Friday, January 23, 2004
My dry cough persists. My unproductive "mucous why have you forsaken me in my darkest hour" croup hems and hacks but gives me nothing. Dry. A dry cough. It's just no good, no good at all.
And what do I expect? With the exception of the dry martini, are there any "dry" prefixed words that have a positive connotation?
There are certainly the negative. For instance …
Dry heaves — Ah, yes, the crapulent cousin of the desiccant cough. Perhaps more acute in terms of the actual bodily punishment, but compared to a dry cough that can last for weeks, the heaves are a mere blink of the eye. Dry socket — A juiceless hole from a molar extraction? Oh, sweet Jesus, no. Dry rot? Dry eyed? Nuh-uh. Dry hump? Oh, that's worse than no hump at all, right?
And then there are the not so much negative as just ambivalent dry words …
Dry cleaning? I drop of my clothes, I pick them up 2 days later in a plastic bag. The process remains a mystery. Dry dock? Reminds me of my time working on submarines at the Portsmouth Navy Yard. The subs were cool, the job was dull. Dry goods? Archaic term, makes me think of Mr. Olsen on Little House on the Prairie. Yuck, dry, barren, windswept praise. Dry ice? Yeah, it has its purpose, but you touch it and you'll be sorry. Dry mop? C' mon. Dry nurse? Really.Dry season? I picture emaciated wildebeests on the Serengeti. Dry sink? Whatever. Dry wall? Easy to punch through in a mad rage.
Let's face it, dry just sucks for the most part.
And I'm wondering if Ripken was ever plagued by the dry cough during his streak? Certainly seems hard to imagine: Steps into batter's box. Calls time. Steps out. Hack hack hem whoop gag. Steps into batter's box. Calls time. Steps out. Hack hack hem whoop gag. And so on. Yes, they make prescription, heavy duty suppressants and expectorants but in my own experience those leave me too doped up to get off the couch let alone hit a 95mph baseball.
Pity me and my dry cough.
Congratulations are in order for Dave Pinto of the Baseball Musings weblog. Dave from his work with STATS, Inc and ESPN already could represent, already had the bona fides, but now he's adding more. Starting Feb. 2, he will be back in baseball, working for Baseball Information Solutions as a programmer.
This is not only great for Dave, it's great for the rest of us as well since he is such a well spoken proponent for blogs and new media.
I'm going way off topic but, just to placate those in the audience who have been whispering about my supposed right wing leanings, I'm telling you I watched the Democratic candidates debate last night. Nothing new there, I'm actually a political junky and, if you must know, a registered Independent, so I stay fairly focused on what the Dems, GOP, Greens, New Party, you name it, are up to on a regular basis.
After watching last night's debate, I'm convinced that if you could take the heart, soul, and brain of Joe Lieberman and put them into the body of John Edwards, you'd have the ultimate candidate, a true Bush Whacka.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
I had to focus on Cal Ripken and Lou Gehrig this morning in order to manifest the energy to get out bed. I've been fighting a loosing battle with a cold all week and today I really, really wanted to remain under the covers with a box of tissues beside my much malaised head; however, being of sturdy New England stock (mixed with the omnipresence of Catholic guilt) I only call in sick when I'm truly incapacitated and a nasty cough, post nasal drip, throbbing head, and general malaise just doesn't qualify. Still I don't see how a guy like Ripken or any other MLB player (not counting Manny, of course) can go out and play nine innings of pro ball when ill.
All I do all day is sit on my ass in a cubicle in front of a computer screen, yet I can barely do that on these bacterial dominated days.
Meanwhile, I've got nothing for you today. I was going to rant about how ridiculous it is to use Roman numerals to count Super Bowls, but a quick Google check revealed that's already been done.
This is my best friend Butch coming at me full speed about 100 yards out. I wouldn't be caught dead in Mordor without him.
So this is all I've been thinking about: Why are there no dogs in Tolkein's Middle Earth? Doesn't make sense for not only can I envision dogs (especially magical ones) as great warriors for either side, darkness and light, but also, journey to Mordor aside, wouldn't you want to go tramping around the Shire in your hairy feet with a hairy, four-legged companion by your side?
Maybe there is mention of canines in the books but it's been so long since I've read them I've forgotten? Certainly, though, I don't recall mutts of any sort making an appearance in the Jackson films.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Principal players Epstein, Hicks, Moorad, and Boras all uniform in denial:
"I did not have sexual relations with that woman … Miss Lewinsky."
- Unnamed high level sources: Alex Rodriguez seen wearing a black beret and reading a copy of Vox given to him by "secret admirer."
- MLB on jersey-gate: "An authorized person conducted an unauthorized hoax …We take this very seriously, and we are currently investigating."
- Special prosecutor Kenneth Star to seek grand jury subpoenas— Seeks possible "stained" Gap Red Sox replica jersey (blue batting practice version.)
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Get Your Hands Off My Manny-quin!
Figures just when I've reconciled with Manny Ramirez and I'm really looking forward to seeing him stride to the plate in a Red Sox uniform in 2004, Silva at DirtDogs tells us
ESPN Radio's Bruce Levine, who broke Pettitte to Astros, Roger too, reports of "secret talks" scheduled this week between Sox-Rangers.
Now that I no longer want such a trade to happen, want to just stick with what we have in Nomar and Manny, the deal will surely happen, right?
In football news, this from Brian Murphy at ESPN cracked me up:
Sure to be a hot topic is what Pats mastermind coach Bill Belichick pulls from his closet on Game Day. Will it be the blue-hoooded sweatshirt or the gray-hooded sweatshirt? As for the pants ... Will it be the blue sweatpants? Or the gray sweatpants?
Where have you gone, Tom Landry? A nation turns its lonely eyes to your long-lost blazer and fedora (Page 2).
Belichick sure does like to go casual doesn't he?
If I were an NFL coach and it were a cold, cold day on the sidelines like the ones at Foxboro these past few games, you know what I'd wear? I'd come out in a floor length black fur coat. I shit you not. And why not? I'd do it just because I can. And when the inevitable PETA backlash would ensue, I'd show up at a press conference chomping on a big Flintstones sized rib. Just because I could and because I like to see people go nuts for sheer amusement.
Don't get me wrong, I love animals, but when advocacy groups start to act like cults it scares me. It's not a political thing, either. I'm just as freaked out by the whackos tossing around blood outside women's clinics or the extreme Ted Nugent side of the NRA.
Plus, like I said, I like to mess with believers. So around hawks I'll play a peacenik. Around atheists I'll quote scripture. Around the anti-globalists I'll get a woody for the World Bank. You get the picture. Call me an interloper. Call me infantile. ("Did you just call me a man-child?")
And speaking of taking some amusement in seeing (or reather hearing) someone snap, how about that Howard Dean?
Monday, January 19, 2004
Why Can't I Be You?
Everything about the New England Patriots is good and admirable. Everything is right as rain. Even my Lisa bright and dark fan self is fully lit — watching the gridiron games I am confident (but never cocksure); I am emboldened (but never strident); I am emotional (but never insane) — that is to say my Patriots fan self is every bit the opposite of my Red Sox fan self.
Would that I could hang onto the Patriots fan inside me, even just a part of him, come April.