Coincidence?

Hardly.

One is made of steel.
The other made of clay.

One is a prospector on the endless hunt for Bumbles.
The other, a prospector on the endless quest for a hanging fastball over the plate.

But the resemblence is uncanny.

Kevin Youkilis and Yukon Cornelius ...one in the same?

You make the call.


The Youka

The Yukon

It's on Like Donkey Kong ...

Til the break of dawn.

And cause Eck said so ...

I am calling this RIGHT now.

T.O.D:
5 May, 2009
5:47pm PST

It's about to get ugly up in that joint.

Joba The Fat just threw at Jason Bay INTENTIONALLY and pegged him in the back.

This just in: Josh Beckett is going to kick YOUR ASSES!!!I saw the look on Beck's face on the tight shot of him in the dugout after it happened. And it warn't purty. Mental note: Someone on NY is dead meat. Curtains.

Even Bay who is the most passive of players stared daggers at Joba as he made his way down the first base line.

The Circle of Violence continues.

It's waiting for us in Anaheim next week with the Angels after Beckett threw at Abreu's fat head. It's left over like a warm Lean Cuisine in the microwave. You know it's there. You started it. And now someone's going to have finish it. Best not let it go to waste.

Retaliation in baseball. "The Code"
Hit me and I hit you back. And that's not just lyrics in a Digital Underground tune.

Is it mature? No.
Is it necessary? Probably not.
Is it justified? Hardly.
Is it entertaining? Hell yes.

I suggest if you encounter this situation at a game, you take your kids up to the stands for an extry hot dog and some sodi. Food diversion. It beats the heck out of explaining to your kids why violence with a spherical ball exceeding speeds faster than your BMW used as a weapon on someone's head is OK. Like I said, it's about to get ugly up in this mug.

By night's end, hopefully someone's gonna get plunked on the Yankees end, or someone will charge the mound, a bench clearing brawl will ensue and Girardi will get ejected from the game. Again. I'm banking on all of it.

What is the valuable lesson we are teaching our kids with retaliation and The Code in America's favorite pastime? Violence begets violence. Hate begets hate. A 95 MPH inside fastball to the shoulder begets a 98 MPH fastball to the head and you had better duck.

And if someone throws at our boy intentionally, we're gonna drill one of your guys some day. Some time. Some where. It's just a matter of when. It may come today, or tomorrow ...it may be a few weeks from now. But it's coming. And then suddenly, the Yanks will remember why.

Because the day Joba hit Jay Bay in the back.

Wait for it ...

"It ain't Over til it's Over." ~Yogi Berra

Or is it?

Back somewhere in the 2007 playoffs when the Red Sox were scrappin’ pine and stitches for the ALCS against the Indians and on the verge of elimination in Game 5, I believe I found courage and inspiration in the following quote to my friend Ally: “One pitch, one inning, one game at a time.”

We went on to win the ALCS. And then the rest is as they say, World Series history.

But tonight, I’m struggling to find comfort in my words spoken just a few years back. I think those words are mostly complete horseshit. Why? Because currently, we suck monkey balls.

The season is off to a sluggish start and that’s putting it quite mildly. I’m not one to mince words, but because they’re my boys and because I believe, I’m gonna cut them a break.

We’re playing Oakland. And it’s like we’re the new A’s. They’ve become us and we them … and the comedy ensues. We’re not so much Moneyball anymore as we are Funnyball. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually ashamed of my boys. Youkilis didn’t tag up on a fly and in returning to first base, stopped on the bag for 2.3 seconds safely and then proceeded to fall over only to be tagged out. J.D. missed a ball and as he slid on his corn-fed belly to catch it, watched it skip right past him. There have been terribly missed balls in the outfield. Not just grossly misjudged but embarrassing foibles of the third kind. My Golden Boy, Jacoby, who once bled from the head catching a ball while simultaneously crashing into a chain link fence has started missing balls in Anaheim and continues to bobble them in Oaktown. The boy NEVER misses. Turns out NEVER is shorter than I thought it was. Jake has also grounded out like 40 times and that brings me to the subject of our feeble bats. We once boasted of a formidable offense. Now the only thing we can brag about is our spiffy road unis that stay so fresh and so clean.

Dicey went 43 pitches in the first. IN THE FIRST, people. And later Remy announces that the report from the Red Sox med team was that he was suffering from arm fatigue. Well, is it any wonder? FORTY THREE PITCHES in one inning. Inconceivable.

At this point, my Playa Vista softball team would give The Sox a run for their money. I think my batting average and OBP are higher than Pedie’s.

The only thing keeping us in tonight’s game after the Dice K Debacle is our middle relief pitchers—Justin Masterson, Manny Del Carmen, and Ramon Ramirez who were able to stifle the A’s offense. We're at 12 innings and Javy Lopez is about to give this one up ...

Still, I have to go early to the medicine cabinet to get my own middle reliever – Mylanta.

I know it’s a only week and a half into the season. Yeah, I get that. I know we have 154 games left to make it right again. But this doesn’t sit well with me. Next thing we know, the months creep up and finds us below .500 unable to crawl out of the bottom of the barrel normally reserved for Baltimore or Detroit. At which point you’ll find me jumping off a very TALL building. Or more specifically, off of the Custom House Clock Tower near Faneuil Hall.

Yes, the season may still be a bit premature, but my worrying and panic attacks are not.

Because as the great Yogi Berra once said … “It gets late early out there.”

"The Over-paid Pitcher, Heavy D"

Holy Testosterone, Batman

Jacoby Ellsbury and the Gun Show



Effing Bobby Abreu. I would have thrown at his head too, if I were Beckett.Granted the little troll had called time, and Becks probably could have stopped in the middle of his wind-up. And Becks PROBABLY SHOULDN'T have aimed at his head on accounta “The Code” and all, but come on... HE HAD IT COMING.

So yeah, Beck’s an emotional pitcher and there’s bad blood because Abreu is an ex- Yank and blah, blah, blah …

Becks can basically pound the little midgety fat ass into an even smaller miniature replica of his midgety fat ass Abreu self.

As I watched both benches and bull pens clear, and witnessed Jacoby, Drew and Bay descend on the infield to back-up Beckett on the mound, I had almost secretly hoped the melee would have turned into an out-and-out UFC, skull crushing, body slamming slug fest--resulting in Josh choking out Bobby at home plate. But then I started to wonder, pound-for-pound, how our team would actually measure up if it got to scrappin’ today.

I don’t claim to know my boys’ stances on fighting. But somehow I think we could hold our own if and when it comes to the tussle. I do however know from the A-Rod incident that Varitek will shove his glove in your face. Which seems very un-Christian like for a boy who prays before every game, but hey, no judgment--that’s nonna my bidness. That’s between him and God. But I’m pretty sure Jake and Drew could go toe-to-toe with anyone they’re up against. Jake’s got guns o’ steel (if you got a gander of the magazine spread he did a few years back--see photo image above) and Drew is just corn-fed and robust. Enough said. They’re like a soup that eats like a meal. I’d worry more about Pee Wee. He’s got MVP gumption and mad heart but he’s all of five feet six—maybe seven if he’s got lifts in his cleats. I’d bet my left arm that Youk can throw down. Most def. MiLo wouldn’t have a chance in hell. If you want to take him out, you just gotta sweep the leg, Johnny. Take his hip out and run. Jeddie and Green, depending on who’s playing short that day… Jeddie’s tall but slight. Even I could snap him in two. And Nick Green. If I were Tito, I’d steer this kid clear of any fisticuffs and/or shenanigans —that boy has a million dollar smile. Like a white picket fence, his teeth. If this whole “Red Sox Thing” doesn’t pan out for Nickie, he can always do Listerine endorsements. I’d protect that investment, but that’s just me. The Bon- he’ll eat you for lunch-au jus. He's a machine. I’d put all my money on him. Our Japanese pitchers, not so much. I have a suspicion their “code” in the Jap League is very different from American baseball. Round eye likes to fight. My people are more the pacifists. Or what I like to call the Passive Fest. Jason Bay is someone to watch for. He’s the quiet, unassuming type. Silent but deadly. And Rocco Baldelli? The name says it all. If you can’t scrap with a name like that, then you should just go home and sip on some chamomile tea in your finest china and then go hide under your bed. Cause we ain’t got time for you. Big Fatty—I’m thinking he could take someone out in one fell punch. But then he’s a teddy bear and our keeper o’ the peace. I’d have a better chance of dining with the president than seeing Papi inflict bodily harm on his fellow man.

And then there’s our fearless skipper, Tito. The only ass kicking Francona will engage in is a scorching game of cribbage.

I guess the moral of this story is my boys will most likely put the beat down on you if it comes to blows. And when we’re playing the Yanks or the Angels, you can rest assure that at some point, it WILL… cause we’re Boston. Buncha chowdaheads. Put that in your baked beans and shove it.

I See Red People

Red Sox Opening Day at Fenway.

Because what do I always say? The Red Sox run on magic and pixie dust.

The last team we played in the 08 season was the Rays. They ended our run for the ALCS pennant and The Series in Tampa. So fitting that the season opener found us once again facing our Florida nemesis—the Tampa Bay Rays. Sans the Devil. Unless you count BJ Upton. But he’s on the disabled list …

Anywho, watching it on HD isn’t nearly the same as being there in that historical stadium on Yawkey Way, I’m sure. But I could still feel the energy and electricity of the Fenway faithful through the TV.

The DLP set it off proper-like in the bottom of the first by jacking one over the Green Monstah in true Pedroia fashion. Now who says he can’t hit the inside fast ball, eh, Play Station?

And we had flawless defense with Beckett taking the mound for seven and owning TB’s lineup with 10 Ks. Four of which belonged to Carlos Pena.

The boys (Youkilis, Lowell, Bay) gave Becks good run support and Tek’s new-fangled and re-tinkered swing proved to be beneficial when he crushed a solo homer just down the RF line around the Pesky Pole putting the Sox up 5-1 in the bottom six.

My ulcers took most of the day off … until somewhere around the 8th when things got a lil’ squirrely. Oki walked one and by the time Tito brought Justin in, he had inherited two runners who went on to score. But we got out of that inning without further damage and The Bon took the 9th to close the Rays out for the 5-3 W.

All in all, it was a good start for the 09 season. Especially since Tex and CC tanked for the Yank’s season opener with a humiliating 10-5 loss to Baltimore.

It’s still too early in the season to be calling anything … for any team. So my bottle of Mylanta stays in the medicine cabinet. For the time being, at least.

My boys look strong. Solid. Our bench- deep. Our bull ben- stout. If we can stay consistent and healthy, there's no reason we shouldn't extend our regulah season well into Red Soxtober.

Looking forward to the series this weekend at the Angels House of Crap.

Yep. We got the Rays today.
One down. One Hundred sixty-one to go …

Inside the Box

Math and I are not friends. Not even mere acquaintances. In fact, I hate numbers altogether.

I single-handedly shatter the stereotype of Asians being proficient in mathematics. To smithereens. Shards and slivers. My math SATs scores probably equal the size that I take my jeans in. Twenty-five, if you must know … I just lost seven pounds.

I took Algebra THREE times in high school. I don’t balance my own checkbook. If I’m fifty cents off- give or take, in either direction, it’s good enough for me. I loathe Sudoku. I think Count Dracula (on Sesame Street) is a top notch A-hole. I hate it all. Whole numbers. Fractions. Real. Rational. Integers. Complex numbers—they’re all complex to me.

But put those numbers in organized columns of statistics in a baseball box score and it’s like translating my native tongue. I am fluent in the language of baseball.

Do you speak baseball? Because it’s truly a game of numbers. And inches. Innings. And outs.

They all add up to tell a story. Every single game. Just ask Bill James or Henry Chadwick.

Allow me to be your interpreter.

One hundred sixty-two games in a season. Eighty one of these on the road.

Two teams.

Nine innings. Nine players on the field. Three outs per inning. Four called balls for a base on balls. Or three strikes and you’re out. But one clean hit and you're on.

Ninety feet each between four bases.

A pitcher. A batter. Two minds. One war.

A 95 MPH fast ball can sail 90 feet, 6 inches from the pitcher’s mound through a “conceptual three-dimensional right angle pentagonal prism” of a strike zone over 17 inches of home plate. (That takes precision. Skill)

Now, these--these are numbers that mean something to me. Not to mention batting averages, ERAs, RBI, and all the rest of the yummy defensive and offensive statistical ingredients to make a delicious ‘Moneyball’ and sabermetrics sammich. Mmmm. Tasty.

Because you add up all these random numbers and you’ve got yourself a ball game, folks. And if you have the right equation and maybe if you’re good enough, you just might have the opportunity to play seven games* (if necessary) to win that ONE magnificent title. The World Series.

And even then, it sometimes still doesn’t add up. Just ask the A’s. And the Dodgers. The Indians… you see where I'm going with this?

And you wonder why Cubs fans have been agonizing over The Title for better part of 101 years?

You do the math …

Alice in Hungerland

I’m Day Three on ‘The Cleanse’ and I’m feeling fine.
But I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s still a long road to Day Ten.

I haven’t suffered any adverse effects that ‘the manual’ warns about.
Except maybe the nagging hunger part. Not eating for three days does that to a person.

But I’m pretty pleased with myself for having gone three days on just the lemons, molasses and water concoction and not having had one stitch of food.

I keep wondering when I’m going to hit ‘The Wall.’
My boss Dave asked me again yesterday if I’d like to move to San Jose to take the north territory. He’s got to travel up there this weekend because they just let go of the PAR that was hired around the same time I was. I declined. For the moment at least. All I could picture was driving up the I5, passing one of the many cattle farms during my ravenous hunger strike and taking a cow down in a pasture. How I do love my steaks rare.

I suppose yesterday I hit a few road blocks to be anticipated on a fast. Between a few appointments with my boss, Pam, we stopped at a Ralphs in Encino. I was at the height of my hunger pangs because I had left my tumbler of The Juice at her condo. And according to the churning in my tummy that was eating itself, it was lunch time. All I needed was a bottle of water and a box of tea. Of course, since the layout of the market was unfamiliar, I had to pass the ungodly Easter display taunting me with mountains of pastel candy and my beloved marshy Peeps. *Teardrop*

All I kept saying to myself was, “Someday you’ll be able to eat food again…”
But somehow, I couldn’t comfort me. Waiting for Day Ten is like waiting for Christmas. Or like pre-2004 Boston fans to win the Series. It’s murderous.

As I navigated the snack aisle, this bag of Cheetos tried to tempt me. No, really, I swear, the food started talking to me. Then across the aisle from the Cheetos, this box of Cheez-its was trying to peer pressure me, “Psssst. Hey you… you know you want it. Everyone’s doing it.” All I could think was, how do they get all that cheesy goodness into those little squares?

I had to get out of there. The cookies suddenly had arms grabbing at me like vines and I could hear the ice cream pints over in the frozen food section mocking me. I got out of that joint as soon as I could unscathed.
That was a close one.

The most difficult thing is to carry on with my social activities like business as usual. Which is mostly meeting my friends for breaffast, lunch or supper and watching them eat. I went to visit Bean at the bar and had to physically position my bar stool away from the sight-line of the complimentary Happy Hour chips and salsa. And the other patrons were ordering the most pleasing smelling food EVER. I had to leave after two hours for fear of caving.

Yes. Day Three. I think may be just entering the Body Odor phase of the cleanse. Or I just need my morning shower. It’s only 7a.

But I’m going strong and I’m pushing through my hunger issues.

What’s the first thing I’m doing when I reach Day Ten?

THIS:

Intoxicated Avenger

The intoxicated part actually occurs after the game, but I just wanted to make sure everyone’s paying attention. This is also my new Indian name.

Are we all here? Great. Then let’s begin, shall we?

I think someone once said that revenge is best served in a frosted martini glass with Absolut Mango and freshly squeezed essence of citrus… errrr something like that.

We were facing Sweet Sassy Molasses for the first time this season. A rivalry of epic proportions, equaling that of say, The Red Sox and Yankees, spanning years and years of contempt and disdain … uh, wait ... Not really, it actually originated just last year when we blew an 11-zip lead in the 6th inning and were defeated by the team with the androgynous pitcher… Is he? Isn’t she?

So anyway. It’s a new-fangled season. We’ve been practicing. Improving. Honing our skills. We’re bigger. Stronger. Faster. The bionic Outlaws.

On offense, our bats—EXPLOSIVE. (The Yanks have Teixeira. The Outlaws have DAN. Take that, Steinney-- we got Dan for 30 bucks and a peanut butter sammich.) And not to mention, we got The Chicks Who can Hit—Lauren and Lisa. Yay for estrogen!!

On defense, our pitcher- PRECISE (though sometimes known to have a mysterious hole in his glove ‘round the 5th inning)

Our infield – MEDIOCRE. (But we’re a work in progress!! The Yanks have Jeets at short. Ummm. And then, The Outlaws have DAN. It’s ok, Big D, not everyone can be a five-tool playah. And we think you’re much cuter than Jeter anyway, if that lessens the blow any.)

Our outfield- INFALLIBLE. (We have the flawless gloves of Eddie, Tim and Jon making spectacular grabs. And then there’s the tiny Asian in RF who can back-up the infield but can’t throw in a straight line to save her life. I really gotta stop drinking before the games …)

We are the champions, my friends.

On Sunday, March 29, 2009—we defeated Team Sweet Sassy Molasses and avenged last year’s loss with a V-I-C-T-O-R-Y adding another tick in the win column for our 4-0 record!

(*Sidebar) And by the way, I noticed jerkwad was sans red high-knee socks this go round. When it was his turn to high-five and good-game us, I also noted that HE was in the dugout fiddling through HIS bag for something just as I had done last year.

Well done, Outlaws. It’s still a long road to the Big Show, but then, at least we’re not Team Mendoza (0-4)!!!

Check out our league coverage and team standings on:
http://www.playavistatoday.com/Playa_Vista_Sports.html

Exercising my Right to Vote

(From 7/15/08)

I'm convinced I had a hand in IT.

It was me.

The fact that SEVEN Red Sox and one Cleveland outfielder made the AL All-Star Team was no fluke or coincidence. Make no mistake.

The Breakdown:
Red Sox Starters: Youkilis, Pedroia, Ramirez, Ortiz
Red Sox Pitcher: Papelbon
Red Sox Reserves: Drew, Varitek
And one little Indian: Grady Sizemore

It was all me.

And about 600 of my votes.

Because you can't make a difference or complain after the fact, if you don't VOTE.

Mmmmm… granted, an individual was only allotted 25 votes per e-mail address, but let's just say I got "creative."

So what-- I used my four various business and personal e-mail accounts and then asked some friends if I could use their names, birthdates and e-mail addresses to maximize my voting capabilities. It's legal. Probably.

Now just imagine if I apply this determination and tireless diligence to Obama's presidential campaign, anything is possible. Too bad I wasn't a Hillary supporter. Or a dishonest, cheating, ballot stuffing sibling governor.

The moral of this story?
YOUR vote(s) count.
YOU CAN make a difference.
(If you have various e-mail addresses and the keen ability to be "creative" to beat the system.)

How do you think W's brother got him his job?

The MLB Player Genome Project

(From 07/17/08)

I'm crediting this to the Physical Anthropology class I took at El Co a few seasons ago in my academic career.

I've decided to research the genetic composition of major league baseball players.

It is a known fact that most MLB players have slightly larger craniums than most average males. (See Jason Giambi, Alex Rodriguez, Kevin Youkilis, etc. They ALL have HUGE noggins). And it's probably true that most MLB players have the highest percentage of crotch grabbing and are less likely to refrain from readjusting their unit while nationally televised than the every-day bloke on the street. Hmmm. Maybe it's those MLB pants… they're quite binding. But I have extended my research and scientific findings on something I observed today during the Red Sox/Orioles series.

It's something I've been overlooking but it's an issue that's been hitting me in the face for decades (literally): Spitting and saliva.

Today while Brian Roberts was on second and leading off to try to steal third, I saw him spit out a white substance from between his teeth. That was not anything out of the ordinary. But when the camera caught him again shortly afterward, I noticed he was chewing gum. And he did it yet again. Then they cut to Francona in the dugout… and, same thing. He had a huge wad of the BG, pink even, in his mouth but continued to expectorate surplus saliva from between his front chicklets. Pedoria, Lowell… spitting, spitting. At any given point of any given game, any given player in the field, on the mound, in the dugout or bullpen is either grabbing his junk or ejecting something from his mouth regardless whether a camera catches it or not. It perplexes me. And this is something I'm willing to get to the bottom of. In the name of science and research.

Though I'm no scientist, this led me to the following compelling hypothesis:
If you are a major league baseball player, your production of saliva increases and your ability to swallow aforementioned saliva will decrease, thus increasing the probability of spitting.

I'm just wondering… do they produce more saliva than normal males and then do they simply have a disability of swallowing said saliva? Maybe they have extra genes that allow for larger glands or are lacking throat muscles which would prevent them from swallowing the saliva that they produce. But whatever the case, it's like a major league gleek fest out there. DNA sample here, squamous epithelia there, frothy, frothy saliva, EVERYWHERE… And it's got nothing to do with chewing tobacco, surprisingly enough. Or sunflower seeds for that matter. It's clearly the watery substance produced by the salivary glands.

If I can get enough grant money, I'm also willing to research the man-on-man posterior tapping, percentage of illegitimate offspring conceived while away on road games and sodium levels and the long term consequences of DAVID salted sunflower seeds. I may need to commission a private study on Dustin Pedroia for his sunflower seed intake and how many seeds he can pack into his mouth without it having adverse effects on his batting average. Not that it's relevant, I'd just like to spend some one-on-one quality time with him and I know he'd refuse unless it was for the benefit of "research."

I shall publish my findings in the fall after the post season if I can find any financial backers. Wait for it.

But I wouldn't hold your spit.

How Fatty got her Groove Back

So yeah, I’m merely staring down the barrel of 40. And while I’m not there yet, my innards and my mental state still feel as if they are in their adolescent stages. My lungs, inner drive and spirit are fully prepared to run a marathon or conquer the Iron Man.

My body however, has other designs. Though I’ve been blessed with the ability to remain perpetually and mentally 12, I was cursed with the bad joints of an overweight car salesman named Lou. From my ankles, knees, hips, to my elbows, wrists and shoulders. They really ought to just take me out back and shoot me. I’m of no use to anyone, really.

I decided to give up running because I’d like to still be able to walk and remain mobile in my 80s. And since I’m a marketer’s dream, I decided to purchase a bottle of ‘Move Free’ upon seeing a commercial on late night television. Prolly between the transition of Golden Girls to Murder She Wrote…The ad touted putting an end to that pesky arthritis and joint pain that typically plagues the denture-clad, Super Polydent Generation.

I went on the website—more images of oldsters with testimonials of how they have their lives back, pain-free. And then there she was. Jane Seymour in all her fifty-something glory sharing her "personal inspiring story about managing joint discomfort.” Well damn it, if it’s good enough for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, then it’s good enough for me. I realize though, that she’s not a real doctor and was merely portraying a fictional character on the TV. She just has really nice hair. Someone with such luxurious and fine locks would never steer me wrong. “They” say that Move Free will comfort joints in just SEVEN days!”

So I went to the CVS and bought a bottle. Suckah. It’s a combination of chondrotin, glucosamine, Chinese skullcap and shellfish. Complete hookah? Perhaps. But I’m willing to try it. Cause Seymour says so. And wouldn’tcha know? Just like that. *Poof* I have my life back. Exactly like Oldie McCreaks-a-Lot gushed about in her testimonial.

This morning I went running for the first time since last year. And I felt like a million bucks. Um… okay, that’s pretty much a total lie –in this economy, more like $199.95. But I’ll take it. “This baby corners like she’s on rails.” (Had to throw in the Pretty Woman ref for my loyal readers- all two of them…)

So the moral of this story is, I'll buy pretty much anything from anyone who has nice hair. Or anyone who is elderly and decrepit. I maybe even woulda bought a used car off of Estelle Getty. But then, she’s dead.

Nothing but Stitch

So Pedroia was pulled from the WBC last week for a strained oblique and sent back to the Fort for a medical evaluation. And since then, all of Red Sox Nation Worldwide has been on pins and needles waiting for word.

The last thing we need is to kick off the 2009 season with an injury-plagued Pedroia on the DL. After the 08 debacle with Beck, Lowell and Big Fatty we're hoping for a healthy roster to STAY healthy throughout.

But Pedroia is different altogether. He's our MVP/Gold Glove first-line lethal weapon for offense and defense. He's also the soul and drive of the team. The bubble gum and chewing tobacco that binds the clubhouse together. With his sharp-witted humor and a mouth that spits more trash than a waste management company, Pedroia is the Red Sox unofficial scrappy mascot. But he can back it up-- just look at his ASU/Red Sox stats and his endless list of awards and achievements. Cocky? Yes. Capable, skillful and talented? Absolutely. He puts the ASS in smart ass. He is audacious. He is fearless. He is relentless. He IS "One hundred seventy Pounds of Mouth."

We all at RSN heaved a collective sigh during his first game back on Friday against the Pirates.Just to see THAT swing. Because nothing says Pedroia like the Little Midget That Could swinging out of his shoes at evertyhing AND the kitchen sink. He went 1 for 2 with an RBI and swung the stick like a knife cutting through warm butter. Nice and easy. And just like that, He's back.

You know how I know?

On Team USA facing Team Japan and fellow team mate/starting pitcher, "Dice-K" Matsuzaka in the World Baseball Classic tonight:
"Daisuke is lucky I'm not there," quipped Pedroia. "I'd hit a line drive right off his back, and you guys can put that in your paper. I would hit him right in his back. He better hope the Red Sox don't trade him." (Ian Browne- MLB.com)

That's how I know ... Our boy's gonna be just fine.

Nobody Asked Me ...

But I'm saying so anyhow. Get Theo Epstein on the horn ...

Here's my five cents and no, you don't get any change back. I know this is only the second day of Spring Training. But we lost to the Twins yesterday and now the Pirates. And it gives me pause. Who will we lose to next? The Hobbits from the Shire?

I was really disappointed when we lost out on Teixeira. He would have provided a HUGE stick for the offense as well as a perfect fit at first while Youk could shift and take over for Lowell, who is a great player but let's face it ... age + injury = glue factory. I think it would have been a natural transition until Lowell decides to, as they say in the police force- take a desk job. It's as it always is then. No matter how good ANY team is, it hinges on a number of variables. Can we stay healthy AND consistent.

Like Ellsbury. He beefed up this season, yes. But for the love of Christ if he doesn't swing on that first pitch 3 out of 4 times he's at bat. Howbout ya beef up on the brain matter first. He needs a swift kick in his huge buttocks and a stern talking to. Or at least a strongly worded letter. Love the guy but he's a bonehead sometimes. And I'd love him even more if he waited on just one phackin' pitch.

We have lots of colts in our stable but a lot of work horses that need to be put out to pasture.Tek, Lowell, Wake. Granted JD is only 33 but he's trapped in the body Don Ameche. ah, wait- he's dead.Ok, then Milton Berle. Oops, dead too. You get my drift...I say we round them up and take them on a day trip to Denny's for the senior citizen discounts. Moons over my Hammy all around.Penny/Smoltz/Buch are all questionable. Not reliable. Dice. You already know my feelings about him. He's about as stable as a chair with three legs. I can't even think about him without reaching for my bottle of Mylanta first. We have a solid bull pen but that's IF they're firing on all cylinders and can stay healthy unhindered by fatigue and injury.

See. Consistency and robust-icity (that's a Julie-ism I made it up.) It comes down to that. With the bats and on the mound.

One thing is fo sho-Pedie is definitely still on fire. That boy is unstoppable. He is one constant on that team that I can depend on.Play ball!!!

Because the Last Time I Checked, You weren't Thurgood Marshall

And I’m pretty sure you’re not Sandra Day O’Connor either.

People. I have one word. Actually several that will follow this one word I’m about to reveal … but for starters, RELAX.

When I first got on Facebook, it was all light and breezy. Everyone was joining up to reconnect with childhood friends, ex-coworkers, ex-boyfriends, lost loves, etc. etc.

People sent me Sea Monkey Applications or sent me Cooties, gave me virtual wedgies, Super Poked me or Flung Poo at me, what have you ...

See? Fun. Nothing but good times and jollies.Since then, Facebook has gotten a little bit too serious for my liking.Almost to the point where I’m going to start my own group called “Facebook Etiquette.”

I’ve been both deleted and have deleted friends from my page. And it’s gettin’ ugly up in this mug.

I am a writer. And Facebook is my forum to express myself.I’ve gotten unwarranted opinions about what I post, when I post, the volume at which I post, what I say, what my updates mean, why did I post a picture of my dog in a Red Sox hat (please don’t rat me out to Animal Services)... Which is fine. This is America. And under the Constitution, y’all have certain rights and freedoms. You are entitled to your own opinions. I get that. But really? You’re wondering why I’m on Facebook for three hours at a time and why I change my update status every time the wind blows?

And my answer? It’s my dog damn page.If you don’t like it, or if you’re annoyed at how many fan pages I join, or if you can’t decipher my so-called ‘cryptic’ status update messages, then maybe I’m not the friend for you. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to get a bunch of people misinterpreting what I’m writing now as complaining or being snarky. Ok, so yeah, it is a little snarky…

I’m sarcastic. I’m a smart ass. I’m sardonic. Cynical. Scornful. Mocking. Mostly about myself but sometimes about sports and of the world around me. And if and when I see fit, I will often blog about it. Most of my posts or comments on Facebook are for my comedic benefit or for my friends who know me well. Because if you knew me at all, you’d know I wasn’t trying to be offensive or hurt anyone’s feelings.

A good rule thumb in life that I find helpful also in the realm of Facebook is “Don’t be a Thurgood.”

See, I don’t judge you, so don’t do it to me.

And more importantly, don’t simply post a comment on my wall stating that the “Red Sox suck” without sufficient wit and actual substantial supporting evidence of aforementioned sucking and not expect me to unleash a shit storm of factual data why they do not in fact suck and then complain like a baby because I’ve just handed your humility to you on a ham sandwich on your wall (all done with humor and innocent ribbing) in front of 249 of your closest Facebook friends. ( Damn, that sentence was long.) Just don’t do it.

I mean no harm. Really.Most of the time, I’m just being funny, silly and/or coming from my Stupid Place. It’s where I live.

Another rule of thumb in life and on Facebook is … maybe one should tend to one’s own garden instead of looking over the fence and pointing out my weeds. Cause I think I saw some crab grass in your dichondra too. We all have stuff. I’m just sayin’ is all …

Nevermind that I’m on Facebook for five hours. Why are you keeping track? I work out of my pajamas and my love life is non-existent. That pretty much leaves wide-open chunks of time in my social calendar. Yes, if you’re wondering, I have no life. There. I said it. Are you happy? I am a waste of human flesh. (But I will say, however that my pajamas are quite spectacular)

Sheesh.

The world is in enough upheaval, don’t you think? Economic crisis. Ethnic injustices. Paula is still on American Idol. Our President thinks he’s Mick Phackin’ Jagger. The threat of zombie domination grows closer to a reality every day … We shouldn’t add personal gripes about how people navigate their profile page to the increasing pile of global issues. Facebook could be such a kinder, gentler social networking place- if we could all just accept and embrace our differences and/or some individual’s obsessive need to post Red Sox articles from Redsox.com all the live long day.

In the immortal words of Rodney Glen King (after being beat beyond recognition by LA’s finest PoPo): “Can we all just get along?”

Does this Mom make my Ass Look Big?

So I’m sitting in the car after chauffeuring that lady I call ‘Mom’ to a doctor appointment today.

And it comes completely outta nowhere… “Your okole doesn’t look SOOOO BIG…” (*emphasis on the SOOOO)(Okole, phonetically = Oh-koe-lay) Work it out, people.

Umm. Yeah. I think we were talking about the impending doom that is my upcoming 20-year reunion. And how most people from other states won’t be making it out because of the travel expenses and these economic times. The words ‘fat’ or ‘my body’ had not been uttered from my lips during the discussion.

So lemme break this down for those of you who are not familiar with A) Hawaiian terms or B) the wacky world of hypercriticism that is my Mother.In order to more accurately decipher this Mother Mumbo Jumbo, at this time, please turn to your Mom to Crazy Dictionary to assist you in translation.

Okole means hind quarters in Hawaiian. Butt. Ass. Hind parts. Posterior. Onion. Booty Jumpin’ Off. Whatever your preference.So a loose translation of my mom’s statement, “Your okole doesn’t look so big,” roughly translates into, “Your ass used to look like the size of South America, you need to get your roley poley in the gym and for God sakes, call Jenny TODAY.”

I understand my mom means well. And she probably didn’t mean it the way that it came out. In some weird, jacked-up, motherly way, it may even have been a really nice compliment rolled in dog crap and sprinkled with maggots with a detonator in it. My mom was being nice. I think.

My mom is a ‘regular mom.’ She does regular mom things. Like not trusting her own parenting skills. She raised me and armed me with enough smarts and common sense to make decisions for myself. Yet she still thinks I’m too stupid to figure out to take outer garments in inclement weather. That drives me up the phackin’ wall. And yes, I do know that desserts do not count as a Fifth Food Group, get off my back. I will start eating healthier after I’m diagnosed with some semi-serious, life-altering but not limited to life-threatening disease.

So I suppose it didn’t surprise me when she made a comment about the enormous wagon I’m apparently draggin’.

Much to my own chagrin, I did not get angry. I did not pitch a fit. I did not eat it on a house. I did not eat it with a mouse. I do not like it on a tram. My mother thinks I have extra ham. Initially, I was stunned. But I didn’t immediately lash out at her as I am usually wont to…

At least not until after I had privately visualized flames shooting from my eye sockets and melting her face off her skull to the consistency of nacho cheese right there in the passenger seat of my little Corolla. And in my imagination, nacho cheese does not lift off that easily from fabric upholstery. The clean-up was a nightmare. I don’t recommend it.

I kinda chuckled to myself. After I pulled the twisted knife outta my gut. My mom is pretty skillful with verbal shanks and jabs.

I’m not gonna lie. It owned me. In my head. For at least two minutes.I got all squirrely and shifty in the driver’s seat at a red light and thought of a really chippy retort. But I decided against it. Because I’m tired. And I don’t want to keep fighting the battle. This battle. The battle that’s been waging over generations and cultures between Mothers and Daughters since Jesus wore huaraches (he is part Hispanic, isn’t he?). I am fighting just for the sake of being right. I don’t want to do that anymore.

At this stage in her life, my mom is my mom. She is who she is. She is not going to change. She’s going to continue to say things that aren’t intended to hurt my feelings but do anyway and she’s STILL not going to get it when I point it out to her. This is the same woman who told me I had wide hips when I was twelve. Twelve. I was TWELVE. Oh, and did I also mention that at the time I was TWELVE?

But I think I’m moving further away from those markers in my life that wounded me in my past and I’m starting to let go of the stuff that I don’t have room in my Suitcase of Issues to carry around any more. (I gotta make room for the new stuff.) I’m happy being me. South American Ass and all…

So I’m not going to spiral into an eating disorder. And I’m not going to work out for five hours tonight. I will however, go to the drive-thru of Crap in the Box and order my 1,677 calorie sour dough jack special with onion rings (I’m on a first name basis with the window guy, Joe)…

Because for once, I’m ok. And mostly, I’m kinda humbry.

Someone basically called me fat… and to my face. Someone that supposedly and allegedly loves me. And I’m ok. I really am ok. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an exorbitant amount of fat and calories with my name all over it.

And, better take a sweater … it’s cold out.