $9.1-million dollars and match our season of wins and losses...then shame on us for once again assuming more is better.

Forks in the Road and Lightning of Today

2009-08-18T10:23:00.000-07:00

As the electrifying buzz of the alarm clock jolted me awake, I stammered across the room to turn it off. The morning air seized every fibre of my being with a thousand frozen prickles...and as I gasped, a rush of fear flooded my barely conscious mind...

Stumbling to the kitchen, while cranking up the heater, I grabbed my Yankee mug and began to make my coffee. The pitch black sky outside, ominously watching me through the kitchen window...the corners of the windows, frosty...leaves swirling with the windy rain, smashing against the frozen glass...my heart began to sink...

I'll never forget that idle Wednesday morning, with it's sadness and anxiety...with it's regrets and fears. That was to be a Wednesday of arrival...a Wednesday of relief...a maiden voyage of victorious relaxation and resolution...

It was supposed to be over...fears, frustration, worry, regret...it was to be a thing of the past by Sunday. Done and done. And yet...here it was...still brewing...still breathing...still defying...ominously mocking...

I opened the front door and was immediately ht by an invisible, frozen wrecking ball of wind. A forceful blast of ice mixed with splinters of rain seized my presence...confronting me...overwhelming me...a force greater than me, insisting I relent...I dropped my head as I entered the world that day...

As I walked to work, maneuvering the umbrella this way and that...amidst the broken branches along the sidewalk...amidst the puddles...I prayed. With sadness and heaviness of heart, I asked God to simply help me...help me with how I was feeling. This was simply a game. Baseball. We are either going to go out there tonight and win, or we will lose. The odds were extremely in our favor...and had been...and I really needed to get a grasp on my emotions...click back into reality...

No team, in the history of baseball had ever come back from a 3-0 deficit and won the remaining 4 games, however, was my next thought. Even in prayer, I couldn't stop my thoughts...the very merry-go-round of thoughts that had been incessant for 4 days...and 4 long nights...

Maybe the Yankees were trying to make the series interesting...maybe it was a tickets/revenue thing...maybe they just weren't taking it all very seriously, having already won the first 3 games...knowing the only goal ahead was to win one more...

But the moment for sobriety was today. My team had sat back and squandered their enormous advantage through three more games...landing themselves in a one-game win or go home scenario...and tonight....tonight...was the verdict.

What if? Is it even possible? Could we lose? Why would we? Exhaling...exhausting my worries in my prayers...I threw out a compromise to God...give me a sign...just a glimmer...the first song I hear on my mp3 player will be that sign...okay?

And God answered.

"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life."

And I knew. The message was delivered. The answer was unquestionable. We were going to lose tonight. We were going to lose in the biggest way possible. History would be made and we would have allowed it.

When the night sky returned to black that night and I was walking home from work...amidst the broken branches, puddles, and wind...I listened to that song again...I knew I would walk through the front door and the television would be on...I knew it would be about the 7th inning, or later...and I knew there might be a chance my understanding of the postcard message from Heaven might be wrong...

It wasn't.

The Yankees went on to lose the 2004 ALCS game 7...the first team in baseball history to lose 4 games in a row after having won the first 3. The Boston Red Sox would continue on in their quest to reach heights they had only ever dreamt...and would become Champions of Baseball for the first time in 86 years...

There was something about that particular loss that knit itself to my heart and soul. One of the most permeating, marrow wrenching, soul drenching defeats I have ever encountered in my life. I mean, Jesus...it is only baseball. It is only a game...

How is it a sports event can entwine itself into the deepest aspects of the heart and soul? I pondered that idea for a long time...many years...even to this day...and my answer is...I don't know.

Nobody likes to lose.

Loss...loss is pain. Whether it be your English Springer Spaniel who had to be put to sleep when you were at school...or your best friend who had to leave you to attend college back east, on a hot summer day, when you couldn't have imagined pain so deep could exist in your 15 years on the planet...

For me...baseball transcends the field...transcends time and space...the victory and defeat on mere grass with mortal players throughout all time has taken on a fourth dimension in my heart and mind...

A spiritual dimension. A passion I cannot convey. I guess my life experiences just seem to coalesce with what I behold when I watch. Bravery, envy, injustice, tenacity...it's all there. The very aspects of this experience known as life...if you listen very closely...open your eyes and absorb this game...it lives. It breathes. It teaches...and those lessons become specific unto you, the beholder...if you listen with your ears closed and see with your soul open...

From 2004 unto this present day, I have had many thoughts back to that black Wednesday morning...and the following days thereafter...the tears...loss...denial...frustration...knowing without a doubt that losing is absolutely possible at any point in time...grasping the reality that stats really, in the end, don't amount to much...

Smiling and shaking my head at teams like Boston...who were able to toe up to the line of failure and challenge it...who were brave enough to believe...and believed so pure-heatedly that their actions would duplicate that belief...who were not moved by odds...who were unwilling to lose...

The jealousy I developed for that spirit in a team...that moxy...that boldness without reason...realizing the complacency and apathy that resided in my own team...

Through the years I have smiled as I have seen that lightning flash of excellence from all over the league...from watching archived games...and I realize, this, too...transcends time and space...

Today...the New York Yankees hold the best record in baseball...and the season holds roughly 40 games remaining...the Red Sox are struggling to salvage a post-season opportunity...the Texas Rangers are knocking on unfamiliar doors...and bats are swingin...strikes are smokin...plays are being made with the bravest and purest of efforts...

Today, I look across the league...this season that is 2009...and I wonder...after so many years of failing and falling and complacency and apathy...what will become of this 2009 Yankee team...

and...the answer comes to me from long ago. The season will end...someone will win...everyone else will lose...and we will roll around to another season...once again...and again...and...

Winning and losing can, indeed, seem like everything...but...in the end...there is no ultimate win...there are silent, 4th inning with 1 out moments of victory...moments of awesome effort from teams like the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Oakland A's, the Kansas City Royals...perfect games, no hitters, hitting the cycle's...

2009 Has been one of the best seasons for baseball since as far back as I can remember...and...whether it goes up or down for our teams, let's remember as this season comes to an end:

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

If I wrote fortune cookies inspired by Bruce Lee

2009-08-08T11:25:00.000-07:00

"Take things as they are. Punch when you have to punch. Kick when you have to kick." -Bruce Lee

Walls can keep us safe...walls can also hem us in. Be water. Water finds a way through walls.

Distractions exist to rob us of endurance, to break us down, and make us ineffective. At best, distractions can inspire, at worst, they can become the very deathblow to faith, confidence, and hope.

Never resist distractions or set-backs...never succumb to discouragement and fear. Acknowledge these as gifts...as plateaus...plateaus from which to further ascend, to confront, to utilize for your advantage, to master.

Let not that which cannot be achieved slip away from your sites. Press on. Sometimes the goal isn't meant to be reached...it is merely something to aim at...

The only thing that separates our ability to be all we could possibly be is our own willingness to accept defeat. Why quench the power of victory? Push the envelope. Reach, strive...fail and fall...and continue to will the win. Failing and falling are stepping stones in every successful event that has ever transpired under the sun...you are not alone.

A man can have intellectual wisdom, but his wisdom is worthless without having been in the arena, himself. Having been bruised, beaten, and exhausted...being forced to discover how to endure despite seeming failure. Embrace failure and frustration...welcome disappointment. They will become the very callousses of your spirit that will protect you on your journey if you don't lose heart and cave in to fear and doubt.

Never let someone else's negative influence have contact with your core. That which is from them is theirs. Never leave their negative influence upon your heart as though any aspect of their destruction belongs to you. Shed emotional connection to such. They require nothing from you.

Embrace only that which is purely deserving of your praise, honor, faith, and respect.

Knit yourself to that which edifys. Free yourself from fear. Shout your flaws to the world and remove your shackles to that which binds you.

Wisdom is not an aspect of intellect...wisdom is a verb.

"Let the spirit out - Discard all thoughts of reward, all hopes of praise and fears of blame, all awareness of one's bodily self. And, finally closing the avenues of sense perception, let the spirit out, as it will.”

"If you always put limit on everything you do, physical or anything else. It will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them.”

Mark Buehrle Tosses Perfection!

2009-07-23T14:43:00.000-07:00

Eric was texting me about a game going on against the evil Tampa Bay faction of wife beaters and convicted felons...

I didn't know it was him...nor was I the slightest bit interested in some random Tampa Stupid Bay game...nor some random Chicago White Sox game...I was knee-deep into an online checkers game against some person from China and I was not about to lose...

Took a breather when the game was done...funny...I don't even recall right this moment if I beat the China dude...

Checked my texts. This is what I read:

1. Chicago is whooping up on Kazmir. Buehrle is no hitting them thru 5inn

2. He's thru 7 now, and Happy Birthday Darlin

3. Oh Shit he is pitching a perfect game

4. Perfect thru 8

5. And he faces the bottom of the order in the 9th

6. Ok here we go. 9th inning

7. Buehrle is perfect. 9th inn starting

Well, NEEDLESS TO SAY...i RAN LIKE HELL to find my remotes...wondering how long ago the last text arrived...wondering why the hell I hadn't somehow KNOWN about this...through the baseball gods or something...

TREMBLING as I clicked on the television, hoping to find WHICH STUPID CHANNEL MLB EXTRA-INNINGS would have this game on...and

BOOYAH! It was being shown LIVE on ESPN. I came in right about here...

watch and enjoy my friends. What an awesome way to officially start my day...and I am soooo grateful for good friends...who never give up on you...who continue to reach out...and bring a little slice of heaven into your world.

Happy Birthday, indeed. ~kathryn

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Cisco Kid Was a Friend of Mine: Yankees Option Francisco Cervelli

2009-07-08T23:48:00.000-07:00

I guess I knew something was amiss when I saw Jose Molina at the game this afternoon.

I guess I had already become keenly aware of the fact that Molina's 15-day DL stint had been going on several months now; and I had read several articles where he seemed quite unhappy.

I guess it doesn't take a genius to realize that the money the Yankees organization had shelled out to Molina wasn't going to simply be squandered while he sat on his thumb in Scranton for the remainder of the season...

(But then, again...Who knows? I mean, I guess I had reason to think nothing might change, and Molina could learn to be happy...?)

Major League franchises don't just waste money however, so why would I think Molina might never return?

I dunno. Ask Brian Cashman.

Better yet, ask Carl Pavano.

Francisco Cervelli was optioned by the Yankees today. Jose Molina has returned to the roster. I would theorize a few people are relieved...and I theorize a few of those people might actually see the move of Cervelli back to the minors as reasonable and responsible.

Whatever for them....

Sure, I like Molina. He's a fine catcher and I can win the Name-that-Molina game when playing along on SportsCenter because of him.

But...I like Francisco Cervelli heaps better than either Molina or Jorge.

Sacrilege, I know. But, the honest-to-God-truth.

I guess the first time I can honestly recall coming to the realization that there was a person on the planet by the name of Francisco Cervelli, was a year and some change ago...a couple of seasons ago...when I used to peruse the Minor rosters and crunch the stats and play the game of hunt-and-seek-the-next-rookie-Yankee-phenom with myself.

(It was a short-lived game due to the fact that:

a: We have no draft picks to develop-- as we are idiots with regard to trades and really don't give much of a shit for saving our draft picks; and

b: what we really want is a win NOW-- Not in 3 years or 4 years--NOW. We only develop our "prospects," so we can trade them off, usually for some broken- down, ego-centered asshole who will contribute absolutely nothing for our team, aside from a controversial headline or two and perhaps an arrest or sordidly slanderous book, eventually.)

(Makes me wonder if Randy Johnson's shoulder is feeling better this week...)

(And I guess Roger Clemens isn't in prison yet?)

I digress.

I had seen his name, but never really opted to invest interest in the lad, as he was merely in the AA and hadn't really had much experience prior to that. Or so I thought. I was sorely mistaken, and his experience is vast.

Francisco Cervelli (born March 6, 1986, in Valencia, Venezuela) was an international signee by the Yankees in 2003 and played in the 2009 World Baseball Classic for Team Italy. He is a Venezuelan of Italian descent.

In Venezuela, Cervelli played shortstop, second base, and sometimes pitched. The Yankees signed him as an international free agent on the stipulation that he would try catching.

Cervelli played in the Dominican Summer League in 2003. He arrived as a switch hitter, but was encouraged to bat right-handed. After struggling to adjust in 2004 and 2005, Cervelli batted .309 for the Single-A Staten Island Yankees in 2006. In 2007, he played for the Tampa Yankees, where he batted .279 with an OBP of .387 and two home runs. Baseball America rated him the 23rd-best prospect on the Yankees prior to the 2008 season.

On March 8, 2008, he fractured his wrist on a controversial play during a spring training game against the Tampa Bay Rays, when a Rays infielder collided with him at home plate in the ninth inning. He didn't return until June 2008. Cervelli was called up to the Yankees where he made his major league debut on September 18, 2008, as a defensive replacement.

He began the 2009 season with the Double-A Trenton Thunder, until he was called up by the Yankees on May 5, 2009, when Jorge was placed on the 15-day DL. Cervelli made his first major league start on May 7, after Molina injured his quad. He had 3 major league games of experience prior to this call up, and had never played Triple-A. He recorded his first major league hit, a single, on May 8, against Baltimore, while also catching for C.C. Sabathia during a complete game shutout. Cervelli is hitting .269 since his call-up.

The Yankees are 15-8 in games with Cervelli catching.

The Yankees were a game over .500 and 3 1/2 games out of first place when Cervelli arrived. They are now 15 games over and one game out.

Another Yankee prospect sent back to a field where idiots like Kei Igawa rule. Another season of allowing complacent veterans to reside on a field, in a game, during a season where: it really doesn't matter how it all comes out in the end. The contracts are set, the money is guaranteed.

The infield liners are glanced at, the pitches are always called for fastballs, and the latest sunglasses and hairstyles are of chief import.

Again: Whatever...

I'm not going to go into all the stats over our boy Francisco. Quite frankly, I'm too tired and it will only feed my frustration. Suffice it to say: He was beyond impressive. Google it. Discover what I know. And to what conclusion might you arrive? Just another ball player...just another team...just another year...

It's only a game...

Yeah. It is. But...beyond the typical stupid Wednesday I've spent gassing my car and chasing down dental vendors over missing products...Francisco Cervelli was a spark of enthusiasm that I eagerly looked forward to beholding on a daily basis.

The Kid mesmerized me with his natural ability. His composure and stealth against opponents...his knack for drawing the pitcher into a place of confidence...calling pitches with the greatest of ease...opining to flow against the current effectively.

And his bat wasn't all too bad either.

It was Cervelli who ended the 14 inning hit less streak moments after Girardi's ejection against the Braves...

It was Cervelli who suffered a broken wrist during Spring Training against the evil Tampa Bay faction early last season which lead to an everlasting hatred of all things Tampa Bay in my heart and mind...

It was Cervelli who came in when both Posada and Molina fell...having only 3 major league games under his belt at the time...

...from the first moment he appeared until even this present moment, I am grateful and proud to have supported, prayed, laughed, and enjoyed what this phenomenal young man has brought to this team I love...

Heroism.

The Yankee heads say they can see a "place for him in the majors, someday." Inasmuch as I appreciate their well-wishing as they scoot the lad onto the first outgoing bus, I have to wonder: WHO'S TEAM?

Forgive my cynicism. But, I've endured many years as a Yankee fan. I've seen the flavors of the month come and go. I've seen "losers," like Ohlendorf traded away like chattel and re-discovered their thriving lives in places like Pittsburgh...

Hell. Who hasn't once been with us? Mike Lowell, Carlos Pena, the list is endless. I hate it. I hate the way we shell out money for names. I hate the lack of passion and hunger for the game. I hate the smugness based on numbers from a season that never amounted to one damned thing...but a fat worthless paycheck.

Oh...whatever. I'm tired. The Yankees will do what the Yankees will do...and I will stand behind them, even if that means that I don't always agree with what they do...and I will become frustrated when they once again settle for second best...or third...or worse...settle for having the names...having the money...

...but crumbling in the first round...

...if we even get that far.

and...in between it all...I will have the opportunity to see the kids sneak in...when a fat-paid vet gets an ingrown toenail and is on the DL for a month...

then...I will get to see the Ramiro Pena's and the Cody Ransoms and the Francisco Cervelli's of the world...I will get to see them come up and play like unleashed lightning bolts, who will sizzle the world, and dazzle their onlookers...and they will engrave a smile deep into my heart of hearts...then I shall be satisfied...then I shall remember what makes this game so amazing to me...

the hunger...

and the heroes.

"Show me a hero, and I will write you a tragedy." -F. Scott Fitzgerald

Is Josh Beckett Immune from Being Ejected?

2009-05-29T13:04:00.000-07:00

"God d-mn it! That was a f---ing ball?!"

This is the story about Todd Tichenor's first four ejections of 2009.

I was outside on my patio yesterday morning...talking on the phone about the game...sipping a Red Bull...watching through the glass door...when I beheld a rukus...

It appeared that Jason Varitek was having an issue with the strike zone NOT being called in his favor, which I found amusing.

Inasmuch as Varitek has been exceedingly brilliant in calling for outside pitches which no batter in their right mind would swing at, Varitek has also mastered the feat of framing said pitches to the exact "sweet spot," of the strike zone (within nano-seconds of catching them) thus causing the umpires to call them for strikes.

Sometimes this framing-effect requires a readjustment of several inches...but Varitek is an ace...a Master of the Grand Illusion...In fact, I'm fairly certain Jason Varitek was a zillionairre pick-pocket in another life...where he was probably also a cross-dresser...but I digress...

"God d-mn it! That was a f---ing ball?!"

One would think if Jason Varitek uttered these words at the officiating umpire, he would be ejected. Well, he was ejected. But Jason Varitek didn't utter these words...

One would think if Terry Francona uttered these words at the officiating umpire, he would be ejected. Well, he was also ejected. But he, also, did not utter these words...

In fact, let's just haul off and toss in a couple of them guys from the Minnesota Twins and eject them, too.

Let's say one of those guys could be Mike Redmond, catcher for the Twins, and let's just say Redmond opted to toss out a few choice words at the officiating umpire...

Words like "I got his arm."

OUT.

And let's wrap it all up neatly into a neat little package of Redmond's manager, Ron Gardenhire, simply inquiring why his catcher was ejected, by asking "Why did you eject him?"

OUT.

It all really started off with Dustin Pedroia. "Mr. Woodland, California," hit a fly ball to right fielder Jason Kubel, who immediately threw it home. Redmond caught the ball and clearly tagged Jeff Bailey, who attempted to slide his arm in at the last second. Tichenor called Bailey safe.

Crew chief Jerry Layne: "I just looked at our replay and it's inconclusive."

Jeff Bailey: "There's no question a tag was made. Did I get my hand in there first? I really can't tell."

Mike Redmond: "I thought I got him at home and that's it. I just said, 'I got his arm.' I didn't swear at him or anything. In 11 years in the big leagues, I've done a lot worse out there and stayed in the game. I didn't expect to get thrown out. I didn't touch him or anything."

Vice president of umpiring Mike Port said he watched some of the game at his office in New York, but he did not feel comfortable commenting on Tichenor's performance until he was able to watch the events, then read Tichenor's report and review the ejections.

Uh huh.

Well then...you may ask...who the hell uttered the words:
"God d-mn it! That was a f---ing ball?!"

Why, I reply:

Mister Josh You-Can't-Eject-Me-Cause-Clearly-I-Have-Diplomatic-Immunity-From-Ever-Being-Ejected-Even-If-I-Curse-The-Very-God-You-Refer-To-On-Your-Printed-Currency-and-Whom-You-Pray-To-When-The-Chips-Are-Down-In-Fact-I-Can-Take-Head-Shots-To-Bobby-Abreu-Whenever-The-Hell-I-Want-And-Still-Stay-In-The-Game Beckett, himself.

All four ejections occured in the seventh inning of the Boston Red Sox at Minnesota Twins game yesterday, at the discretion of Home Plate Umpire Todd Tichenor.

These are the 48th, 49th, 50th, and 51st ejections within MLB for 2009. There have been roughly 48 games played this year.

a quick muse and thought--

2009-04-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

...like fingernails to a chalk board...

...like the slip of your knife while slicing lemons...

...like the explosive burst of a midsummer's moth on your newly waxed windshield...

...chewing foil...a thorn in your sock...sand in your eye...a dead battery...that one driver who cannot figure out what to do when the light turns green...

josh beckett is all of this to me. all of this

and so much more.

yankees / red sox begins again tonight at fenway.

i hold no opinions, whatsoever, for it's outcome. no predictions. no forecasts.

i hold my breath.

if joba hurls one high and inside upon youk, all hell will break loose.

we know this.

if lester hauls off and drills our boy jorge in the shoulder, it will be considered unintentional, however.

thus...i theorize the one who will drill jorge in the shoulder will be javier lopez.

i theorize they'll go after jorge for obvious reasons. THAT, and he's the best producer, relatively speaking. THE MOST DAMAGE.

who would OUR target be? (insert appropriate explanation that bean-ball wars are offensive and immoral and the american league does not conduct itself like those heathen national league anti-heroes.)

our targer will most likely be jason bay.

it might be lowell due to his rbi contributions...

but bay is just open season.

mind you: i abhore HBPS. i hate them. i think they're more inhumane than being forced to watch jonathon papelbon exhale right before he stares down the batter while pursing his lips for 3 minutes.

but

this is the yankees v. boston.

this isn't necessarily emotion and intellect free baseball.

in conclusion...as i actually must show up at work today---

i've seen joba "lights-out," at fenway. i've seen lester melt within 2 innings. i've seen them ALL blow it...i've seen them all seemingly possessed by sandy koufax.

anything can and will happen.

but this ain't september.

if the red sox present with the same demeanor and skill that was displayed in anaheim...we will sweep them.

key to today's win for the yankees: lay low. fly under the radar. work lester's count and get to the bullpen.

ttfn. ~kat

...with my good eye closed...

2009-01-22T13:23:00.000-08:00

“Can I buy you a drink?” He repeated, this time his face beginning to blush.

My betting line was taking much longer than usual. I wasn’t so sure who to hate more. The woman at the counter, with her orange-pink hair that matched her pink-orange press-on fingernails…or each fat, balding, cigar-smoking better clogging up the line. Two minutes until post time, the man directly in front of me, spending an eternity on placing his bet, continued to wave his stubby arms while adjusting his thick glasses and reinserting his non-lit cigar nub back into his mouth every 3 seconds.

I found myself drowning my thoughts with the guitar solo from Soundgarden’s “Good Eye Closed.” When the music flows from my mp3 player, into my ears, into my brain, and throughout my bloodstream, it’s a drug I enjoy.

I enjoy riding away from reality…envisioning scenarios of absolute absurdity. Motion Picture Epic clips…the ceiling collapsing, perhaps.

I check the rafters. Steel. Pity. Steel is faily firm.

Refocus, Fat man still waving…cigar still unlit...

A flood. All the money floating from the cash registers…coins sinking…the unaware, and drunk, lingering on the bottom…me, floating and pocketing wet hundreds at the top…

He appeared out of nowhere, tapping me on the shoulder, saying something.

I rip out my headphones, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Can I buy you a drink?” He repeated, this time his face beginning to blush.

“No, thanks. I never touch the shit.” I replied automatically, while turning back to see it was finally my turn to bet. Miss Orange-pink waiting almost impatiently, “Thanks, anyhow.” I said while I took a step forward, “I’ll take $10 on the 1 to win.”

As I reached the last set of double doors at the racetrack, a thought hit me. Like a Mac Truck to a Chevy Luv on the freeway a midnight. In the rain. Going downhill without brakes on black ice.

He asked to buy me a drink. I’ve never so much as talked with the guy a day in my life. Why would I? He was this zillionaire horse owner, trainer, driver…I was just a handicapper. I mean, it was cool and everything, that he was trying to talk with me…but why would he care if I was thirsty or not?

A photo finish. Damn it! Why would there have to be so many photo finishes when it’s 2 degrees outside, pouring down rain? As I watched the instant replay of the finish, I clearly saw I won. I opted to return to Soundgarden and images of catastrophic fun. Looking around for structural weaknesses or other causes for calamity, I saw him through one of the windows. Smiling and raising his glass at me, I wondered how long I had been staring in his direction without noticing him. Instantly I was aware of the contrast, him sitting amidst all of the beautiful women and successful men…the skimpy dresses and 3 piece suits…the ambient lighting and energy-efficient heaters…HDTV’s and booming house music…

Me: blinking in the misty rain while wiping my nose with my glove. I waved back.

“It’s official,” is echoed on the steely speakers overlooking the winner’s circle…myself and a couple of fat, balding men slowly walk back to our eternal line from before. Miss Orange-Pink has been replaced by an elderly woman with a wig so black, it could be imagined a black cat fell asleep on her head, having been drawn to her from an uncontrollable attraction to her blinking fake gold lucky dice earrings.

“With my good eye closed,”…the realization of his encounter resurfacing to my puzzled mind…escaping again…I see the building fill with water…coins and drunks to the bottom…hundreds and me, scrambling atop…

but this time…also afloat...atop…smiling…warm…him…waving me over…

The New York Yankees 2009 Spending Spree: The Quintessential Duct Tape Mouth Gag Response to Lack of MLB Parity

2009-01-01T18:39:00.000-08:00

You gotta love the fights within Major League Baseball. I mean, hell, this ain't hockey. No one expects a professional ballplayer to just haul off and deck some mouthy batsman. Then again, we relish the moment it happens...

....You could always count on Kyle to flex some muscle...after all...when you can't find the strike zone with a 100+mph fastball...people begin to get edgy...fastballs whiffin past their heads...I dunno...kinda rude. But hell. That's why they wear helmets, right?

PARITY WITHIN MLB.

Ohdearjesus.

If i hear ONE MORE whining band-wagoner of the Pittsburgh Pirates scream FOUL over the Yankees' recent spending, I will literally hurl.

Now, we all know, the actual term isn't to be referred to. Not in recent days. Yes, yesteryear the term "parity," was used...but...as of the SELIG REGIME, one must appropriately apply the words "competitive balance," to any conversation, written or otherwise, when talking parity.

So, the shite hit the fan. The Yankees bought every single last free agent on the planet and spent a zillion dollars and are thereby destroying major league baseball via their big pockets, monopolizing, and extortion...causing "poorer," teams to disintegrate into a quad-rillion chunks of molten metal, flying through the atmosphere, never to be heard from again...

The evil empire attacking poor Alderaan.

Well, i submit to you: get over your personal hate of the Yankees for just long enough to be intelligent. Inasmuch as I enjoy a passionate argument just like the next guy, an unintelligent-passionate argument is just plain stupid. If you're going to have passion, apply it aptly. Keep your wits about you.

The concept that the New York Yankees have been successful in buying championships has long since been disproved. Thank God. As a Yankee fan, witnessing year after year after year, the mismanagement of the acquisitions, the whittling away of our possible prospects, and the collection of has-been free agents; I wholeheartedly applaud Tampa Bay for demonstrating: THE LITTLE GUY CAN FLOURISH.

(yeah. when you lose eternally, you get HELLA TIGHT DRAFT PICKS, HONEY, and can make the post-season, eventually.)

I digress.

PARITY.

IS THE SPENDING OF THE NEW YORK YANKEES EQUATING TO A DIMINISHED EQUALITY OF COMPETITIVENESS WITHIN MLB?

let's review some of the facts together, shall we?

Since 1995, ALL BUT 6 TEAMS HAVE MADE IT BEYOND THE ALDS/NLDS AND HAVE APPEARED IN EITHER THE CHAMPIONSHIP SERIES OR THE WORLD SERIES.

ALL BUT 6.

In the ENTIRE LEAGUE.

Of those 6...many issues revolved around team ownership, or management...but...money, or lack of money by no means was the PRIMARY REASON for failure-to-thrive.

What other sport can declare that nearly every team within their entire league has made a post-season appearance within 13 seasons?

There is only 1 World Series winner who had a payroll over $100 MILLION DOLLARS:

THE BOSTON RED SOX.

Twice.

Clearly...there is more than 1 team who has spent over $100 MILLION DOLLARS, in order to make the playoffs and/or win the World Series.

Fact is: there are 7.

NYY: 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07
BOS: 04, 05, 07, 08
LAA: 04, 05, 07, 08
CHI: 08
NYM: 06
LAD: 08
CHC: 08

TEAMS WHO SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS AND DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE YEAR THEY SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS:

BOS: 01,02
ATL: 08
NYM: 03, 05, 07, 08
SEA: 07, 08
LAD: 01, 03, 07
CHI: 06, 07
DET: 08

TEAMS WHO SPENT OVER $200 MILLION DOLLARS AND DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE YEAR THEY SPENT OVER $200 MILLION DOLLARS:

NYY: 08

TEAMS WHO NEVER, IN THE HISTORY OF THEIR TEAM PAYROLL, EVER SPENT $100 MILLION DOLLARS AND, IN FACT, DID MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE LAST 10 YEARS:

STL: 00, 01, 02, 04, 05, 06
ARI: 99, 01, 02, 07
CLE: 99, 01, 07
FLA: 03
HOU: 99, 01, 04, 05
MIL: 08
MIN: 02, 03, 04, 06
OAK: 00, 01, 02, 03, 06
PHI: 07, 08
SDP: 05, 06
SFG: 00, 02, 03
COL: 07
TBR: 08

Wow..based on this evidence...OUTSPENDING BY NO MEANS IS OUT-COMPETING.

...And, we ARE talking about "competitive balance within the MLB," right?

Because we certainly cannot simply be espousing some emotional anti-Yankee TOO MUCH SPENDING/DESTROYING THE LEAGUE diatribe to the whole world in response to the Yankees' acquiring Sabathia, Burnett, and Teixeira, right?

(A cute little side note to the Yankee-haters: uh...even IF the Yankees hauled off and picked up Manny, they'd STILL be SPENDING LESS IN 2009 THAN THEY SPENT IN 2008.)

I submit to you, the pesky Oakland Athletics have opted to NEVER raise their payroll to $100 MILLION DOLLARS,and they have made the playoffs 5 times. Those pesky Cardinals have also showed up in Ooctober 6 times in 9 years; without spending even half of what the Yankees spend.

IF the contention of all the Yankee-hatin' NO-PARITY-IN-MLB-OH-GOOD-GOD-GIVE-US-A-SALARY-CAP-LORD-SELIG is correct...and spending increases competitive imbalance...then please explain to me HOW the St. Louis Cardinals have managed to appear in the playoffs WITHOUT EVER SPENDING $100 MILLION DOLLARS, EVER, ON THEIR PAYROLL---> 6 TIMES in the last 10 years?

Please show me the clear evidence that exists to differentiate SPENDING=COMPETITIVE IMBALANCE when the mean differential between SPENDING divided by PLAYOFF APPEARANCES between a NON-SPENDER and the HIGHEST SPENDER is 1.

Since 1999: St. Louis spent less than $100 MILLION DOLLARS and made 6 playoff appearances.

The Yankees have repeatedly out-spent the entire league every year since 1999, and have made merely 7 playoff appearances, by contrast.

There are 7 teams who have spent over $100 MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR, who amassed 14 failed seasons, never even securing a position within the post season.

Conversely, there are 13 teams who have NEVER SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS, EVER, who, over the last 10 years, amassed 37 playoff appearances.

It is an unintelligent argument to contend that consistent competitiveness and spending are related.

I would suggest, based on the overwhelming evidence, that the opposite be true. In order to be consistently competitive within the MLB and to secure a post season position, NEVER SPEND OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS.

...Then again...I could be wrong...

A salary cap is NOT the answer for the MLB. The Players Association would NEVER allow it, we'd have a strike, and Selig knows full well how much money would be on the line.

I don't believe the league is unequally competitive, based on the achievements of nearly all teams. I do, however, believe many team owners and/or CEO'S are highly irresponsible, apathetic, and greedy, when it comes to seeking further growth and profit for their team and it's players.

If I were to suggest any remedy for teams with less financial aptitude: I would suggest an adjustment of the revenue sharing and luxury taxes, HOWEVER: it would only make sense to do so with an enforced stipulation from team owners and management, that they be held accountable for re-investing those monies back into draft bonuses, player development, and payroll. And NOT to be used to line their own pockets while their team remains in ruin and ineffectuality.

“Jealousy is the tribute mediocrity pays to genius.” - Fulton J. Sheen.

we are now, officially, IN HELL.

2008-07-02T08:37:00.000-07:00

...a couple of weeks ago, i finally broke down and went to my doctor.

a sore throat, and various other torturous maladies of which i was beset, were harshing my usual Mary Sunshine self...

therefore, i submitted myself to the might-as-well-just-burn-the-money-before-my-eyes experience of visiting my doctor.

mono.

"no treatment necessary. just suffer, hun. don't forget to pay on your way out."

insurance, you say? hahaha. like they'll touch 1 red cent of the hiked up fees THIS OFFICE intends to stick you with. feel better soon...

i guess it was somewhere around saturday or friday...i don't recall...when the mother got me on the phone to inform me that Mr. Igawa had taken the mound.

...a Major League mound, that is. not just the AAA or the AA...but our mound...in one of our games...against the evil Mets...that is: he was actually carrying the precious future of my team on his-stupid-inept-self.

and i guess it was at that point i realized: torture and malady can be far worse, even when one feels like they are on the doormat of death...

torture and malady are temporary.

hell is forever.

welcome to the july portion of the 2008 yankees season. pull up a chair.

i'm not going to go into how bad it is with stats and theories. what good would it do? besides, google all that. you'll see how melky is 0 for 2,506...and how rivera can get 22 out of 23 save opporunities with a 0.00 era...but a non-save? hell no.

i'm not going to go into everyone's OPS, OBP, or SLG. that takes too much time, and it's annoying having to make sure you have everyone's numbers correct...and, quite actually, it's just horrifically confusing.

how in the hell can we have the players we do and have 5 runs in the past 3 games? against piss poor texas...and the equally inept Mets?!

come on.

pitching. let's focus on pitching. let's get a good pitcher and all will be well. really? well, lately, (aside from the game-winning run rivera allowed last night) pitching has dialed in. not stellarly, but adequately.

run support. what a joke. it's like a prayer for god to feed all the impoverished countries and their destitute. having a concept of the answer and actually executing that concept into action are two totally different things. either way...a meal...or a homerun are just temporary solutions to an ongoing problem. tomorrow, the need for food (and runs) will return and the solution must resurface.

teach a man to fish?

these are highly paid men we are discussing. entertainers, athletes...however you wish to quantify the new york yankees, do so. but these men are paid to perform. and yes, i realize, no man is a machine, per se...but...when you have no fewer than 55 thousand paying no less than 40 dollars per ticket to watch a team compete in a major league baseball game:

could you just fucking try to win?

who to blame...?

melky. girardi. cashman. arod.

me? i'd prefer to simply hate the evil tampa bay faction. really. it almost pains me to see what they've been doing to the satanic group of evildoers known as: the boston red sox.

yes. that's right. it bothers me to see boston lose. now that's sick.

but really. these icky little creepy tenacious assholes. the evil tampa bay DEVIL ray faction who shall NOT lose their DEVIL-named status EVER in MY BOOK. these smarmy little shits, who seek a brawl with any and every one

who...for whatever reason, in years gone by...had only the yankees' number...and left the rest of the league alone, while they sat in last place for the east all season--

look. it goes like this: the red sox go on a losing streak and the yankees get excited and start hittin everything under the sun. then the red sox wake up and the yankees go under...

it's natural. the yin and yang. yankees / red sox. the only time we're both on the upswing is september. generally we all fart around before the all-star break. we aim at gaining 17-20 wins a month prior to that...but no one is wearin blisters into their hands or feet over it before july.

and this evil tampa bay faction of assholes just hauls off and decides to slither in on our slackass time and grab 1st place in the division for their damned selves?

i hate them. garza. evan. their new owners.

and everyone is on their bandwagon. even my boss. tampa bay all the way and all that. while the yankee fans and the red sox fans fight and quarrel amongst themselves over just WHO to blame for their seeming individual (yet conjoined) failure(s.)

look. melky may be in a drought. and our pitching may be shit right now. and the red sox may be struggling with whatever it is they struggle with...

(bathing?)

but. this is july 2nd. and the only reason why this feels shittier than it usually does is because we have a team who is monopolizing on our devil-may-care attitude before the all-star break.

if new york or boston intend to play ball this october...we best get to gettin. because it ain't devil-may-care, hon---> the devil rays DO CARE and they are showin it.

the agony of defeat?

2008-06-04T14:42:00.000-07:00

our boy joba...no bugs this time...

2.1 innings pitched...12 batters faced...62 pitches thrown...1 hit allowed...2 runs scored...and with 30 of those pitches not being strikes, it's a wonder he didn't walk more than 4.

he did strike out 3, though.

(but that balk in the second inning kinda blemished that seeming roll he could have been on...had he, in fact, been on a roll...which he, clearly, was not on, nor would he be on, anytime in the forseeable future. in fact...even if there had been a roll provided for joba to get on, he probably would sought a way to butter it and ingest it...am i right or am i right?)

joba. no bugs. yeah. the jolly little messiah...and *poof* before the disbelieving eyes of zillions of fans and foes...(and bakers of rolls)... we witness the pixie dust blowing off joba like a city worker sandblastin' a graffiti'd wall at the mayor's office...

...more or less...

look. i have no problem with joba giving away 2 runs. i don't. honestly, i don't even mind it when moose, or pettitte, or wang, or any of them other spin-the-wheel-rookie-rotation-flavor-of-the-month-why-is-he-wearin-that-number?-guys does it.

2 runs. so what...

it's not the 2 runs joba allowed by the 3rd inning that bother me.

it's the 6 runs in the 7th inning that pisses me the hell off. that's all. the 6 runs in the 7th. yeah. i have an issue with the 6 runs allowed in the 7th...

...to the smarmy likes of these losers...

stairs and rios? why them? we hate them!

i think MLB should fine and sanction any major league pitcher who allows more than 5 runs in any inning beyond the 6th. i think they should be forced to have those tear drop tattoos put on their faces, like them prison gang dudes...you know the ones...those dudes who have a teardrop for like every gang member who they know who's died...or is it every person they've murdered? yeah, whatever. that teardrop shit is something you see, but you don't question.

(you also don't question their big letters tattoo'd across their backs, their choice in music, low riders, nor weapons.)

but my point. yeah. i say it is high time for mlb to force them pitchers who allow 5 runs beyond the 6th to have some accountability for their actions. and i'm talkin accountability the whole world (and opposing teams) can SEE.

those tear drop tattoos. i think it's fair. they put warning labels on consumer goods and buildings and all that...why not relief pitchers? just a thought.

now. as per joba and our bullpen and our rotation and all the lack of hitting....

whatamigonnasay? it's june? we'll still make it? jeter and cano are gonna come around and when posada returns everything will be alright?

nah.

joba's first start reminded me of another dismal starter...long ago and far away. may 23, 1995, to be exact. this fellow went out and pitched 89 pitches in 3.1 innings. he allowed 8 hits, 5 runs (all earned), and walked 3. the yankees went on to lose that game, with a score of 10-0.

that pitcher's future would be discussed the following year, during spring training, along with the future of a 21-year-old rookie shortstop, who was also bumbling his way into the majors. turns out the mariners had a shortstop they were willing to trade for the ill-fated pitcher, and steinbrenner saw this as an opportunity to part with both of these players.

it took more than two hours to convince steinbrenner not to do it.

that pitcher...who's first major league start against the anaheim angels on may 23, 1995, mariano rivera would stay and became a hall of famer.

and so would the 21-year-old shortstop prospect, whose name was derek jeter.

"We are all faced with a series of great opportunities brilliantly disguised as impossible situations." - Chuck Swindoll

yankee pitching woes, chapter 2,506

2008-05-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

arod is back. thanks for consistently having contact with the ball. ....uh, yeah....

darrell "if-it-weren't-for-those-5-hits-i-could-have-pitched-a-perfect-game," rasner.

7.0 innings pitched last night, 5 hits, 0 runs. that's not not good.

but, you know. hell. it's just one game. why get all fussy over rasner? i mean...we have other places and people to fixate upon, ya know?

one night, last season, when the yankees were all up-in-arms over lack of pitching, rasner came in and pitched a gem of a game...

yet: no reporters sought to speak with him. why, you ask? i shall tell you. because THAT was the night the yankees opted to inform the media that roger clemens would be rejoining the team.

last night was another lets-show-up-rasner's-contribution night, and the yankees chose, last night, to inform the media that our boy Joba will become a starter.

shocking. no one saw this coming. yeah. wow.

rasner has started a total of 3 games this season, and has pitched a total of 19 innings this season. rasner has allowed 4 runs for 3 starts. he's all that and a bag of chips. thanks, darrell, if you haven't heard it enough: you matter.

ahhkay. and now we're back to our boys Joba (far left; the lion) and IAN-I-PITCH-LIKE-SHIT-KENNEDY (dorothy.)

(wow. is that a real dog in that basket?)

(wish he would have bit ian's pitching hand.)

yes. our boy kennedy will once again take the mound tonight and dish up another win to the team we oppose.

my forecast for tonight's game: mister kennedy will go no longer than 4 innings and allow no fewer than 10 runs. heheh.

sorry...lately it seems like we've stretched our bad pitching into double digit runs allowed, i figure i'd stay in that vein.

okay. and so that takes us into the next point of discussion. with joba starting, who will the set-up man be? okayfirst off, i don't like the set-up-man thing. i don't. i say the 8th inning should be a match up thing. i really do. and not on the torre level of "no-fewer-than-5-relief-pitchers-used." i would prefer using a starter for 7...matching it up in the 8th, however that applies, and then bringing in a closer.

but the yankees wish for a set-up-man. the 1-2 punch. we've sought that for years. and it, ineffectively, has never arrived.

options. we have (brace yourself:) kyle farnsworth (who, up until the last game wasn't so bad then revealed to us the reason why we despise him) and edwar ramirez.

dude. i say if you have to choose 1...go with edwar. please. (did you know edwar has pitched in 9 games this year and still has not allowed 1 run? true. edwar has a 0.00 ERA. albeit, he has pitched 10 innings total and last year in 21 innings he allowed 19 runs...i still think he is a safer bet than kyle.)

(this year, alone, farnsworth has pitched 20 innings and allowed 9 runs. not so long ago he logged in 46 innings and gave away 47 runs. i dunno. 102mph fastballs. hard to control, i guess. i say bring him in when desperate. or when edwar needs rest. or when we need to retaliate and we want it remembered.)

(who said that? lord. we all know farnsworth can't be held responsible for off pitches. they go where they go, right? right....)

yankee pitching woes. chapter 2,506. and here we are again. some good news is we have our boys mark melancon and danny mccutchen warmin up in AAA. things could improve. and they better...cause i'm fairly certain we won't have moose nor pettitte next year. so, we better get to figuring this shit out. it's frustrating playing spin-the-wheel with these veterans and rookies, but we all know how outings can go bad. ask wang, moose, and pettitte.

shit, ask kennedy. no, don't ask him. he'll pontificate how, "aside from that one pitch which was hit for a grand slam, i had my stuff---"

(and all the while, when interviewed, he behaves like someone shoved a spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth. literally. he's constantly smackin his lips and licking his teeth. it's icky. i say: don't diet, just watch an ian kennedy interview before snacking. you'll lose your appetite, promise.)

From the Dusty Archives: How I Became a Yankees Fan

2007-03-26T21:22:00.000-07:00

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way." (Charles Dickens—A Tale of Two Cities.)

As the afternoon sun poured onto the desktops it illuminated the dust. I sat...head down...pretending to read, but gleefully watching my classmates inhale the shiny particles. Mimi and Jenny—they were Brownies. They were the pretty ones. The teacher always picked them for hall monitor or sending a memo to the Principal. Their mothers were home all day long and would stop by to bring the class cupcakes.

Tommy Johnston had eyes that could cut glass. I tilted my head to see if he was breathing in the dust...but this time, I imagined the dust was poison. The kind of poison they spray in wars. The kind that would kill you within seconds. No one would know until you dropped like a rock. You would look fine until 1 second before you died.

Tommy Johnston was breathing the dust. I smiled.

As the bell rang I grabbed my shawl. I loved my shawl. It was the only "hippy," kind of clothing my conservative mother would allow me to wear. My shawl was pink and purple with these happy and joyful paisleys dipping and turning in every direction. Chartreuse and gold...it was soft. Sometimes I slept with it.

Jimmy Joe Mayer and Tommy Johnston began to yell—Jimmy Joe was my friend. He had been born with a hole in his heart. He was small, like me; so we were always the last two in line...year in and year out.

Jimmy Joe told me one time we were standing outside, waiting for the teacher, in the pouring rain that he was afraid he would die as a kid. I told Jimmy only bad kids die young. Jimmy asked me why so many bad kids were still alive. I told Jimmy I didn't know.

The red etch-a-sketch flew to the ground and slid under Jenny's desk. "See what you did" Tommy Johnston snapped, while pushing Jimmy Joe away from him, into the blackboard.

"I hate you" Jimmy Joe yelled lunging toward Tommy Johnston...his eyes welling up with tears, his face bursting with a crimson anger, his fists clenched so tightly that his white knuckles didn't disappear when he unclenched his fist to wipe away a tear.

The etch-a-sketch lay on the ground—blank.

He gently picked it up...cradled it in his hands...exhaled into sobs, and fell to his knees.

As his shoulders and head dropped he whispered, "It's gone. It's gone. I hate you, I hate you...I will always hate you for this." I slowly tip-toed from the both, toward the door...looking down, I saw nothing on the etch-a-sketch, but a tear.

I don't know if Tommy Johnston was the first person I ever truly hated, but at that moment, I truly hated him enough for all the other hate I would ever need for anyone else for the rest of my life.

As the rain shot through the plumes of grey exhaust from the car in front of me, I wondered. I wondered about the new season. I wondered about the players. Other teams—the rivalries. I wondered how long it could possibly take for them to finish up with my order of large fries and cheesecake.

I shifted the car into park, took my foot off the brake, sat back, exhaled, and turned up the radio. As the plumes of grey fog mixed with the falling rain I saw particles of silver dust.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you."

Tommy Johnston's mother bought Jimmy Joe a new etch-a-sketch...as Jimmy Joe had not only lost the picture of Joe DiMaggio he had worked on all winter. But Jimmy Joe's etch-a-sketch lost it's little "sketcher," pin when it hit the ground.

It couldn't sketch a thing. Tommy Johnston had the idea that since Jimmy Joe had a new one, Tommy Johnston wanted to take the broken one and put it on the train tracks. Tommy Johnston heard that etch-a-sketch's were filled with dynamite, and if you hit one hard enough, or set one on fire, they would explode into a million pieces that would shoot into the sky for over a mile.

The moon was almost full as we crept in the overgrown lot. I only went because Jimmy Joe asked me to, but I was shivering and I was frightened. The field was uneven and I kept falling into the weeds...my shawl getting caught on the stickers. Tommy Johnstone was laughing and running toward the tracks, yelling back to Jimmy Joe and me to, "Hurry up."

"This is as far as we go," Jimmy Joe blurted, his chest heaving from the half mile walk. "What do you mean, you baby?" Tommy Johnstone yelled, his silouhette elongated by the moonlight stood 70 feet tall on the weed tops. "Just go do it," Jimmy coughed, "go on."

We crouched down into the dewy weeds, looking toward the east part of town as we heard the train speeding up. The powerful thumping of the engine coming in faster beats. "Are you sure it's on there?" Jimmy whispered as I slapped a mosquito near my ear, "Yeah, it's on there alright. Just you wait and see," Tommy Johnston boasted, his eyes wide open, licking his lips as the headlight came toward us.

I adjusted my windshield wipers as I entered the freeway. An 18-wheeler pulling up right behind me, I opted to lay low on my arrival—feeling the burst of water as he shot past me. The hot oil burned my fingertips as I reached into the bag. I licked the salt crystals off my fingertips, and took a deep breath as my heart sank when I heard the first few chords sneaking into my ear...

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence..."

I had chosen to never listen to that song after the summer when I was in 3rd grade. Tonight something in my heart was ready. Something made me let it come in. Something caused me to turn it up and exhale...

I let it permeate me. I let my heart feel the flood I'd held back for so long. I felt the pain behind my eyes and throat grow sharp...and heard myself breathing heavily as my eyes filled with tears.

As the windshield wipers slapped the dirty freeway water off of/and back onto my glass-and-steel pseudo-"confessional," of a car...I felt the presence of the past. I felt the sting. I instantly realized the floodgate that were opening in my mind, and the memories hit like a tsunami.

"You're a liar!" Jimmy Joe screamed, throwing his hands to his sides—just a silver puff of smoke! That's all I saw! Just a silver puff of smoke!"

As we slowly walked in silence through the field, I played the impact over and over in my mind, like the very dust particles everyone inhaled that day, sparkling with the train's headlamp—like glitter in the twinkling of an eye.

It was a Saturday afternoon, I could hear the faint tune of the ice cream truck perusing the neighborhood.

My mother yelled my name from the living room.

As I neared the bottom of the stairs, I could see a mountain of clothing waiting for me—as well as her messy hair and exhausted eyes.

I knew better than to try and argue with her when she had that look. As I sat down on the floor, I heard her talking with my dad in the kitchen, adult chit chat, boring grown-up stuff. I looked up at the television—baseball.

I looked back at them, and back to the television. Would I? Could I get away with changing the channels? The rule of thumb in my home was no one under the age of 99 was allowed to change the channel, day or night.

The most random, God-awful programming was almost exclusively selected by them. I was certain this was one of those bad things that happen to children when they grow up, they become boring sadists to anyone younger. Especially their own children.

As I reached for the shiny silver knob just a foot or so from the tip of my nose, I heard my mother yell, "Don't even think about it."

As I sat back down on my heels, I began to feel imprisoned. The pile of underwear, towels, and socks seemed like Mt. Rainier. I grabbed a sock and made a decision. I can't really even remember why, but I remember when.

Since I had no other choice than to sit in front of this mind numbing sport show, then I would pick a team to root for. I remember looking at the players, looking at their uniforms and trying to decide who would be "my team."

I found the mate to the sock and folded it into a ball. The players all look alike, and I could never like this stupid game anyhow. I can't even hit a ball with a bat. But Jimmy Joe could! Just then I looked at the score...and I decided to choose the team that was losing.

That team was the New York Yankees.

The Yankees won that day, but I was never able to tell Jimmy Joe.

Jimmy Joe never returned to school that Monday. He had drowned in the American River on Saturday, trying to help a younger child who had fallen out of a raft near the rapids. The younger child survived, but Jimmy Joe was brought to the shore, lifeless.

That Wednesday afternoon, my teacher called me into the hallway. She reached into a book and pulled out a card. She handed it to me and said, "Jimmy Joe's mother brought this to school to give to you. It was his. And she wants you to have it."

It was a 1952 Topps Baseball card...I'll never forget it. The impish smile on the face of some old guy.

But that old guy, he was wearing my New York Yankee's hat! The team I had picked while folding clothes the same day Jimmy Joe died.

I lost my best friend in the 3rd grade. I was all alone at the end of the line in the hallway at school, and life would never feel as innocent and curious again, I thought.

But Jimmy Joe knew someday I would find him again. The New York Yankees were Jimmy Joe's favorite team, and I never knew that until my teacher handed me that Topps card after I had picked them as my team while folding clothes...

That's where it began.

A few years later, when I was in Junior High, I remember being in p.e. and my teacher demanding I spit out my chewing gum.

I recall clearly being sent to the front office and explaining, in tears, that I had been chewing that wad of gum since the playoffs—and if I stop—the Yankees will lose the World Series.

They gave me a Kleenex...and a note for my teacher to let me chew.

Tommy Johnstone was a Dodger fan and would try and make me cry when I would wear my Yankees hat or talk about baseball to any of the kids. Tommy Johnstone was convinced Ron Cey was the best ball player God ever created. 1977 and 1978 were the most hellish years I believe I ever faced as a Yankee fan due to Tommy Johnstone and Ron Cey. But, in the end, the Yankees won...and Tommy moved away.

(Someone told me Tommy Johnstone went to prison for check fraud some years later...but I never really looked into the story to see if it was the truth. It sounded fairly probable to me and I wouldn't want to remember him any other way, quite honestly.)

I carried my Topps card in my back pocket for years, until it disappeared one day. I never was able to find it...now that I am an adult, I think it was probably laundered and didn't survive. I believe my mother shielded me from the broken heart I wouldn't have been able to bear at that time in my life.

I remember the day my mother took over an hour to console me when she discovered my No. 44 Reggie Jackson t-shirt had not survived one of the only washing/drying cycles it had ever been subjected to. I wanted to bury it in the backyard at sunset, and: we did.

I remember Bucky Dent. I remember Reggie. I remember Billy Martin yelling and screaming. I remember George Steinbrenner punching someone in an elevator.

I remember the day Thurmon Munson died, and Bobby Mercer not only spoke at his funeral, but played in a game that night against the Orioles that few will ever forget..

I remember thinking the crowd was booing Lou Pinella...and telling my mom I would never go to Yankee Stadium, where they boo their own. She went on to explain to me they were yelling, "Lou."

Friends came and went. I fell into and out of love. I went to college and grew up, and the Yankees were with me every moment of the way..

I remember when we farmed Jeter. Rivera. Posada. Bernie. Pettitte.

I remember finding myself in a motel room, some years later...bored...homesick...clicking through the channels...and there they were—my boys in pinstripes.

It had been years since I had paid attention to baseball. I had become sidetracked with other things in life...distracted by the seeming demands of being an adult, and yet: there they were.

The playoffs—Jeter & Williams—some kid named Maier interfering...and I was home.

Years would go by but somehow, I always found myself watching my boys in the fall. A few times they went all the way—a few times not.

I grew up with the Yankee haters.

Hell, I fell in love with, and subsequently lived with one. And literally, he would come into the room, while I was watching a game, and point out how they sucked, how stupid they were, how they were overpriced assholes.

He's gone now, they remain.

Honestly, I can't remember a time when the Yankees weren't a part of my life. Then again, I remember thinking I could never imagine not seeing Bernie on the field, or Paul O'Neill.

I know. It's only baseball.

But, to me...it's more.

It's life.

It's being a part of something bigger than keeping an appointment, paying your bills, and gassing your car.

It's the opportunity to ride on the wings of your favorite slugger and round those bases with him.

It's the bottom of the 9th, two outs, 3-2 count—bases loaded—and relishing the anticipation.

I am so grateful for every moment I have laughed, cried, argued, and mused over my team—the New York Yankees. I wouldn't trade one moment of my many years with them for all the tea in Boston. I have learned alot through these many seasons of triumph and glory—disappointment and loss—sometimes it's heaven, sometimes it's absolute hell, but, this is life...and they will always be a part of my life.

As I reached the parking garage elevator, my fries had grown cold. My nose was stuffed, and one quick glimpse in the mirror informed me of my need to avoid all contact with others. I pressed the elevator button and glanced behind my shoulder to the garage camera, aimed right at me.

Just then, to my right, a Porsche pulled through the gate on the west side—as I glimpsed to see it...I beheld the raindrops illuminated against the night sky...like glitter...dust...memories...everywhere...and I smiled...

(Dedicated to Jimmy Joe Mayer)

the king, the queen, and the pizza.

2007-03-19T09:08:00.000-07:00

many moons ago...one lazy evening, i was kickin back...just hangin on my back patio. and, yeah, it was my birthday...

i remember i had had a busy week...and i was kinda diggin on the idea of just sittin, watchin the sunset, and sippin on my vodka and oj.

(there's alot of drinking mentioned in this story. make sure to read my footnote thereafter.)

(for the record: it was an egregious act on my part to drink and drive...that would be one decision i would make differently today.)

anyhow...yeah...my friend mary is all yellin over my fence...she's thrilled about something...and so i invite her over...

i theorize this is where the mischeif began.

mary informs me she had JUST closed the deal on the sale of this hugeass mansion on the outskirts of davis. and the dude to whom she made the deal was some dude somehow associated with the sacramento kings.

which meant not one godamned thing to me.

being a semi-intoxicated yankee fan.

so yeah...and then...well...i seem to recall...i was pretty done with the vodka. so i suggested we celebrate...her sale, my birthday...and we opt to go get more vodka.

i drove.

mary had this kickass convertable...porsche...maybe something else...dunno.

but the sucker was hella powerful...and SHE WAS WILLING TO LET ME WIND THAT BABY OUT. so...first thing i do is get some music goin...in this semi-Thelma-and-Lousie moment...i opted for Billy Idol's White Wedding.

and so it began. and the music...and the summer sun setting...and we are doin triple digits on the I-80...

she's tellin me about the house. mary's all going into how this place has like an attic AND a basement...and she was makin it sound amazing. i was all, "dude. you MUST show me..." and she was all, "well, we haven't exchanged the keys yet...i guess we COULD..." and i was hella thrilled.

some short time later, mary and i were sippin our drinks on the front lawn of this bigass mansion and laughin our asses off at everything.

and...after a while, we opted to finally go inside.

and this place WAS amazing. it was massive. i mean the rooms were hella huge...and they all had like these massive closets...and yeah...the attic and the basement and different stairs off the kitchen and formal living room..

i seem to recall it was at that point i became hungry. i remember sayin we should order a pizza.

and so...i remember somehow mary ordered the pizza...and we would have to hang there for another half hour...

and then we were gonna bail before we get arrested for breaking and entering or something...

so...i suggested we play hide and go seek...

and mary hid

and i just kinda forgot my role in the game...

and then i remember us wondering where the pizza was...

and mary suggested i go hide

so i did.

i was in this one bedroom closet up the stairs off to the far left...

and i was laughin and talkin to myself.

then i decided i should shut the hell up...

silence.

and i was like, "dude. she's not gonna look for me..." but, i knew mary...she would.

so i hid again.

but i remember i sat there for a while. so i layed flat on my back...on the floor of the pitch black closet...and i decided i should HELP MARY OUT WITH FINDING ME...so i began to sing Bohemian Rhapsody...

and i was laugin and doin all the voices...and singin like LOUD...hella loud, actually...

and

well...

i got to about the "i'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me" part...

when

the closet door slowly opens.

instantly i behold what had to be THE TALLEST BLACK MAN I EVER DONE SAW.

and he's lookin at me layin on the floor

and i said, "dude. did you bring the pizza?"

literally.

yes...it was a king or a friend of a king or someone.

and apparently mary had informed this guy and his friend we were there...and that's why she wasn't lookin for me...and they all thought it would be hella fun for him to confront me

as i was worried about us becoming hella criminals, trespassing, felonious mischief...and whateverelse the d.a. could nail us on...

i dunno

i seem to recall eatin the pizza...shootin some hoops...and then i woke up safely at home.

the next day i was tryin to remember everything that had transpired...and i was wondering if we had been as wasted as i thought...

i walked toward mary's apartment and beheld her car...it was taking up 3 parking spots.

and it remained that way the entire day.

many morals to that story

if you're gonna trespass in a tall black mans house...and he just so happens to be a king...don't be messin around in his walk-in singin queen.

happy monday all

♥kathryn

According to data from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), in 2005, 16,885 people were killed in alcohol-related crashes - an average of one almost every half-hour. These deaths constituted approximately 39 percent of the 43,443 total traffic fatalities.
This is a slight decrease from 2004, when 16,919 people were killed in alcohol-related traffic crashes, representing 39 percent of the 42,836 people killed in all traffic crashes.Nationally, alcohol-related fatalities are fairly flat, down .2% from 16,919 to 16,885 and fatalities involving a driver at or above a .08 were down 1.2% from 13,099 to 12,945.

http://www.madd.org/

2006-08-07T10:20:00.000-07:00

an open letter to Richard Stephen Crosby...

Dear Bubba,

My name is Kathryn. My mom and I have been Yankee fans since...well...forever, actually. You immediately found a place in our hearts when you surfaced one of your many times...in 2004...followed by 2005.

We researched your playing history...with Rice...and the Dodgers...and we know the talent you possess.

If you retain nothing else from this email, please let this truth sink in: you are an invaluable asset to any team fotunate enough to have you.

You play with passion and the heart of a hero. Determination and persistence radiates from each performance...and your future will be spectacular. Do not question these changes you're facing...I have every confidence that the path you're on will lead to a success you have not been able to enjoy...and this move you're facing will enable your talent and passion to be utilized. I smile at that fact...you should, too.

September 19, 2005. I will never forget the walk off homerun...I watched you up at bat...knowing you could completely turn that game around...and the moment you did...it was magic! My greatest hopes at that moment, realized! I immediately tried to call my mother, who had been also watching, to share the joy...but her line was busy...and she doesn't have call waiting. So...what did I do? I called the Operator and requested an emergency interuption! When asked my name, I replied (so my mother would know YOU did something FABULOUS, and we need to scream and shout!) "Kathryn CROSBY."

She had also seen your play and was on the phone w/ a neighbor TRYING to get off the phone...and immediately called me back in laughter and tears.

She has endured many health problems...but one thing that puts a smile on her face is the idea she entertains that "we discovered Bubba...we loved him from the beginning!" And it's true in a small sense...every game we have attended...we shout our praise for you...and there was a time when the opposing team's fans around us would ask, "Who are you shouting for?" And later they would say, "I'm glad we sat next to you guys, now we know who that Bubba Crosby guy is with the Yankees..."

You are a diamond in the rough. Your playing does lift the hearts and spirits within fans. Your persistence and determination speaks volumes to many lives, young and old.

And...if we had been on the subway the night of your walk off homerun...we would have recognized you.

Wherever you go...our hearts and prayers are with you. Know this. 2 Total strangers in California have had their lives imprinted by your contribution. We are grateful and we look forward to cheering you on in the future.

And we will...

Very sincerely yours,

Kathryn

2006-08-02T09:11:00.000-07:00

...We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, on whom the pale moon gleams: yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world forever it seems...

[Ode, by Arthur O'Shaughnessy 1844-1881]

2006-07-23T20:54:00.000-07:00

Messages of Unknown Origin...
...years ago I remember walking through a graveyard, with a babysitter, at night. For all intents and purposes, I suppose it was a shortcut toward my home...and I guess she considered the idea innocuous.

The moonlight was steely grey, and it's cool shimmer was cast on every object in such a way that many chills were sent deep into my childhood mind and heart.

Not wanting to see what could merely appear as a hand reaching up from each gravestone I passed, I purposed to keep my eyes straight ahead...as the branches of the trees, also seemed like ominous arms reaching down to me...

I seem to recall she was talking as if we were in the canned food section of the nearest market...and I remember deeply sensing the contrast of her demeanor and the environment. I remember wondering how she could be physically next to me...but spiritually oblivious. I remember wondering if how I was feeling was just a child thing...and if someday I would be more like her...

And then my answer appeared. Lost in my thoughts, I had let my eyes wander...and instantly I realized a word...a single word...screaming out to me...

UNKNOWN

She grabbed my hand quickly and jerked me away from where I must have been standing...staring...as I remember automatically setting one foot in front of another...but not really walking. I was locked in on the message I received from unknown origin.

I remember the shock and disbelief that it were even possible in this reasonable world for the adults to conduct their activity in such a way as to leave a grave this way. I wondered if it were really possible for someone to die unknown. I wondered if that was really all the adults could do with this person...and I know it was at that exact moment I realized I must make every effort to live my life in a way that my contribution to this existence is KNOWN.

From that moment on, I never saw life the same. From that moment on, I realized the soul of that stone could very well conclude to me: hey, what are you looking at? Someday you'll be exactly as I am.

And I will.

But...my Mission Statement was forged at age 8.

THE DIFFERENCE IS YOU

I had had a fight with my boyfriend...we had been together for about 7 years...and I was really very sad at the situation...

I remember the feeling of my powerlessness in the situation...the investments I had made in the relationship seemed to have absolutely no effect upon his need to also invest.

I remember his parting words in the fight...as I walked down the alley. I remember crying and smoking my clove...feeling the first pangs of what would later become our end.

I remember musing on the hateful words he yelled about me...and wondering if what he said were possibly true...and, perhaps I was just too prideful or arrogant to realize it...as he accused. I began to allow his words to become my reality. And I sank further into a hopeless state.

I remember sitting down on the curb to cry...a few feet away from the delivery doors belonging to the florist.

I distinctly remember hating myself at that moment...seeing myself the way he apparently claimed I was...and drowning in confusion, as I knew deep down inside I was nothing like that.

Then...for no reason whatsoever, I began to be hit with repeated thoughts of other aspects in my life that seemed to completely unravel his argument. Situations and relationships where my "investing" has been exceedingly redemptive...and constructive. I began to survey the many relationships in my life that were thriving. And I began to consider the continual destructive relationships he seemed to crave.

I remember at that moment I raised my head to wipe away my tears one final time... and saw a small blackboard near some boxes by the delivery door dumpster.

I could see it had something written on it...in chalk. I remember slowly walking toward the blackboard...still sad...still confused...and I read: THE DIFFERENCE IS YOU.

I still have that chalkboard with it's words and I look at it sometimes with a smile because...when everything was said and done with that relationship...it was a message of truth.

THE SKI PATROL GUY

Years ago, on New Years day, I was with a group of people in Bend, Oregon. They had all decided to go mountain bike riding that day...and...I decided at the last minute to go skiing alone.

Several hours into my runs...I realized a storm was quickly approaching as the light snowfall and breeze were becoming stronger in force.

I remember being at one of the expert runs, very high on the mountain, when I calculated I could take a quicker way to the lodge. Being unfamiliar with the mountain and it's runs...I apparently went off course in a really wrong way. Before I knew it, I was knee deep into the side of this steep run...and completely surrounded by snowfall...with the sun having set some time ago...

I remember wedging my ski out of the snow, taking off my skis and attempting to find firmer ground. I looked around and began to realize the situation I had put myself in.

I was alone, and more than likely no one would know...as I hadn't told anyone from my group where I was going.

I remember a wave of panic hitting me as my efforts to walk seemed impossible enough...despite having no idea which way to walk. I probably moved 5 feet with every 3 minutes of struggle and knew I had run out of options.

I stood still for a moment, catching my breath. My heart racing and the fear welling inside.

In a flash I spotted a red figure some 200 yards away. I saw this figure stop. It stood still. And I realized it was the Ski Patrol. I had no clue what to do. I just stood there, waiting for him to see what he would do. Then he waved one arm toward him...and skied away.

I remember thinking he was going for help...but also...he was on firm ground...so I decided to help him, while he was going for help for me...and I would try to get closer to where he had been...

I couldn't tell you how long I struggled with the snow and my skis and my freezing hands and face...but I remember coming to the realization that the pack was more solid and I had come close enough to attempt to ski down.

And...I gratefully locked on my skis and glided to the bottom of the mountain.

Two ski patrol guys were near the lift when I arrived...they made some comment about how late it was and I remember trying to tell them I was the one the other ski patrol guy had spotted...no need to go up there.

I will never forget when the explained to me that they were the only two ski patrols on that side of the mountain that day...all the others had gone home...and no one else was up there.

YOU ARE LOVED

Not too long ago I was awoken by a phone call in the middle of the night. I answered in an automatic fashion, being barely coherent.

I remember the man on the other side...his words...he said, "You don't know me. But I want to tell you, God loves you."

And I was absolutely pissed off...I was like, "Hey. Who the fuck is this? It's 2 o'clock in the godamned morning--"

And he said, "Look, I know that. You just need to know that God loves you, and everything is going to be alright."

And I was like, "Okay, thank you crazy person. Good night." I slammed down the phone.

In the morning when I awoke...a few minutes drifted by...and the middle of the night phone call surfaced to my mind.

I immediately wondered if I had dreamt that call...or if it had been real...

I walked over to the phone...clicked on the button of calls received and it showed: 1.

I scrolled down...and the word I saw hit me as fresh and brilliant as that moonlit night long ago...when it penetrated my heart and soul...when I was 8...

UNKNOWN.

"To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest citizens and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one's self; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived - this is to have succeeded."
--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Another beautiful birthday...

have a wonderful week...

Kat

2006-07-17T23:04:00.000-07:00

...my ode to Billy Joe....
It isn't everyday a hero comes into your life...

As I begin to muse on what you have meant to me...I find myself shutting the blinds...grabbing the kleenex...and forseeing the puffy eyes I will wear all day tomorrow for letting myself venture into the emotional storm I've held back for so long.

Every moment that you have been a part of my life has been such a wonder to me.

Every day of my life that you have touched could not have been as blessed had you not been a part of it.

And I have held you in my heart for so long...my life is immeasurably blessed, beyond my comprehension.

Why God would choose to bless me by bringing you into my life...I don't know...but it has been one of the greatest gifts I will ever receive...one of the greatest tangible realizations of the power and beauty of love...

You were right...when you explained to me that being alone isn't always the best road...the jigsaw puzzle idea...that a lone piece can actually be enhanced by another piece...especially if they belong together...that although they can remain two totally separate pieces...together they enhance one another...together they form a picture....that wouldn't exist had they remained apart...

Oh how very right you have been in so many ways...

Oh, how very stubborn I can be in my thinking! You would tease me, "You always have to be right!" And I knew you were teasing...I knew that you knew I was okay with being wrong...but...at this moment I discover how it was you...you who knew it all...you who saw right through...you who didn't need to receive the credit...it was you...you were right all along.

I love your spirit...I always have. I love your joy...I love how you see things in images like I do. I love how you aren't afraid to be real...how you stand firm on the painful lessons and the wisdom you have gathered...and how you don't shy away from honesty and truth.

I love that you know I will always be honest and truthful. I love that you believe in me. There is no one else in this world I would believe in more than I believe in you. No matter what...I will come through for you...I would walk the earth barefoot for you...you have been worth it...and you will always be worth it.

God knew I would need you. He knew no one else could ever get close enough to me to penetrate my stubborn and prideful shell. He knew that we would speak the same language and crave the same values...enjoy the same hues in the sunset...laugh at the same humor...and finish each others sentences...even when neither one of us have said a word...

Your love has been like a sunrise to my soul every day of my life with you.

I love that you want to shield me from the harmful things of this world...that you are willing to let me make my own dumb mistakes and never say "I told you so," afterward...that we share such a bond only few souls ever encounter.

My heart floods with gratitude and smiles as I say goodbye to you.

Although we will be apart...I will force myself to embrace the fact that time and distance has never had it's impact on us. You mean more to me than any obstacle. We will see each other again...

Cats will always be floppy...and you may not always take my advice...but...I love you...and I know you will always tell my stories....

Kat

2006-04-04T09:22:00.000-07:00

...two examples of my need to be single...
...okay...well, maybe these two exemplify the reason I remain single.

Carl Barat and Pete Doherty...otherwise known as frontmen for the former band, The Libertines.

"Up the Bracket," has been such a fun CD to blast every morning...and afternoon...and evening. Sure beats the shit out of the godamn Britney Spears my two retarded neighbors seem obsessed with. They also crank up other shit that is getting on my effing maximum last nerve.

But...shit. Now I'm all inundated with the truth behind these two. And, it's gettin to me. I don't want to be all entwined with such huge fucking self-destructive losers.

I mean, I would theorize there is an "appropriate way" to kill yourself with drugs...but, hell...why make such a dramatic exit and drag it out for ever? Besides, the planet is crowded. If you're that unhappy just make room for the rest of us, k?

I mean, I'm sorry. But I have no patience for this kind of hedonistic bullshit. I live with no less than 5 major hospitals within a 5 mile radius of my front door. And one of them is for terminally ill children. What a fucking nightmare. The suffering, the loss, the torture on each soul. And these two dumb fuckers have to take the gift of life and take it as some huge God-ordained insult. Fucking bail then, Mr. I'm-so-fucking-upset-with-the-world.

Anyone who actually admires this twisted imitation of grandeur is obviously hurting for a muse.

It's all been done before, boys. What amazing talent it takes to overindulge with drugs, sex, and destruction. You're so fucking original.

Well...I have always enjoyed music as a package experience. I dig the composer, I dig the history behind the band...the sincerity of lyrics...I dig the flavor of the sound, as it were.

In order for me to continue chipping paint off the walls from the beat of these fellows every morning...I guess I will have to divorce their music from their existence as human beings.

Funny...seems like we actually have the same end goal after all.

"All of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

Oscar Wilde

Next time...Kat

For more reading:

http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/9519813/over_the_edge_with_pete_doherty?rnd=1144170789690&has-player=false

http://rockitqueen.blogspot.com/

2005-12-30T23:14:00.000-08:00

...here we see Chad...a lifetime away from the homeless beggar he is today...
...a couple of months ago, he approached me at Chevron. I was pumping gas, and he just appeared out of nowhere.

He didn't remember me from the prior encounter we had had at Safeway. And, as before, he hit me with the, "any spare change," grumble. He was monotone...his eyes looked tired...his face was dirty...his demeanor: broken.

I definately remembered him...as I had the intense realization of myself being a total dumbshit cemented with his face.

I looked at him for a nanosecond and exclaimed, "I can't believe you! I already gave you my favorite rock!" And he actually physically reacted to my statement...as if I was hurling a flaming dart in his direction. He then squinted at me, thought about it, and slowly smiled, "Hey, I love that rock!" And we laughed.

I again mentioned different programs near by...and he again walked away waving one hand, and shaking his head.

When I got into the car, a friend of mine said, "Hey, I know that guy."

And I was all, "What? Did he hit you up, too?"

And he's all, "No. He was on the 2002 U.S. Postal Team."

And I'm all, "What?! No, come on."

And he's all, "No. I'm full on serious. That guy was #2 in the nation."

And I'm thinkin that since my friend is some huge bicycle enthusiast, he's projecting cycling onto everyone and everything he encounters.

So we go back to my place and look up the team. Hard to tell who's who. So...the matter dies.

Until last week.

I'm walking, head down against the pelting raindrops, into Safeway. And there's Chad.

Lonnnnnnnng time no see. And he does the schpiel. And I looked at him.

I had forgotten all about him...and the rock incident...and all that...and I said, "Dude. Were you a cyclist?"

And he appears ashamed, head down, swiping the pavement with one foot. He barely raises his head, with one eye open as the rain hits his face, "yeah."

Then he bursts into a volley of coughs. "I've been real sick."

And I said, in my motherly tone, as I neared the store,"When are you gonna stop doing this? You need to get back to cycling. My friend recognized you...he said you're famous. What's your last name? I'm gonna look you up."

I was walking into Safeway when our conversation was put on hold. I thought he'd be long gone by the time I exited that place, some 45 minutes later.

From behind a building pillar, he emerges, singing... "I love myself better than you, know it's wrong...what can I do?"

I was suspended in this moment.

Cobain. The truth in his lyrics...these lyrics...and Chad is not a lost cause. This guy.

Being enslaved to drugs. Hating yourself for being your own worst enemy...yet fighting so hard to have a life. The depression, the desperation...the fucking questions and judgement from people.

My exact conclusion to the judgement I receive from people is this:

Until someone walks in my shoes, with my exact past, present and future...the pressures, the struggles, the emotions...then, fucking judge me not.

And, your evaluation, opinion, and declaration of me holds no weight, as I am not subjecting myself to your evaluation, opinion, and declaration. If I want input, I'll raise my hand.

No one knows another person's exact struggles and conflicts better than that person. External behavior and decisions aren't necessarily an indication of a person's nature, character, or lack thereof. Sometimes, a person's outward behavior, and external appearance, are more of a symptom. A symptom of an underlying condition...drug and alcohol induced, or otherwise...a tenable symptom, nonetheless.

In which, judgement is never a solution. As it is almost always uninformed, unfair, and unjust.

There is One Judge. And none of us are Him.

So. In this season of giving, and thankfulness, and all that...I am reminded of my fellow humans.

Those who's "light," at the end of their tunnel, is merely an oncoming train...

I am grateful for the experiences in my life, which have enabled me to fully understand their struggle. And it's fucking hell. Selfish, arrogant, irresponsible...yes...but also a trap, a snare, and a continual ripping on the heart and soul...to such an extent, death seems the only peace available.

Not suprising so many find their escape there...

I stood looking at Chad. I began to gently nod, "Cobain." I whispered. He nodded and softly spoke, "I miss him."

For me, life took such a hard, deep dive. I was in a pit I thought I could never escape. And, hardship after hardship...trial after trial...I began to slowly climb out of that abyss. (No, I wasn't all into crack.) (sheesh.) But...my point...(yes, I have a point.)...is...at some point, the tide had turned.

Life and relationships began to just flow. Accomplishment were continuous, and peace prevailed.

I was telling a freind of mine that I really missed the way life used to be. That, somehow, even in the hardest struggles, I enjoyed believing "it would all be okay, someday." And, it's like, today has become "someday,"...and it's hard to look forward to things being "better," when things are actually quite great.

It's hard to have hope in something, when it's right here in front of you.

I explained that, it seems like when everything in your life is going perfect, it's unnerving. It seems like the bottom is going to fall out any moment.

Sad...I understand. Sad...doesn't cause me worry...'cause it's about as bad as it's going to get...and there is always reason to hope. But when everything is going perfect...it's hella unnerving...I'm so much more comfortable with sad...

His response to me was, "It's like that Cobain lyric. 'I miss the comfort in being sad.'"

And, it's true.

Even in the most extreme moments of grief, sorrow, and sadness---somehow I knew, without wavering---that I had a reason to hope. I knew, to the depths of my marrow, that if I continued to do the right things, to endure in doing my best, and to persevere in excellence---despite my obstacles---that it would pay off. I knew that someday I would no longer be bound by the downfall of my foolish decisions---but I would bask in the glow of my dedication to the "higher road." The "harder" road.

The slippery slope up out of the pit.

When you're in the pit...only 2 choices. Give up, or, simply: up.

Giving up is merely inviting death. And, death is the fucking easiest choice. By far, the simplist. But, it involves DYING. And, if DYING isn't really what you are into (as it's permanent...) then, I would strongly suggest, sleep it off...or seek therapy.

To live through the fucking mess of a fucked up life...ah, man, not for the faint of heart. Having to own up to your shit, admit to your wrongs, consciously separate yourself from the self destructive mindset and the "fuck it all," mentality.

All I can say is: focus, motherfucker. It's do-able.

Stop being the fucking victim and toe up to the challenges life throws at you. And one more thing: IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU. Grow the fuck up. Forgive others. Forgive yourself.

I guess it's all about emotional maturity, mental stability, coping mechanisms...and all that shit.

But, when you've lived for an extensive period of time steeped in intense sadness and sorrow, even tinged with hope,the silence of it's departure can be quite loud.

For me, there is no sadness without hope.

I leaned toward Chad and said, "I miss the comfort of being sad." He looked out toward the falling rain, and barely spoke, "I'm sad all the time." And, just like that...he walked away...into the rain...

This kid. He's on my heart and in my prayers. His life, his choices. But that doesn't mean I can't care. I can't help but care. And I hate that I can't impart to him what I've learned. Save him from the torture, from the desperation...the loneliness and hopelessness...

But truths this deep only come to those who live through them.

And I forget

Just what it takes

And yet I guess it makes me smile

I found it hard

Its hard to find

Oh well, whatever, nevermind...

Kat

2005-12-29T00:20:00.000-08:00

...the first time I met Chad...

...I was walking into Safeway...

The rain was pouring down, the wind, incessant. I was cold, pissed off, and tired. (Again.)

As I began to grab a cart...I see this young homeless guy...he's all unaware I can't hear him...

And...for whatever reason...I didn't just keep walking...or say, "No, sorry--" like I might.

These are people...

human beings...

and...regardless of what reasons factored into their slip into the homeless pit of dispair...that's where they are.

Long after their 3 seconds in my face...we split up...

I go into the warm store...I get whatthefuckever I want...and I drive my warm car back to my warm house...and bitch on my fucking blog, while wearing my zillion dollar mp3 player...

and they're still at Safeway in the rain...or, maybe at Rite Aid...in the rain. Their night will be great if they can score, eat, or drink, and sleep... without getting their shit stolen, or being fucked with.

Choices?

Maybe. But it takes a fucking village.

And we're the United Fucking States. WHY are there homeless people in the third richest country of the world? Fucking tell me. Why are drug users clogging our jails and prisons...?
Why are the mentally ill aimlessly wandering down the fucking alleys?

Sometimes I hate this fucking society.

Until we begin to value our citizens despite race, gender, socioeconomic status...physical and/or mental disabilities...our nation, and it's people will remain a "house divided against itself." The rich keep getting richer...and fuck the poor. The downtrodden, the destitute. After all, social policy costs money....and you need to have money to make money. Thus, spending money on the epidemic of homelessness and socialized health care will only deplete our nation's strength...as, money is our strength...and our country was founded on certain inalienable truths and rights.

Oh yeah? Ponder this:

... in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity...

or,

“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

I am sick to death of our government and lawmakers. I despise the hedonistic mentality of our nation. And it sickens me to witness the complete disregard we, as a people, have for our weakest members of society. It is an injustice which will continue to weaken our nation. If money isn't something that Congress is willing to part with, what about power? Perhaps some political house cleaning is in order. Apathy prevails. It's an injustice--- which I, for one, will not sit idly.

(And yes. I do drive a fucking bmw.)

But, Chad.

I rip out one of my ear pieces...and he's asking for some spare change.

I looked him straight in the eye...and I said, "Why are you out here, dude?"

And he says, "Uh, I dunno."

And I said, "Honestly...what's your drug of choice, man?"

And he looks staight back at me and says, "Crack cocaine."

I began to mention different programs within a five mile radius...soup kitchens...NA meetings...

and he simultaneously (and systematically) shot down each and every idea with an excuse...

(it was like tennis...but different.)

I seem to recall him asking me again if I had any spare change...

(Well, fact is: my change purse is filled with still life. No shit. I have a plastic frog, several small rocks from night hikes, a red sequin, a blue thread of yarn...trinkets from days gone by...momentos from fun times...whatever.)

(And, actually, when I couldn't tip this cool barista at godamned Starbuck's one time, I offered my purple plastic ant...and they we're all thrilled as I dropped it into the tip box.)

I only give away one of my little trinkets when truly pressed by someone.

And just then I had an idea.

I informed Chad I couldn't give him cash...but I did have something I thought he would really like.

I began to dig in my purse to my coin zipper...it was caught on the thread...but I was making some progress. He eagerly asked..."What is it, anyhow?" And I said, "Oh, you'll like it. It's a rock. I think you'll really dig it--"

I finally get the damn thing unzipped, grab the rock and look into his smiling face.

I extend my hand and place the rock into his outstretched palm. I smiled, awaiting his response, shoulders back...breath held.

His smile fades for a second. Then he leans forward, looks me straight into the eyes, and says, "You're a real fuckin funny person, aren't you?"

And, you know, it was just a rock. So, maybe he didn't get the coolness of it...I thought.

It wasn't until I was about a block from home that I began to piece together our entire conversation.

NOTE TO THE WISE:

Never casually utter the phrase, "I have a rock for you," around a self-professed crack fiend.

Kat

Theme song for the day: "Kill the poor," by the Dead Kennedy's.

blue monday part II

2005-12-12T16:55:00.000-08:00

.
(it only took me like 200 shots to get this one. The bathtub can be a really cold place.)

I've had the damn flu....

Again.

And it's like...people.

...easier to borrow money than receive sympathy.

Bottom line is: I'm gettin this shit like every 8 weeks. So now the comments wander into the "what-the-hell's-up-with-your-immune-system" realm.

And, of course, I roll my eyes and take another drag off my clove.

Geez.

Why is it when someone is like raging with a fever and body aches (only falling off a moving truck can imitate) do people come out of the damn woodwork and pelt you with dumbass comments---and questions?

In the Bible...this dude, Job, dealt with losers like this...but damn...that was like 15 zillion years ago...and we are in an advanced intellect society...right?

Uh huh.

So...yeah.

Flu #2 this season.

8 weeks to be healthy.

Christmas almost here...and I have no idea if I'm gettin the Christmas bonus this year.

You may recall from my ranting of yesteryear: I did tell my boss to "count me out," for next year.

(That's presently: now.)

Do I regret the comment? Not at fucking all.

I say what I mean. And, if I come to discover I was wrong...I come out with the apologies.

Having a "clean slate," means more to me than appearing cool.

I meant what I said...and I'm ready to accept the repercussions. Bring it on, life.

The Yankees remain in my sites...watchin Cash and his lack of wheelin-and-dealin is supreme in my book. Let the Mets and Toronto collect all the mediocre free agents... I firmly believe Bubba Crosby can handle Center...and I also think Boras is standing on the 7 year thing...only to turn around (in due time) with a "okay-how-about-4-years" offer which he thinks Cash will jump at. No offense, Damon....but: no thanks...your bullshit comments about NEVER playing for the Yankees should be something you should stand behind.

Unless...appearing cool means more to you than apologizing and having a "clean slate."

(I'm a bitch.)

Soooooooooooo glad to be rid of Kevin Brown...and Embree...and Gordon can just go pout and scream about wanting to be "the only closer," with some other team. DUDE. We have Rivera: the Jesus-Christ-of-Closers. And you ain't him. Be gone.

Although I greatly admire many players beyond the Yankee clubhouse...I'm really optimistic about the next few years for this team under Cashman's control.

(And Randy Johnson...I once emoted all over my blog for having acquired your shit. You best stop fucking around and pitch when you are told!) Let dumbshits like Schilling go down in flames...you still have a one in a zillion skill...don't fuck it up with the mound-antics. K? Thanks.

Anyhow...my whole body is beginning to cramp up. So I best get back into bed.

I know I didn't really say much...but...bear with me...this is as lucid as it gets today.

Ohandbytheway...I've discovered Tetris. (yeah: Tetris.) But, I'm tellin you: I TOTALLY ROCK WITH A FEVER!!! My record is now: 256.

(Bragging about one's Tetris record isn't very interesting . Odd looks and raised eyebrows are all you get for your badassness in December 2005.)

Ah well, Jimmy crack corn and I don't give a fuck.

See you next time...

Kat

2005-08-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

.
Yeahso. I get this car. And, it's nice. It is. But, you see, I was really shopping for reliability and safety.

And within a certain price range.

And, sure as shit, THIS lands in my hands. (At a nominal fee.)

But the deal is: the car freaks me out. It's like this OMINOUS PRESENCE all the damn time.

It constantly tells me this shit or that...like "washer fluid low," or "release parking break" kind of shit. And there's this bell sound along with the dumb flashing demands. And also, these demands can stretch out the the farthest spectrum of my car's needs, such as

"STOP ENGINE!"

...these are the messages I have nightmares over...

You see...any fucking problem I encounter with this car is going to set me back zillions of dollars.

(That's if I decide to keep it, and not shove it off some nearby cliff.)

It's insured.

And I'll buy witnesses if I have to.

And so now I'm not some low life pedestrian. Nor am I some low life mass-transit user.

No. Now I get challenged at every intersection by every make and model of HONDA to race.

And those Honda people think they're the shit. Okay. Honda. Uh...I'm just not feelin your badassness.

So...I flip it into race mode and hit the pedal. It sounds great and employs immediate g-forces...and...way back there is the Honda. It's boring after one or two times. (a day.)

And so then. I'm like going to Safeway...the store with freaks and idiots...(read prior posts)...and I'm coming up to the goddamn RED LIGHT VIOLATION intersection.

$371 PER VIOLATION...is the part of the sign that concerns me.

And this particular intersection actually has cameras...unlike the many others dumb non-camera/sign posted intersections that litter my little town.

So like...it's a stale green...and I'm doin like 40...and I figure I will go through...(no slowing down, that is)...and then it becomes stale yellow...and I'm thinking, "It's a right turn...no one needs to stop to turn right...do they?" And just then I see some goddamn cones on the side of the road where they've been doing road work...and the cones threw off my timing and edge of taking the right on the stale yellow.

SO I FUCKING LOCK EM UP.

(Of course, I have abs...so I didn't really lock em up. Annoying. But safe. Uh huh.)

And...as I came to a complete cessation of movement on this stale fucking yellow...I apparently just d-r-i-f-t-e-d- - - over the crosswalk line.

And before you could say one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two...I am instantly hit with the FLASH of the camera!

OH, YOU HAVE GOT TO FUCKING BE KIDDING ME?!? I'm like STOPPED you dumb fucker. And now the opposing traffic is moving. And I have been sitting here STOPPED for at least 2 seconds and you take a fucking picture of ME? (I'm talking to the camera. Didn't even care if others saw.)

Realizing the severity of the situation, and futility of yelling at the camera, I found myself on pissed off/panic mode. I wanted to find the nearest cop and explain my whole situation so he would know that I wasn't some egregious law breaker.

I theorize, egregious law breakers don't hunt down cops to explain their activity...only the seriously innocent/misunderstood/responsible types do.

And, perhaps, he would put in a good word for me to his sadistic friends who take and process the photos. "It was a freak mistake," I would say, "It may look like I broke the law...but I didn't. That's why I'm coming to you, mister Cop-man. Let's just save everyone the time and hassle and go get my picture from your pals together, k?"

But, no. No cops in sight. And I tend to not like time spent with any authority figures, anyhow.

I'm certain my hate-The-Man vibe would be an influence...and things may go sideways on me.

(They can arrest your shit just for grins and giggles, you know. No reason necessarily needed...just thinking you might be doing something that might be illegal, or looking like someone who might be connected with someone they might be looking for...it's called Probable Cause...and they do this shit like randomly...and often.) Remember, there is a vast difference between being "charged," with a crime, and being "convicted," of a crime. "Charges," they drop all the time. "Convictions," nnnnnnot really. Beyond that...it is a cop's job to arrest folks. They need to arrest folks. Quota and all. "Keeping the peace," alone won't get you extra funding from the State or Feds. And heaven help you if it's a District Attorney's election year. But anyhow...

Makes me want to break out into a solo of "God Bless America..."

Nonetheless...I remain safe and not-yet-found-guilty-by-a-jury-of-my-peers in my car.

And then my car actually began to mock me. It was like, "Well, if you wouldn't drive like such a dumbshit we could have made it." And I began to resent my car.

Oh, that's nothing new. I began to resent my car the moment the fucking DMV wanted $1300 more than I planned to pay them in March. Sales tax. (They're a whole separate Fascist Regime...) And the hits just keep on playing.

Bottom line, with this damned Red Light Violation...15 days.

They have 15 days to mail you your shit. The photo...the citation...the invite to court and/or jail. And I was having all forms of anxiety.

Okaylook---> I DID NOT PROCEED THROUGH THE INTERSECTION!!! I WAS STOPPED, YOU PRIVACY-INVADING-DICTATORS!!!

However, the law states that if you enter the intersection (over the crosswalk lines) when the light has turned red...you have committed a violation...whether you proceed or otherwise. Entering on the red is the crux.

I tripped out loud each day of my 15-calendar-day wait.

A friend actually wrote on my white board at home "Oh Goddd! She's telling her Red-Light-Story-Again!!!" while I was telling my story on the phone...which I found later that day as I was typing up an email of my Red Light Story to another friend...

The mail man became the evil messenger whom I dreaded. I was THRILLED to see my mailbox filled with just bills.

And day 15 came and went.

No citation.

No photo.

No fine.

And a trepidatious sigh of semi-relief...wondering if it still might come and I will have to clog the fucking courthouse with all my random filings and appeals.

(It would become my life focus. And I would enjoy a good knock down/drag out before I part with $400 bucks...and then some...that's for damn sure.)

But...it's been a month or so now...and I'm over it, I think.

A friend was telling me of her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder...struggling with her fear of simply driving again, after surviving this intense collision where her car was totaled.

The only thing I could compare that all-consuming-paralizing-state-of-fear with is the dread and anxiety I endure when I come near that Red Light Violation intersection.

She nodded, but seemed a tad bit miffed at my shallow attempt to empathize.

My position is this: everyone's shock and trauma is subjective, okay?

And it's the little things in life which mame and torture.

So there.

So...anyhow...just thought I'd give you a glimpse of my happenings as of recent.

Haven't come up with a theme song of the day...but...one thing's for damn sure...

if those Yankees don't start annihilating each and every team they come up against in the next few weeks...we ain't gonna be in the playoffs...and...I for one, will be a very unpleasant person to be around in October.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Just pitch the damn ball, you guys!

Happy Monday...

hate the Red Sox...

go A's...

and stop on yellows.

Kat

2005-02-04T19:14:00.000-08:00

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Hey man...I know it's been like forever since I've touched bases here...and...well...I'm doing rather well...I'm just hanging...you know. But...I will write soon...I have a plethora of shit to shovel your way...so...hang tight...and I will return.

Just like Jesus.

Love y'all.

Kat

shoot me again, sam

2005-01-18T06:24:00.000-08:00

A dentist found the source of the toothache Patrick Lawler was complaining about on the roof of his mouth: a four-inch nail the construction worker had unknowingly embedded in his skull six days earlier. The tool sent a nail into a piece of wood nearby, but Lawler didn't realize a second nail had shot through his mouth.

Yeah. Alright. My only question is:

how could he not know?

This guy. I mean, the jokes he's enduring...no doubt. And I'm guessing, for the rest of his life he shall always be reduced to, "what's wrong with you? Is it phantom-nail-in-the-head syndrome?"

Well...he's in good company. We all tend to deny serious matters in life...

It's a wonder he didn't keel over with tetanus. And, to think...it was a dentist who diagnosed him...hahaha....I would have loved to be the person who developed this x-ray. Would have made my fucking day...

All weirdness aside...I actually know someone who did the exact thing. However, the nail gun shot the nail into the wood...it ricocheted off a hanger (it's a metal deal in construction)...this nail did an about-face...(so to speak)...and shot into his lower lip.

And there it remained.

While he showed everyone on the jobsite...

While he went to the Rite Aid to get a camera and take pictures of himself, so as to show everyone on the jobsite...and on other jobsites...and, subsequently, to show family and friends...

...as well as complete strangers.

And...after half a day of show and tell...this nail continued to remain jutting from his lower lip, as he sat for hours in the Emergency Room.

(They later remarked to him that they would have given him swifter attention, but they misunderstood his situation...they all thought it was a piercing...)

As a puncture wound...it didn't bleed at all. (Which is a bummer for show and tell...by the way...one is reduced to acting all in shock...and freaked out...without true evidence, except the dumb nail still in the dumb lip..)

Some half a day or so later, it was a nurse...not a doctor..who gently slid the nail out of his lip...commenting, "Geez...why didn't you just do this yourself?"

(Yikes. What an attack on the look-at-my-pain-and-suffering ego.)

Then yesterday, er whenever, this x-ray and story come on the news...and this guy: He's first to jump up, point and scream, "THAT HAPPENED TO ME!!! IT WAS JUST LIKE THAT!!!"

...and...once again...we all have to sit and swallow his account of his near death experience.

...with photos...

(He keeps 'em in his car...easy access.)

So...life.

You got the guy with the nail in the head...ignoring it. And then you got the guy with the piercing-gone-awry...wishing he could be the guy with the nail in his head...

Life is just unfair...

I've never had anything shot into my head.

However, years ago, I contracted spinal meningitis...and eventually had to have neurosurgery. (That is...they shaved half my head and went right in with scalpels and pointy/jabby things.) The neurosurgeon at UCSF was this cool dude...but he overlooked a staple...which annoyed the hell out of me for a few months...until it was discovered in an xray. So, I guess I can empathize on some very far removed level...when really trying...(if I put on "imagination cap...")

I guess the moral to this story is:

Keep your mouth shut on the job...

If it feels like a four inch nail embedded into your skull...perhaps that's because it is one?

Ice Cream and Vicodin don't cure all pains...(but they sure make it all cozy....)

And...of course...a nail in the head is better than one in the lip...

my bad...have a groovy day...

Kat

winners

2005-01-15T06:36:00.000-08:00

"No cameras," said Johnson, who extended his right hand in an attempt to block the camera lens. "Get out of my face, that's all I ask," Johnson is heard saying on the video.
"I'm just taking a picture," responded the cameraman.
"No you're not," said Johnson, as the camera continued to roll. "Don't get in my face. I don't care who you are...don't get in my face," Johnson yelled.
"I'm just taking a picture," the cameraman responded.
"Don't get in my face and don't talk back to me, alright," Johnson said, raising his voice again.
Johnson and Laveroni eventually managed to evade the cameraman.
The Yankees refused to comment on the incident, but Johnson later issued a statement apologizing for his actions.

Jeez. Sounds like me and my boss at work...

Apologize? For what? I'm thinking about sending Randy some roses...

He sounds like a healthy "boundary-setter," to me... My thought is, I don't give a shit what it seems like you're "just" doing...if you be dishin it out, you best be prepared to take it.

And so, someone like Johnson...he has to apologize. But people like Charles Graner are poor, unfortunate, misunderstood, justified semi-heroes?

What's with everyone's need to be taking pictures?

Johnson's an asshole because he didn't want his picture taken. And yet, the Iraqi prisoners are crybabies because they didn't want their pictures taken?

A friend and I were discussing the "abuse," of the Iraqi prisoners...and the friend, this knows-the-propaganda-better-than-Dan-Rather, he's all espousing the position that "they didn't torture the prisoners...it was just a tactic to get them to talk." He goes on to state, "They just piled the Iraqi's in pyramids, naked...that's no big deal."

Yeah. Okay.

He would come unfuckingglued if he were arrested, taken into booking, and later forced to pile up with a half-dozen other dudes...whilst the guards shoot off photos. There wouldn't be enough Prozac or shock therapy in the world to restore this dude to his self-viewed "badmotherfucker," status.

I mean...sleep deprivation is considered torture.

Well. Enough about that. I believe in a Grand Scale. I believe that someday we will all have to give an account for our words, thoughts, and deeds...with every motivation revealed. I do. And knowing this, I find alot of peace in knowing that why I did what I did sometimes has more weight than what actually took place. I don't have to seek recognition, or validation from any person...as it were...because God and I know exactly where my heart and mind are coming from. And that's enough for me.

So that's my pseudo sermon on all that shit.

Went to the horse races last night. It was groovy. I so dig on that scene. Beyond the fact that I never lose...I know alot of the folks behind the scenes.

I've done the track for as long as I can remember...

I used to handicap...trip on stats...paddock reports...and it choked out all the fun. Then, one day I was thinking about long ago when I was a competitive skater. Before a competition, we would get a list of who we were competing against. In what order. The mandatory program...

And...we had like a month and a half to master our routine.

It becomes mind numbing...the routine...the fuck ups...the music. I did this one routine to Dvorack's New World Symphony... The damn thing was like 7 minutes long...with like 12 jumps and 6 spirals...a shitload of footwork...and ARMS UP...the whole time. (When you get tired...your arms are the first to go...they're 1/2 the work accomplishing the jumps...)

I was 11.

And my instructor...known as a "pro," was this dude from Italy, Leonardo. He was "hot," I guess, as I hadn't discovered boys yet, but all the mothers were just giddy around him. And when I would land a jump I'd really struggled with...or just fucking nail some really difficult jump combo...he would yell out "YOW!! DAT WAS GOOT!"

And that's when began to face my limits...and realize I could have complete command of pushing past my capability.

To doubt oneself is to create your limit. And I doubted alot. But then...I came to the realization that perhaps if I could use that very energy to define my limit...to challenge my limit...perhaps...I could push past the limit...recreate my potential. Not take no for an answer.

So I'd practice. I'd go before school...right after school...sometimes non-stop on the weekends. I'd hurl myself into the air and either land or crash. And, if you take enough crashes...you figure it out. I over-rotated...my shoulders weren't square...I led out with my weight on the last 4 toes on my left skate... And, it's like picking a lock...you get just the right set up dynamics...it's fucking yours. And there's this intensely, almost spiritual realization when you finally master some challenge...you always hoped you had it in you to do this...but you can't believe it's really happened...and it really happened to you...and you really made it happen.

That was the best character inscribing lesson I could ever receive with all those years of trying. Winning wasn't nearly as exciting as those quiet moments on the floor...1 in the morning...when you've finally discovered you have won the fight with what your little mind thought was "the impossible..". That one jump...that one mocking fear...the self doubt...the defeat...and finding, deep inside yourself the willingness to not be defeated by yourself. To choke back the tears...and to force the win.

I would employ this reasoning later...when I dropped skating for my goal of being Valedictorian in high school. For whatever reason...this was some huge deal to me. And, long story short, I got it.

The competition against self... the willingness to reject insecurity...the willingness to take focus off "the competition," and realize the victory is only really measured accurately if it is in proportion to the level of deficit you began with...and conquered.

Being better than someone else isn't a big deal...Cause everyone's better than someone else. Including me. But...am I better than myself? Than who I thought I was yesterday? Or 5 minutes ago? If so...and when that happens...I find myself in this silenced awe. I find myself intimately aware that any gift I might have did not originate with me...It's a gift. And I have been blessed enough to discover it was there. It does not define me...As it really isn't mine.

What is mine, is my character. How I use what I've been given...selfishly...or humbly? To tear others down or to build others up? To be a taker...or a giver? To destroy...or to edify?

So...being the winner. I remember that when I pick out horses. I look into their eyes...I behold their presence. Winners may be pensive...but are generally focused. Their generally not antsy...because the battle of winning has already been fought with themselves, alone. They know their potential...and can assess their opponents potential. And...for me...if it comes down to do or die...then the victory is mine. I am all about pressure. That's when it just flows. And I find myself sitting back...watching myself do this thing...and hearing the doubt in my head...but pressing on to the victory. And it rocks.

I got to ride in the car last night. The one that leads the race. It holds back the horses from the start. And, at the last minute, the gates swing wide open.

So...here I am. In the back of this car...going backward...looking at the horses inching up to the gate. And...here they fucking come. And this one...he is literally 6 feet away from me...this horse...he's looking straight at me. And his breathing...shots of hot steam shooting from his face...his mane flying like flames...and the sound of these horses...the hoofbeats...the rumble of their breaths....their strength...the definition of their muscles...such an explosion of force...their legs pounding away so intensely...that they appear to be floating.

And this one horse...I'm looking into his eyes...and I saw it...

that unmistakable mark of the winner...

He was focused. He was looking past me...he had the win. He was fucking amazing.

And it hit me...that epiphanal moment. Like looking into the sun...

Being a winner. The intensity. The shine. The unmistakable essence. It's almost tangible.

...and he did win. And having that opportunity to be face to face with this creature was such a "stirring of the coals," for me. I'm so glad I have failed and fallen so many times in my life. I am so glad I know that effort really only has an impact upon the one to whom it is directed. Against an opponent...it can assure his victory over you.

But effort focused against one's own doubt of self...can, indeed, be the defining victory.

And my Valedictorian speech at graduation ended with these words:

"The only limit to our realization of tomorrow, is our doubt of today. Let us move forward with strong and active faith." (Franklin Delano Roosevelt)

have a great weekend.

Kat

Singles

2005-01-12T22:08:00.000-08:00

My best Valentines day story.

Okay. So like, I'm on my way home...and it's misty raining. I'm walking downtown to the little Smoke Shop on the light rail strip. And so...there I am...soaked. Jeans, oversized brown sweater...Doc Martins...listening to...(hmmm...?)...probably Weiland. (I was huge into him at that time...)

And THERE THEY ARE. The sweet, loving, perfect little fucking couples. Oh, and she's got roses. And he thinks he'll probably get laid tonight. And they are just sweet. And fucking perfect. Their perfect hair and shoes...and their plastic manners...

And, of course, THEY ALL have to give me that EW, LOOK AT THE SOAKING WET BLONDE GIRL look. You know, that look that seems to silently say thank-God-I'm-not-you.

And. I felt their look.

Shards of shattered glass shooting straight into my single pathetic soul, you heartless, mindless, plastic fuckers!

Well. I now know, without any doubt, those couples ain't together anymore. Cause, the rumor has it that less than 50% of married couples make it 6 years...So HAH HAH FUCKING HAH.

But...um...okay...well...I make it into the Smoke Shop. And there's this Iranian dude all sitting on this barstool behind the counter, listening to the Motherland radio station...and it's piping out some whining/shrieking woman and like citars.... I'm guessing their Middle East version of Mariah Carey...

Okay...and so like I ask for my cloves. And he's all like gesturing that he has to go get them from the back. (I'm sure he mumbled something too...but I was doing Weiland...okay...?)

So like...my heart: heavy. My being: feeling so alone...

And, the only person I have a chance to speak with...he walks away...

And I dropped my head...from sorrow...being tired...discouraged...alone...

And right there...down by my feet...I see a wad of cash...

Well...Shityeah!!

I look over to Ahmed...and he's all still in the back...so...

instantmoraldecision.

*If I pick it up and give it to Ahmed...that would be honest...

*But, Ahmed is gonna keep it...

*Nobody at fucking all around...

*Therefore, by theory of deduction modulo...It's my wad...or it's Ahmed's...

*And I've always found theorys to be somewhat unstable...and, given the present situation, I believe it best to associate the axiom of asymmetric deduction modulo. (This works for me.)

*All logic aside...therefore..my conclusion to this matter is simple...

FINDERS FUCKING KEEPERS!

So...yeah. I swiped it!

Ahmed returns, and is all showing signs of his impatience with me for actually making him get up off his barstool...

and I pay...

and I bolt!

I got about a block away...and, there, wrapped up in a FIVE...was also a TWENTY and a FIFTY.

And...I knew it was God's little Valentine to me. I really did. And that was the best Valentine's gift I've ever received...

...to be reminded of the Source of comfort...of which, men are swell imitators...but ain't nothin better than to know that

even all by myself: I am never really alone.

And that's my story.

And I'm goin to bed.

Alone...but not really....

Kat

Theme song of the day: "The Young Crazed Peeling" by The Distillers.

2005-01-05T06:45:00.000-08:00

.It's fun to be a star... it's nice to have a car...Yeah...you'll have to admit, that I'll be rich as shit!

I'll just sit and grin...the money will roll right in...

Okay. Is it me? Or is it the fact that I am actually awake before 8AM...but...

...I am...

...and, I was trying to do the normal things I do after I get up.

And, just as one's computer freezes up when too much information clogs the whatever...(technical explaination unknown, but solely owned by Microsoft...)...well...I'm really needing someone to CTRL+ALT+DEL my fucking head. Reboot me, man.

Cause...like I'm reading the daily MLB headlines, as I do each day...and somewhere along the line they're all talking Carlos-baby, here. So, I get into and out of another 1/2 dozen websites and somewhere along the line someone refers to Mr. 14 year old Beltran (well, maybe he's 15 now) is looking at a $120 million contract with his Pimp, (I mean, "Agent,") Scott Boras.

And the column also goes on to remarking how the Yankees are "on the brink," of going over their $200 million payroll.

OKAYFUCKINGWHAT?

This is baseball, right? I mean, pitchers...hitters...repititious cup adjustings (by the way, guys, we women aren't with you on that one. you're being icky.)

Look...I know it's a business...but...godamn...look at this kid! He's like still waiting for his wisdom teeth to erupt! ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILLION? Jesusfuckingchrist! That makes my head swim.

Well...I'm just glad the Yankees aren't dying to get him. He's not one of us. I don't know exactly why...it's just a feeling I have. I'm still holding out on some hope that they'll get some of them A's for me...but, I think they're all on contract...but, hell, contracts are for suckers... huh, Carlos, honey? Why not just make the deal on a handshake?

We all know that no matter what he signs, Boras will sell him again within 2 years...justyouwatchandsee.

Kat

the glory of mass transit

2005-01-03T21:57:00.000-08:00

A few years ago...becoming instantly car-less, I began to bitch and moan and come up with a plethora of reasons I just couldn't continue to function "on foot."

And it's fucking true.

However, I had this roommate, this totally cool dude (a gay hippy) (yes. gay hippy) named Kent...and he was all shovin his mother earth shit in my direction. Okay...I'm a total hippy. I am. But...I bathe. And I have plastic money. Fuck, I have money... And a job. But I totally dig on patchouli and incense...and free love (shhhhhh!) and every other aspect of Hippy-dom. (I even like the smell of sweat.) (Well, some people's sweat.)

So like my roomate, Kent...he's all heralding the glory of mass transit to me. So, realizing I'm getting no fucking sympathy with his whole attitude...I listen to his sales pitch: ad infinitum reasons to try the bus.

Oh, now Kent had a car. And he took the bus like exclusively. So, realizing he wasn't givin me a ride anywhere, I broke down and submitted myself to the utter wasteland of bus taking.

Somewhere on the first week of bus takage, I began to get the whole routine down.

First, don't even think the bus schedule means shit. It don't. And don't think you'll just get on and it will all just be a ride. Ah hell no. They pack that shit with losers and freaks for entertainment purposes. THEIR entertainment...at your expense.

I used to try and be nice...then it became an issue of survival. Like the jungle. I take this seat and don't fuck with my space.

Okay, first off...the fucking bus drivers get all pissed off if you are minding your own business, sitting quietly, but blasting your music. They make a big speech IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.

So, I'm just sitting there and allofasudden we're so not moving. In fact, allofasudden the bus driver is standing. And he's saying something. And he looks really mad. And everyone is looking behind their shoulders...and they're looking at....me...? Me? What the fuck have I done? Jesus, I'm a victim here.

Look around, I'm the only person on this goddamn contraption who knows what fucking planet we're on! And, I also stand out, as I have not eaten, puked, or taken off my clothes and locked them outside the windows so they would dry from the fucking river water they were just "washed" in...

So, like, I learned early on to sit in the furthest-away-from-the-whole-freakish-lot seat.

And, in time, I became a Jedi Knight of bus taking. Ah, hell, I could go from state to state just using the local routes...on a Day Pass. And I'd tell those bus drivers to radio ahead to my connecting bus and tell them to fucking wait for me. And they would...

My attitude and attire were basic. "Any fucking part of your body that comes in contact with mine--YOU DON'T GET BACK." And then, my walkman, I put a big black and white sticker on the side that faces everyone in front of me...it read: I HATE YOU. And I would blast my music and wear my sunglasses, so as to stare at people, but not be caught. Also, you don't have to acknowledge someone when you do your music and sunglasses on the bus, cause they won't know you saw or heard a fucking thing from them...

Not long after I began riding, I was headed home. And the bus stopped at the usual stop. And then we sat. And sat. And sat. Finally I stand up a bit, and at that moment I witness the bus driver shaking this homeless guy's shoulder. Then the man just falls over face first into the aisle. And I was like, bummer. Then, I realize no one is doing a thing. The driver goes back to his seat...and we remain motionless. Mind you...the man is lying in the aisle...and not one person seems affected by this. One dumb bitch was actually filing her fingernails. A couple of minutes go by...and then sirens. The bus driver gets up and directs the paramedics to this man...and they all just hang out. No CPR. They look him over, and exit the bus.

Fact is, the dude had died.

That fucking freaked me out. That dude got on that bus...and that was the last trip he ever took. Dying while on the bus...and not a soul knew when he had passed...surrounded by people, yet, alone in death...

Everyone began to exit the bus, as that was the "end of the line,"(in more ways than one, I suppose.)

I slowly walked home in the pouring rain...rivers of tears rolling down my freezing cheeks. I wept for this anonymous man.

Someone's newborn child, at one time...perhaps someone's brother, father...his brief existence within this fragile reality known as life, forever ended.

I wept because I hadn't even considered the gift of "life," I had been given that day, was sufficient enough to choke the shallow frustrations and vain concens I had so entrenched myself in. I wept because I was once again reminded that amidst day in and day out living, our lives are but a flame, that one day will blow out...the death rate is still one per person...

So, from that moment on, when I began to fixate on selfish frustrations, I remembered the man in the aisle...

I remembered the bitch filing her nails.

And I chose to receive the lesson of seeking to be alert and grateful for the blessings and hardships in life each day.

For the response to such events weave the very tapestry known as each man's life.

I want my tapestry to have some redeeming value...some contribution. I don't want to be anonymous in death. May I live my life in such a way that when I die, someone will actually see my departure as a loss, and not an inconvenience, not just a story to tell in some fucking blog someday...may someone know my name...

And may I seek a higher consciousness of each day, and every day...a gift, each one...with the realization and conviction that I am one day closer to being on the same existence of the man in the aisle...

And so...

Take the bus. Take it at least one time in your lifetime. Perhaps you'll begin a trip which will take your mind to places where it's never been...

Or to a place where you really need to be...

But...take some music and blast it. In honor of "the man in the aisle,"

which lies in us all.

Kat

Theme song for this day: Seek Up by Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds...

Heroes and Friends...

2005-01-01T22:31:00.000-08:00

This photo really takes me back. Lately, I've been listening to alot of Bowie stuff...older stuff...Heroes.

Many many moons ago I worked with this guy, Mike, he was a chef. And the guy was hella weird. I avoided him. Beyond that, it was my understanding that we just acquired him from like Germany and he didn't speak a word of English. Every so often I was forced to have to converse at him...and I could just feel his "who the hell do you think YOU are," attitude toward me. So, I guess I secretly rejected his shit, for spite.

One day, I had this party of like 30 people...and I mean full courses...desserts...cocktails...blah blah blah. One woman orders like a fucking sandwich...not an entree. And, of course, she's all particular as to exactly how this sandwich must be. So, like on my little notepad I'm jottin down everyone's fucking salad dressings and beverages...and she's all doing some shit with the cheese on a separate plate. So...I deal with this crowd...and I felt a sigh of relief when they finally all herded their shit out the door.

So this Chef...he is like staring at me. And I'm all looking away. And I look back at him, and he does the "come here" finger gesture. And I was like, "Oh, what the fuck does HE want?" So, not looking at him the entire walk over, I step up to him and say "Yes?" And he says, (in perfect english/no accent...) "Didn't you order the Hero with the cheese on the side?" And I was like shocked by hearing him speak for the first time, and then twice as shocked to suddenly realize I had totally forgotten her dumb fucking cheese... And I was like, "Well, I--" And he goes, "Cause there's a plate of cheese over there and it's got your name written all over it." And, embarrassed, but undaunted, I approached said plate.

There, I beheld 3 slices of Swiss cheese...I quickly grabbed the plate, before anyone else would think I was some dumbshit...and, looking down, I beheld my name written over and over in a rainbow of ink. I looked back, and he smiled. I was so taken.

I had an opportunity to hang out with this guy, and discovered he was a purist Bowie fan. He was the first person to introduce me to Heroes. And he told a story of a couple, in love, who were to be forever separated due to the building of the Berlin wall...living on opposite sides. The man was at the wall, yelling to his true love (on the other side) of his love for her, and his fantasy of being together just for one day...

I was forever imprinted by that story.

I believe in true love. I also know that sometimes circumstances, or passing needs, can cause people to remain together, as opposed to love. I feel for all the people I work with, or people I encounter, who are in a loveless relationship. It seems such a waste of our God given capacity to know, give, and receive love. And, fuck, life is so fucking short. But, I understand.

I wound up going out with this guy for a few months. He was truly one of a kind. I didn't love him, but I was very blessed by having his company...maybe an impression more solid than what I would consider "love," later in life.

Weird. And so...he would send me these postcards. They would say like "Main Library. Brothers Grimm. Pg. 241." And I'd be like...? So, I'd cart my ass down to the Main Library, ask the gal for all the Grimm shit...and begin going into page 241 of the stack. Inevitably, I would find another post card..."Macy's shoes. Red Bandolino Stiletto." And...I was off and running. In a way, it was exceedingly annoying...all this treasure hunt...but, somewhere along the line, I began to realize how much someone like him must have cared for me to be so motivated with this surprise. And, sure enough, there would be the Stiletto...and, in the toe, another note. "Fifth Godiva box by the elevator..." And, fearing what I may come to eventually find...I carefully counted 5 boxes...lifted the stack and found THIS famous kiss...(the above picture)...as a postcard...

On the back, he wrote, "We could be heroes..."

And I knew, the depth of love this boy offered was well out of my capacity to appreciate.

And...although I wound up trying to fall into/and maintain various "loves," for years after knowing him...I have come to be reminded of the true spirit of pure love...

From a friend.

Just thinking aloud.

Kat

2004-12-30T21:10:00.000-08:00

Ohmygod! We got Randy Johnson! I'm so fucking thrilled! It's about time Steinbrenner got off his fat ego and let someone make an intelligent decision for my team. Of course, Randy has to agree to this...opleaseopleaseopleaseoplease....just for a year or whatever...i mean I will love you forever...or at least 'til you make us lose. Wow. I've been following this saga for fucking ever...and it's sooooooooo close now....wee hee! And I hope we get rid of that dumbshit Kevin I-like-to-hit-shit Brown. Ew...wouldn't it be just fancy if we also bought up a couple of those cuties on the A's team? I love Barry Zito...hey, George...get us Barry, too...he's yummy. Okay, enough dreaming...but welcome Randy...we will love you to death...and it's all good for kickin our asses in 2001.

2004-12-29T09:27:00.000-08:00

http://www.toothpastefordinner.com/

2004-12-28T22:42:00.000-08:00

Ah! Godamn this boy! All sittin in MY usual seat on the bus...AND SMOKING, the nerve! But, hell...I'd drop dead and no need for heaven if I met his lovely face on any bus...Love you Eddie...you rock...and I think you should know you spend alot of time entertaining my little head & heart...I truly dig your everything, mister.

2004-12-28T22:30:00.000-08:00

These guys...damn! How I wish I could dress like this for work! And, damn...I'd work overtime, for free, if they were in my office...

I just sense they would mellow out all the pretentious, condescending bullshit. At least, they'd find a chum in me...and I'd be just giddy with that! Mainly, cause there would probably be occasional huggings...and perhaps the every so often borrowing of clothing. Hmmmmm....

Nah...I really dig their music, too. So, they're just overall peachy in my little world.

Steve or Jesus?

2004-12-23T21:51:00.000-08:00

Hey! Is it my homeless Jesus, also known as Steve? Groovy...except my Jesus had dreadlocks...and a kickass guitar...but...other than that---> THIS IS HIM!!!
Kat

just to let you know...

2004-12-17T19:57:00.000-08:00

hey yall. welp...another week come and gone...and I'm jazzed about that. Hey...I have a friend over, we refer to him as Scottman Rich...he's rockin. He's such a very cool kid...and I have offered to let him "vent" through my blog. So...if you notice the style seems different...that's cause SCOTTMAN is in the house! So...sit back...relax...and remember when being 16 was such a mess...thank God there is an escape route...time...

til next time...

Kat

2004-12-17T19:49:00.000-08:00

scottman rich...

well i see a face comin through the haze...

2004-12-16T09:40:00.000-08:00

I remember him from those crazy days ... Kat

blood and guts

2004-12-14T22:05:00.000-08:00

Somewhere around my last birthday, I began to feel pretty shitty.

I'd been really dragging myself around for a long time...and never able to get past feeling like I was the walking dead.

Those commercials on t.v. about "leukemia-related anemia," where like people are all gaunt and lifeless---me. And so, I was all wondering if I could score some of that drug on the street, as I don't have leukemia. But, hell, it appeared to DO WONDERS for THOSE FOLKS...

And so...I'm all breathless just making the bed...getting chest pains and palpitations...massive headaches...then...I began to lose my hearing. I explained all that shit to other things. Smoking...caffeine...Rage Against the Machine on the walkman...

Quite a few times I'd get these massive headrushes...and flashing lights. The visual shit was like constant...trippy at first...then annoying. I just shook my head and thought, "brain damage."

And then...one day...my stomach was killing me...I worked for a bit, left for lunch...then...I just dropped. I called in sick the rest of the work day...and fell into this semi-coma on the bed. Hours later, I awoke...went out back to smoke...and just about fell through the deck I was sitting on. Something in my head said DON'T GO BACK TO BED. GET YOUR SHIT TO ANY FUCKING HOSPITAL.

And so I did. Alone I waited. I stared mostly, and sought to hold my head up. But I nodded off quite a bit. I was sooooo out of it. And I remember staring at this group of black people for like ever, until I heard this one big dude say "Shi--- that's the whitest white chick I've ever seen!"

So...after 7 hours of staring and nodding off...they take me into THE SMALLER WAITING ROOM in the ER. Okay...so, what's with the term EMERGENCY here? Man, people were clogging that shit with their shaving cuts and torn cuticles, okay? Here or there some overdose wannabe...but...mostly alot of fatass people sitting, eating, and talking about nothing at fucking all emergency related...

I would have left, but I was like so out of it...it didn't even occur to me to get pissed off at that shit.

So like I tell them that I know I have an ulcer...cause I did...

(You see, I have this nerve deal in my back and I have to take shitloads of Advil to endure it...work related...ah...but whogivesashit, huh? Worker's Comp is a fucking lie. And that's the end of that story.)

...and I simply said that the Tagamet wasn't working anymore. I needed something else to deal with these ulcers...and then just let me fucking go already. So, they like do all these tests...I don't remember very well. But then they bail for another hour or so. It was freezing cold in that room...and at one point I just wanted to get dressed and go home. But first, DAMN, I NEED JUST ONE CIGARETTE!

And so...this little group of lab-coat wearing Asians come sternly, yet softly, walking up. And they're all, "Are you here alone?" And I'm all yes...and they're all, "You need to get someone down here. You need to get your affairs in order, do you have a preference on whether we should resusitate you?" I'm all like FUCKING WHAT? And they're all, "We're keeping you. You are very sick, and, actually you are going into decompensatory hypovolemic shock..." I'm all like FUCKING WHAT? And they're all, "Look. You have an ulcer. And you're losing blood. The fact is, this has been a chronic condition for quite a long time." And I was all, yeah, so? And they were all like, "You have just under a 4 on your hemoglobin." And that was it. I was like, "Look. I don't know what you're trying to say. I feel like shit, yes. I have an ulcer, yes. But, I need to go now. And I want the closest door...as I intend to go smoke." And they were all like, "Okay, listen to me now. You have bled out 3/4 of your blood supply. You will die. We will not let you go. We intend to give you a blood transfusion beginning in about 3 minutes, and you better get it together. You have some very serious decisions to make, and you better get SOMEONE down here to help you deal with this."

So like, I cried. (Mainly 'cause they wouldn't let me smoke.) (Oh, and also, I don't like it when people pull that "listen to me now," shit on me...I have issues with all that kind of attitude.) (And, hey, who are YOU to say I'm GONNA DIE, bitch?) (But, mainly, THEY LOOKED LIKE THEY WERE RIGHT.) (And, that, coupled with not being able to smoke, made me weepy.)

So...they gave me something in my I.V. that made it all keen.

Then...overnight they filled me with 5 units of OTHER PEOPLE'S BLOOD.

Okay...that's just really weird. I mean, hell, I'm all grateful...I really am. But, like from that point until even today, anytime I get a cut, I'm all, "ew...not even my blood...." And, I also had this deal with the stomach surgeon who like tortured me. He like wanted to shove this like hose down my non-sedated throat...allthefuckingway into my stomach. Then, he was just gonna HANG for a bit...as this hose has a camera...and they were lookin to make a video. I was freaking out at the nurse all explaining this procedure that I HAD TO HAVE DONE. She then responded to my utter RUN FOR YOUR LIFE response...and informed me that they have a cool way to help with it all.

This medical professional (the nurse) then went on to tell me that the Hierarchical medical professional (the G.I. guy) would be using "this medication" just before he does the procedure. She further informs me that, it's closely related to "the DATE RAPE DRUG...so YOU WON'T REMEMBER A THING!"

Uh fucking huh. What kind of midevil-back-ass-street-drug-peddling place have we here?

I guess they made out okay...

...found 6 ulcers...various stages of onset and healing...no cancer...and had to pin me down several times...and you know...although Dave (my man) tells me I kept fighting/apologizing...I DON'T REMEMBER A DAMN THING!!!

Eventually they let me out with my tubes and IV and all that shit...to go smoke. It was lovely. And yet I felt a little guilty.

Over that weekend, I incurred $15,000.00 of hospital costs...received blood from 5 different people...and was able to cuss out a gastrointestinal surgeon and never had to apologize for it. (As I don't even really know for certain that it happened...okay?) People make shit up when they know for a FACT that you can't remember JACK SHIT.

I still struggle with the back stuff...blah blah...and now I must take less Advil (yikes, huh?) and I have to spend zillions of dollars on iron and prilosec. But...guess it's worth it...not to die and all.

Hey...I think some of those blood donors were athletes. And musicians. I have overwhelming urges to ski downhill...rockclimb...and I have a really great sense of rhythm now.

So...I'm really thankful to whoever you are, all 5 of you out there. Really nice of you to like help me out of not dying and all. I wish I could just track you 5 guys down and let you know what your blood's been up to, you know?

And yet...in a way...I sense you're all right here with me...

Okay. Enough blood and guts and stupid jokes for one night...

Oddly aware of how grateful I am just to be alive...

Kat

the mall

2004-12-09T22:50:00.000-08:00

I've been in a Pink Floyd mood all day...and I'm so diggin it. This morning I brought out the NagChampa and lit up with old Pink and me... It was rockin'. I'm so diggin on having electricity too.

I spoke with one guy about my whole electrocution theory of the PG&E dudes...and he suggested touching the dude on the nose with a light bulb...if it lights up, then don't be doing CPR. I laughed my ass off.

I love it when not only do people get the weird shit I trip on, but they push the envelope well into the weirdestphere.

I had to go to the fucking mall last night. I don't know for certain, but I'm guessing that I would serve less time in prison for murder than the lines I endured. I mean...it becomes laughable. Where the hell do some of these people come from? I mean...I don't do lines well ANYWHERE. I'm just not a consumer. It's so uninteresting...keeping up with society's trends...I have more of a desire to eat cat food. And so, what's the deal with people all thinking that just because you are in line near them, y'all are like BEST FUCKING FRIENDS, now? This man is all asking my opinion about his choice of powder blue fucking 100 percent polyester sweatsuit...

"You will look like a fucking walking easter egg,"

I mean, goddamn! SWEATSUIT? What the hell is up with that? Is he like actually influenced by that little post-pubescent, Brittney? Cause, KORN don't wear powder fucking blue. And...this man was no where near lookin to work up a sweat, except for when he has to lift his lardy ass off the couch to grab his extra large bag of pork rinds and diet beer.

And so then...he's all deciding he DOESN'T WANT THE FUCKING POWDER BLUE. Okay...so like he decides to NOW DO HIS SHOPPING. The girl is all ready to ring up his shit, and he says, "Oh, wait just one minute..."

Uh huh.

After he passes by us, murmuring godonlyknowswhat, like 3 times...I realize I am in hell. The girl at the register then begins to engage other people in line in some sort of forced monologue about how cute her boyfriend was eating french fries earlier. I then began to wonder if this was all like that MTV show where you LOSE $100.00, if you CUSS or get mad. So, I'm all like, I will not react. I'm gonna just hang...

And so Mr. Polyester passes by to ask Ms. French Fry a question, but she is so caught up in her stupid boring story, that Mr. Polyester walks away again. I look behind me, and there are two Japanese women. Oh, they will be NO FUCKING HELP AT ALL in the RIOT I INTEND TO INCITE! They just stood in perfect posture and smiled kindly. JESUS! How is that possible?

And this went on just long enough for the people in the OTHER LINE to all clear away. Then, some shit comes from nowhere and butts up to the front of the other line and GETS INSTANT FUCKING SERVICE...I mean, WHAT? And he's all, "Oh, were you all in line..?" And, OF FUCKING COURSE, THE JAPANESE WOMEN BLURT OUT, "No, go ahead."

No? NO?! NO...DON'T YOU DO NO SUCH THING! WE WERE, ARE, AND WILL FOREVER BE IN THIS LINE! Well...after imagining all the animals, faces, and body parts I could possibly imagine out of the ceiling tiles, I decided $100.00 isn't worth SHIT TO ME.

Well...Mr. Polyester got his last item...Ms. French Fry laughed her final stupid nasal giggle, and the Japanese women had long since switched lines, having grown impatient with MY line. I, however, lasted to the bitter end.

Mr. Polyester tripped on a fallen bra on the way to the escalator, he looked around, bent a little to pick it up, had momentary contact with said bra, then freaked out and drop/kicked out of sight...

I know God allowed me to see that particular moment of Mr. Polyester's life...as a reward for my patience....and it was worth every fucking moment.

Kat

Bytheway...the Japanese women were kept in line by security for some reason...ain't that somethin? hahahaha....

shine on you crazy diamond

2004-12-09T09:56:00.000-08:00

PG & E...

2004-12-08T22:35:00.000-08:00

No idea what time I got up this morning.

The electricity was sooooo off.

Storm related, I guess. And so, I had the priviledge of getting ready for work today like some PIONEER WOMAN.

At first, it was like OHWHOGIVESASHIT...but then it became a stark reality when I had to shower in sub-freezing temperature water...followed by sub-freezing temperature in both house, and world. Of course, the Red Bulls in my fridge were warm.

And so like the power guys...oh, there's a load of assholes paid by the hour.

I go out back to smoke...I'm all like chattering my teeth, trying to return to a normal body-core temperature...and they were all like "HEY!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THERE'S A LIVE WIRE HERE! YOU HAVE TO GO BACK INSIDE YOUR DWELLING!"

Oh yeah? THIS IS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND I DON'T HAVE TO DO A DAMN THING YOU SAY, YOU UNION-DEPENDANT-MONEY-GRUBBING-ELECTRICITY-HORDING-FASCIST!!! HAH! HAH! WHY DON'T YOU GET OFF YOUR LITTLE STEP-STOOL THERE, MUSSOLINI, AND MAKE ME GO BACK INSIDE MY DWELLING?!

(Of course...I merely thought these words...and meekly smiled.)

After I went back inside, I began to watch these dudes. They talked, looked up, and pointed, mostly. Work? Ah hell no...Work, was clearly for a whole separate group of men in orange.

You see, first you have the first group: the talkers/pointers group...they basically scout out the place for the second group...the little truck/sign/cones group. Now, these guys, the truck/sign/cone guys, well they pretty much let everyone know that they have taken control of this area...like some Radical conquest, operating for the Fascist Regime as a whole...similar to Mussolini's "Shock Groups," back in Italy somewhere around 1917, but different...

Therefore, it would seem I had encountered a Pro-Interventionist, er whatever...all trying to do his 'Fasci Italiani di Combattimento,' shit with me. And, I mean, all I wanted was to blow-dry my hair before I am found dead from hypothermia or whatnot...just my little attempt at looking somewhat decent for the paramedics and coroner when they find my lifeless self...but no.

As each minute ticked by without electricity, I began to hate these "workers." When the COAST WAS CLEAR for me to actually go out on MY BACK PORCH to smoke MY VERY OWN CIGARETTE and exercize my CIVIL LIBERTIES in MY FREE COUNTRY...I was on the verge of cracking into a solo of "GOD BLESS AMERICA," when I saw this one dude.

He was most definitely the smallest of the Fascist Regime...and he was way (and I mean WAYYY) up high on this telephone pole. Just hanging out there, zillions of feet above the alley, in the storm, on a telephone pole...and there, right next to his ORANGE HARD-HAT WEARING HEAD was a sign. It read: HIGH VOLTAGE.

I wondered...

Well, of course I know CPR. But my pondering was this: if this dude got shocked and plummetted to earth, would I make any attempt to try and save him? Okay, well...at first, I'm thinking yes. But then, I started to think about: would he be all HIGH VOLTAGE and KILL ME if I actually touched him? So then, I'm wondering: could I take a stick and poke him??..and if I saw a sparks then I would know not to touch him...?

So, yeah. I felt pretty bad that I came to a distinct conclusion: I would not help any of these dudes if they got electrocuted and plummeted to the earth. I might jab one or two with a stick...but that would be the extent of my involvement. Well, I might hang out if any of the paramedics needed to borrow my stick...and check for sparks...but yeah...

Anyhow, after pondering the 'to poke with a stick or to not poke with a stick,' moral quandary, I decided I should finish putting myself together and get the hell out of the freezing, dark house and show up at work on time, for a change.

(Needless to say, when everyone saw me arrive early for work, they were shocked...)

har har har...

Epiphanal moment of the day...well...kind of...I had a staring contest with a cat on my way to work and tripped over a branch on the sidewalk...(the cat was behind me and I was walking backwards, so as TO WIN)...and...well...the cat won...which is a real bummer as cats are such smug winners...but I truly doubt the cat could walk backwards while still staring at me just to win, therefore I am the true winner...even though the cat might tell you otherwise...

Kat

the purse

2004-12-07T23:34:00.000-08:00

I miss L.A. already. Damn. My heart and soul just dig on that scene. So...here I am, back in Northern California, and I should be like all happy to not be anywhere near the City. Whatever...grass always greener and all that.

I picked up the newest Doors compilation (of the same ol' Doors songs) and totally dug it in my big ass gas guzzling massive rented SUV. This mother was massive. And the tunes were hella cool. So, me...and L.A. and Jim. We're kindred spirits.

I got lost going to Santa Monica Friday afternoon, and landed in Bel Air. They sure are fucking snotty there, ain't they? And I'm certain most were strung out on Lortab. But...it was a short stay...and that's the end of that story.

Except...I did look up into the night sky while on my flight home, and I saw this cool ass falling star...and it was totally a private moment. Like God waving, er something.

Did I ever tell you about my stolen purse? Okay. Well. This was like forever ago. Some dumb fucking idiot (who thought he had some remote chance in hell of me liking him) invited me to join him and his friends backpacking. So, knowing this one cool dude (the fucking idiot's friend) was going, I said sure.

Camping day comes, we load up...we head out...and he then informs me NO ONE ELSE is coming. So...I should have just pulled the car over, kicked his stupid ass out, and gone back to bed. But...not willing to admit I was only interested because I thought COOL DUDE was coming, I went...for spite. This shall be referred to as MISTAKE #1.

So...blah blah...we arrive at Point Reyes. We like hike FORFUCKINGEVER through this wilderness...and I'm like taking smoke breaks every 1/4 mile. He's all getting pissy with my breaks...and I'm telling him to fuck off. So...we pitch the stupid little tent, and promptly a storm blows in.

We are RIGHT ON THE BEACH with this NOAH SIZED DOWNFALL and wind...the asshole then decides this is THE PERFECT TIME TO MAKE HIS MOVE ON ME. I told him there wasn't enough vodka in the fucking world...and we decided to BORE OURSELVES TO DEATH (by not talking) and subsequently fell asleep.

Middle of the night the damn tent like rolls over from the wind...I'm just done with the whole nature scene...I exit the damn piece of shit housing...and was attacked by a KILLER RACCOON. (No shit. This particular rodent, er whatever, actually shot it's teeth at me...like a porcupine...) (well, maybe it didn't. But...it's eyes were pure black.) So...I shine the light on this little satanic creature...I SCREAM...IT SCREAMS BACK...nature is just too weird when YOU'RE on THEIR turf. Animals and wildlife are all good...just: BEHIND BARS...like THE ZOO.

Okay, look. I'm all cool with creatures...but...their just like...OUT TO GET YOU. I pretty much think every creature considers me either FOOD...or some TERRITORIAL THREAT. So, we don't mesh...cause they FIGHT DIRTY...too. Yuckems. I would never want to hurt an animal, either...'cause like THEIR WHOLE FAMILY would come after me, I JUST KNOW IT. So...like...I fear creatures.

PEOPLE, I don't give a shit about. GIMME A BANK ROBBER ANYTIME. A BLOOD-THIRSTY RACCOON...that's fuckin scary, dude.

So...next day, I kick his sleeping bag and tell him his ride it leaving...and he best get his shit up. I ditch ALL MY BELONGINGS IN THAT GOD FORSAKEN WASTELAND so my backpacking wouldn't interfere with my SMOKING. 40 years later, we head around the last fucking turn of the last fucking hill...down toward the parking lot.

WHAT DO I SEE? The passenger door is wide open. I'm all like WHATTHEHELL? (The guy's name was George. We referred to him as GEEKY GEORGE. No doubt he's like bald and fat now with some bald and fat ex-wife, and a couple of bald and fat kids...) Anyhow...so I'm like "Fuckin George! You forgot to lock my fucking door!" And he's all like ignoring me, or afraid of me, or ATTEMPTING TO APPEAR SEXY...one last time...

So...I get down there...and SURE AS SHIT...the door's wide open...broken glass EVERYWHERE! Some big stupid piece of MOTHER EARTH (a large rock) sitting on my driver's seat...and EVERYTHING GUTTED FROM MY CAR...including...you're right: MY DAMN PURSE.

(they even took my clove butts...and my spare change...)

Geeky George and I drove those eternal 2 hours back to town...and spoke not word one. When I pulled up to his house I finally spoke, "I'll let you know how much you owe me for this shit tomorrow."

About 8 years went by.

I get this phone call from my mom...she's all talking in code, or something. She's all, "Honey, I found your purse on my front doorstep..." And I'm like, "Hey mom, you may want to back off of all that Sudafed---" No, actually, I informed her my purse was on the coat rack. And she's all, (diggin in MY PURSE NOW) "Well, here's your driver's license, and your make up, and your quarter gram of cocaine..." (no...I'm kiddin.) (Hell, not even I would have left THAT sittin around) But, my mom's all routin through my purse...this is so not okay...I MEAN...NO ONE IS EVER ALLOWED TO DIG IN A WOMAN'S PURSE!

If I were, say Diabetic, and my like insulin was in my purse, I would prefer you RESPECT MY SHIT AND KEEP THE FUCK OUT OF MY PURSE! You'd best be YELLIN' out to those around you for a SPARE INSULIN SYRINGE, before you go diggin in my purse, k?

So...I tell her I don't understand a damn thing she's saying and I will check it out later.

Later came. SURE AS SHIT. My fucking purse from the torturous weekend with GEEKY GEORGE! All my cheap ass make up...driver's license...little notes...EVERYTHING WAS LIKE HERMETICALLY SEALED from the day some dumb fucker broke into my car and stole it. The deal...I mean...this was 8 years later! This dumb purse was like with someone, somewhere...for 8 FUCKING YEARS!

So, what? Like, one day they decide to drive LIKE 100 MILES and deliver it to the address on the driver's license? Like a karma deal, or what? Are they like ON A MISSION to right their past wrongs, or something?

SHIT, MAN. GIMME CASH. I'm all good with CASH. Hey, forget your slimey ass behavior of breaking into my car and stealing my purse...you filthy fucking scumbag...GIMME CASH...and it's all good.

I tripped on it for like a couple of days...but...then...i just filed it in my head under: OKAYWHATEVER.

I guess what I learned from that, was:

IT SURE AS SHIT AIN'T EVER OVER TIL IT'S OVER.

In life...some things end...and other things are put on hold. Never believe you hold the deciding vote on which is which. Take what comes...and don't ever sweat the odds. Sometimes we have a role in fate...and other times we are simply passengers...

I, myself, simply enjoy riding the tides and surfing the waves of each and every moment of this always amazing trip known as life...

...see you next time...

JESUS

2004-11-30T21:25:00.000-08:00

My flight is at 3ish...er, something like that...tomorrow...and so like my boss is all asking me if I'm coming into work tomorrow. Okaywhat? I'm all, "Well...I wasn't planning on it," and he just gives me that extended-stare-over-the-tops-of-the-glasses look. And I'm all, "What? Is that a problem, or something?" And he does the textbook passive/aggressive thing of the "No. That's alrigh--(cannot be heard anymore because he is walking away with his head down...) So, I was like "and don't you come back..." (No. I wasn't.)

I don't respect non-communicative bullshit. Would the world come crumbling down if you just come out with whatthefuckeveritis you are trying to communicate? Jesus. Why do people have to do worthless, boring little performances around what they are truly thinking? Ulterior motive, perhaps. I don't like to rush to that judgement. I like the thought that someone may just not have the capacity to articulate their thoughts. Or that they question the moral/ethical value of their thoughts. The mere idea that people fuck with you just cause they intend to fuck you over would not be thought number one on my WHATISYOURFUCKINGPROBLEM? list.

Well. I just don't care. I have performed above and beyond the call of duty at my job for many years now. And that's an outside opinion. I am stellar. And that's the fact. And so...that's why I can have such a kiss-my-sweet-ass attitude, and be fair. I should have said it quite a few times by now...but...now I'M SAYIN IT, AIN'T I? And it's makes me feel all cozy just reliving it.

Okay...so now I'm going to tell you about Jesus.

Jesus was this homeless dude who hung out in our little neighborhood. We live smack dab in the city...surrounded by victorians, which are law offices or professional buildings. Down the street is the Capitol, and all the government buildings; state, county, and federal. It's all right here...including the homeless.

So...this dude. He totally looked like the American version of Jesus...you know, like on those Easter movies made for t.v.? He had these dreadlocks, though. And he was semi good looking, for a homeless dude. So like I would see him all the time. And then finally one day I pulled over and he was sitting in this parking lot playing guitar. It was a Martin 6 string...with a Ovation case. I was like...dude...what is your story? And he was all talking slow and quiet. He said his name was Steve. (but we will always call him Jesus.) And he went into these little chords as he talked. He would like play for a bit...with his icky, dirty hands (but his nails were short and clean)...and then he would just say some totally random thing. I asked him if he had a family. He said, (strumming a g, like 5 times) "I got no family. I've had 3 girlfriends." (strumming a c now) "One, I had for a month." (now back to the g) "One, I had for a week," (now he stops playing and looks me square in the eyes, "and the last one I had for an hour." And I was like not sure if he was a maniac or just stupid. He wasn't on drugs...I could tell. And he didn't smell like alcohol. The whites of his eyes were solid white. And his teeth were straight...AND CLEAN. I was like, THIS DUDE IS LIKE SOME COLLEGE STUDENT DOING SOME SOCIOLOGY THESIS!!! Even his dirt didn't look real. It looked like ink...

So now I was on a mission to trip Steve up in his act of being a homeless Jesus. I told the neighbors, and wouldn't you know it? None of us had ever talked about him, but we had all secretly nicknamed him Jesus. We were on NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH over Jesus to see if he was a fake.

One day I was smoking cloves out back and Jesus and his Martin and Ovation came strolling down the alley. He smiled, and just at that time, Dave (my loveydovey) came driving up. Jesus looked at him. Then, Dave got out of the truck and said, "Hey, how you doin?" And Jesus shot like a bat out of hell down the alley...all running behind slow cars in traffic and shit. I was like...Whatthehell is that all about? And Dave told me that he had seen Jesus running after cars quite a few times. (like a little dog, or something. Poor Jesus...er, whatever.)

Then, another time I saw Jesus at the park. And I was like, "Hey, are you hungry?" And he's all "ye ah m an" (he talked really slow, like a stoner) "can you get me some french fries and a chocolate shake from McDonalds?" And I'm like, "Dude. I'll get you what I get you...and you better thank me for it when I do." So, I get him the NEAREST TO CHOCOLATE Jamba juice that Jamba could make. I came back, and I proudly hand it to him...like IM-SUCH-A-FUCKING-NICE-PERSON...and he's all, "whaaat's thiiiiis? I can't haaaaave thiiiiiss...therrrrrre's vitaminnnnns in that, maaaaaan..." And I was like, "That set me back FOUR BUCKS, MISTER. YOU'RE GONNA DRINK IT." (Jesus was only like 5'4"...I knew, in a pinch, i could kick his ass.) And so Jesus drank the Jamba juice.

The last time I saw Jesus was the night he pulled out our chase lounge and slept on it. As the sun came up the next day, he would rotate it back into the shade, until it was literally under our back window. I went out back to smoke, and saw this dark blue lump of godonlyknowswhat on my chase lounge. Dave told me it was Jesus. Later, I went back outside...and Jesus was gone. So was the chase lounge.

I have my theories about Jesus. No doubt I'll run into that shit at some SUIT LADEN convention downtown...sippin an espresso and juggling a PDA and cell. That guy. (I will then tell him I want my FOUR DOLLARS and MY CHASE LOUNGE back...the shitty little theif!)

Occasionally we hear of people who think they've seen him...but...I don't think it's the real Jesus...(there are Jesus lookalikes...)

I was never able to get a hold of his deal. Once Dave asked him what his deal was...why he was homeless, and all...and he just laughed. Jesus laughed and said, "Oh maaaaaan. I'mmm jusssst herrrre forrrr the jammms," and he did this spazzy little guitar solo...

Kristen said she saw Jesus at the Greyhound station, playing guitar outside...she wasn't sure if it was him...but, she really thought it was. Fact is, Jesus is gone..and...well...peace, love, and bong hits to you Jesus. We miss you, man.

Kat

*Theme song of the day, in honor of Jesus: ONE TOKE OVER THE LINE. (brewer/shipley)

i bet they never flossed...

2004-11-30T10:37:00.000-08:00

this is the strangest life i've ever known.

2004-11-30T08:56:00.000-08:00

blue monday

2004-11-29T21:17:00.000-08:00

So like I worked today. That's really not okay...as I'm salary and I have Monday's off.

I did this, like good faith bullshit. Since I plan to be in Los Angeles Wednesday through Friday...and since I only had to work 2 days last week...I figured I should, like, show up today.

And there was no red fucking carpet...nor exorbitant thank you's. I would have much rather taken the cut in pay. But...it's over. I found myself with this perpetual Sid Vicious sneer...pretty much at everything. Especially the wonderful little stupid jaunt to both Safeway and Rite Aid just now.

Okay...this isn't just your average Safeway. This is the SINGLES RRRRRRRREALLY LOOKIN FOR SOME SOME Safeway. And I'm not talking GOOD LOOKING SINGLES. No. These are the idiot hybird freaks who have been rejected by normal singles. These are the 50 year old fake blondes in spandex...and those are just the guys.

No. Not really. Actually...I just described the idiot cyclists who gather in their little clicky shoes in my alley out back every Saturday morning. Now...THEY are nether freaks. I mean...any guy who shaves their legs more often that I do...well...Jesus! And then their whole deal with spandex. I mean...Brad Pitt would look shitty in spandex...so what fucking prayer have you got Mr. Receeding Hairline? Oh...and they're LOUDTALKERS. And everything's so fucking important.

"WHY BRAD! ARE THOSE NEW $1600 ALL STEEL 20 INCH RIMS?"

"ARE YOU SHITTIN ME? HELL NO, JOHN. THEY'RE CENTERLINE 22 INCH TOMAHAWK SERIES WITH 3 YEAR LUSTER WARRANTY AND CURB DAMAGE REPAIR..."

And it's all ape-in-the-jungle yellage with their shaved legs, clicky shoes, and fucking spandex.

THIS is how I begin my Saturdays. I wish I had a scope rifle and a rooftop. Rubber bullets would be fine. Or...just a high pressure hose. But...that's in a perfect world.

So, yeah. Safefuckingway. And so there's like this tweaker bitch in line right behind me...and I'm all like unaware that she's there...as I was in my own world with my mp3 player blasting Soundgarden's "Good Eye Closed." So then...I've done all the stupid little prompts from the fascist regime of checkers and baggers...with their needing my fucking card...and needing to know if I plan to immediately dispose of paper or plastic...and then an occasional idiotic question...as I have RESISTED the TEMPTATION to LISTEN TO A DAMN THING THEY HAVE TO SAY!!! You see...I READ LIPS, BITCH! AND HERE COMES THE COOL GUITAR SOLO WITH CHRIS CORNELL SINGING IN THIS STONEY TRIPPY WAY...SO DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!! I GAVE YOU THE CARD...I WANT PLASTIC...AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERS.

But no. The tweaker bitch next to me actually commits SIN NUMBER 1. She BUMPS INTO ME...like...HEY MOVE OVER kind of bump. Welp. My reaction was normal. I just looked at her. But...my feeling is this. I do 30 push ups a day...and bench press, too. You touch me...and I'm considering this a FIRST STRIKE. But...as I said...I just looked at her. And she all gives me this WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, BITCH look...which, makes NOT GRABBING HER RATTY HAIR AND PUNCHING HER IN THE HEAD any easier. But, I didn't. You see...I'm nice. They actually pay me to be nice at work. And I really do it. It's one of those compromises I committed to...what with the money thing and all. But, I'm even polite. And that suprises some. I have one good deed I do every day. It's this like personal pact. A good karma thing...er whatever. But...from that good deed on...I feel no need to be nice. I will be appropriate...but I will be acting. It seems the only way.

Usually I employ sarcasim. It helps alot. And...since I appear to be so All American nice girl...no one ever knows I'm openly mocking their annoyingness. Occasionally I will encounter another hi brow humorist...and it's like some family reunion...speaking in our Native Tongue. But...most don't get it. And I don't care. I should care...but it would be a waste of calories.

Anyhow...I was driving home from SAFEFUCKINGWAY and this line of motorist ahead of me are all like going 15 miles and hour through the little road...like some goddammed funeral, or something. And then the leader of this time warp caravan decides to come to an ABRUPT CESSATION OF MOVEMENT. That was it. I'm finished with work...I've escaped the sentence of imprisonment at SAFEFUCKINGWAY, and I'm a block from home! I yell out "WHY ARE WE FUCKING STOPPING?!?"

However...I forgot I was wearing one ear of my mp3 player, and had rolled down the window so I could smoke... Some homeless person was rrrrrrrright next to me on the sidewalk...and I guess I woke him...or scared him...or whatever..(which I regret)...(kind of)...and they let out this SHREIK! Which, in turn, freaked me out...as I HAD ESTABLISHED MYSELF AS THE YELLER...and hadn't, obviously, expected a response to my question.

The moral to the story.

Monday's aren't for work.

Less money is better than less rest.

No matter how bad it is...it could always be worse.

I am thankful for my bad ass, good (and I mean DAMN GOOD) looking boyfriend...however. He endures my shit. And, actually, I'm very fair with him. He's all cozy on the couch...and I will settle in and let all the fruitless events of the day just slip away...

INTO THE ABYSS OF SATAN'S HELL THAT THEY CAME FROM...

especially the spandex laden nether freaks.

*no offense is intended, if you are some avid cyclist. I'm sure you have no clue what a total morph you are...and you are probably really happy in your odd little morphed reality. Happy Trails, my friend. But, stay in your bike lane, clicky shoes boy.

Kat

in the beginning...

2004-11-28T22:59:00.000-08:00

I met this kid a few years ago. Adam. He was this little shit idiot who got busted like selling meth, or something. He was like 5 foot tall. He was cuter than cute...and wasn't a little shit meth freak himself...but...he wasn't the best esteemer of character. That is: he thought like an idiot and surrounded himself with idiots. So, blah blah...Adam gets hit with this like 5 year sentence with CRC in California. He was certainly preparing for the hell that awaited him...he was hella freaking out. The Courts didn't give a shit. And, Adam became some convict.

Somewhere along the line, someone told me he was all alone in this stupid world. I felt some odd sense of like human duty. (Don't ask why...cause usually I find people to be intensely annoying...what with their selfish, empty little worlds and needs...) But, occasionally I find a rare soul who is real. A rare existence who's choicest desire is to contribute to this life...in their unique...yet edifying...way. I offered to write to this little shit kid. And, although I had to set him straight on my intentions...he chose to become a friend. Each day I listed my epiphanal moment, my theme song, and my muses. Albeit odd...he cherished them. Well, Adam is free today and has graduated from college. I don't know anything beyond that. So...once a stranger, now a stranger again...

Adam will never know how much I relied on him, in the end. Having the opportunity to write whatthehellever I want...knowing that he will read it...and nothingatallfuckingmatters...well...I guess I learned alot about myself. More importantly...I discovered transcending truths and intense reality...it has been such a cool journey.

In the spirit of human speaking to human, only...anyone is Adam. I offer my ramblings...and cherished realizations...just because...

Kat