Nate Graziano's Big Baseball Blog

I hate New York City

2012-01-27T15:23:00.011-05:00

I hate New York City.

There, I said it. I hate the Yankees. I hate the Giants. I hate the Jets and the Rangers and the Knicks (although I don't follow basketball), and if I didn't pity them so much for having to live in their obnoxious older brothers' shadows, I'd hate the Mets, too. I even hate the Dodgers and the San Francisco Giants for having their roots in New York City.

I hate the Empire State Building, mostly because I'm afraid of heights. I hate Broadway and musicals, mostly because I can never get past the plausibility problems of people singing and dancing through their entire days. I hate traffic and crowds and things that are overpriced and pretentious. Admittedly, using that line of logic, I should I hate Boston, too. But this isn't about Boston. This is about New York City. And I hate it.

And holy truck-load of shit, I hate it when my wife watches reruns of Sex in the City.

I especially hate the athletes who represent the New York franchises. I hate A-Rod and Eli. I'm pretty sure even New Yorkers hate Rex Ryan, but as a non sequitur, I hate The New Yorker, too. I hate Jeter and Fatty McGee (a.k.a Sabathia) and Jacobs and Nicks. Truth be known, I grew up a Giants fan, and I hate myself for that.

I hate the stupid way the crowd chants the Yankees' players' names in the first inning of each home game, and I especially hate the goddamn "Cruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuz" call whenever Victor Cruz makes a catch. I try to convince myself they're yelling, "Yooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuk" and sometimes it works. But mostly it doesn't.

However, let me make this much clear: I do not hate the people who root for New York. In fact, I love them for hating our teams. It's what makes this coming Super Bowl so rich. It's what makes each of the 18 regular season Sox/Yankees games breathless. It's the reason a relatively meaningless Bruins/Rangers game on Saturday afternoon in January will still pack the sports bars. While it only takes ten minutes of listening to sports talk radio to realize some people use their allegiance to their teams as a platform for blanketed hate, make no mistake, those people---to put it bluntly---are complete fucking morons.

Listen, I have a lot of friends and family who are New York fans. One of my good buddies, who I lived with for a year, is a New York fan. My cousins and uncle are New York fans. I have colleagues who are New York fans. Hell, my agent is a Yankee fan. And the list goes on. So while I can understand the primordial need to want to see the opposing team not only stomped, but humiliated, it's nothing that should ever become personal. If you find yourself physically assaulting someone in the stands at Fenway or The Meadowlands (MetLife, whatever), or harassing someone on the subway in NYC or the T in Boston for wearing the enemy's hat or jersey, you're not a fan, you're a thug.

Yes, I hate New York City, but without it, I'd have a lot less to love.

Go Pats!

Inventory

2011-12-31T11:41:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I had my cell phone replaced due to the fact that I couldn't hear the callers unless I put it on speaker phone. This had been going on for three months, and it created some awkward situations in restaurants and other public places. Therefore, I stopped talking on the phone and sent text messages to people instead. On Thursday, I finally hauled my lazy ass to Verizon and had a replacement phone sent to my house yesterday. Seeing that nothing in my life goes off without a hitch, in the process of switching over phones, I lost all of the phone numbers for my family and friends. Now, I realize I could call Verizon, wait on the line for forty years, and then talk to someone in India about the problem, but I have beer to drink and a tap-dancing routine to choreograph. I'm a busy man.

While meditating on the problem, however, I also realized that my lost contacts provided me with a chance to take some personal inventory (How's that for optimism? From now on, call me Sunshine). The truth of the matter is that I only talk to a handful of people with any regularity, and my number hasn't changed, so if someone wants to get in touch with me, they can. And there's always the "bitch" button...

So I started thinking (always a bad sign for Sunshine) about New Year's and taking inventory. If nothing else, New Year's is an opportunity to look back at what you've accomplished, failed to accomplish, and ignored over the past 365 days. So the one thing that I've been meaning to do all year, have failed to, and will now accomplish is post Frank Zappa's 'Why Does It Hurt When I Pee?".

Done, done, and done. Happy New Year, kids.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T11:58:00.002-05:00

This year was a veritable train wreck for The Red Sox. In many ways, the 2011 atomic collapse of The Best Team Ever was the worst experience of my life as a Red Sox fan. Sure, the chokes in 1978, 1986, and 2o03 bred a generation of nihilists, but those collapses could not be attributed to a lack of character and gumption. This year's Red Sox, however, represented professional athletes at their most detestable and has made it difficult to rally behind these guys looking forward. But, alas, come spring training, we will.

So on this holiday season, I'm choosing to remember the good times. This clip of the Sox completing the total evisceration of the Spank-jobs in 2004 warms my heart with holiday joy. Enjoy. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my imaginary blog readers.

Go Pats! Go B's! And, yes, go Sox!

Holy shit, Bobby V. It's Christmas for Boston smart-asses.

2011-12-01T19:02:00.011-05:00

Today, the Red Sox officially hired Bobby Valentine. This seems almost too good to be true. Not good because Bobby Valentine is some kind of panacea that can bring health to all of the lame in The Crypt Keeper's clubhouse. Oh hell, no. The Red Sox could have named Jesus Christ as their next manager, and Beckett still would've cracked a beer in his face and said, "Who the fuck do you think you are, buck?"

No, Bobby Valentine brings with him better qualities than the ability to heal the sick: He's brings with him a Broadway personality and an ego that makes John Lackey look like Anne Frank.

If you haven't seen this list yet, it's well worth checking out. Bobby Valentine was, among his other venerable life feats, a "pancake eating" champion at 18 years-old. The fact that you can Google his name and find out that a 61 year-old man won a pancake eating contest when he was 18 years-old tells you everything you need to know about him.

So what do you think of Bobby Valentine's appointment to be the next manager of The Boston Red Sox? asks one blog reader...okay, it really wasn't a blog reader. I never get questions from blog readers. Ever. In fact, I'm still fairly certain that nobody reads this blog, so I'm forced to turn to my imaginary blog reader, who is a 23 year-old slutty calendar girl, built like a roller coaster, with nothing else to do all day but wait for my updates and masturbate. So my imaginary blog reader asks: So what do you think of Bobby Valentine's appointment to be the next manager of The Boston Red Sox?

Listen, I think all of the changes the Red Sox have made so far this off-season have been good ones. After the shit this team pulled last September, they needed to gut the management and try something else (while, granted, Lucchino should have gone out with them). There are a lot of things that sports fans can forgive. Red Sox fans forgave the team's epic collapses in 1975, 1978, 1986, and 2003. But one of the things that is simply irreconcilable for any sports fan is watching their team quit on the season. And this doesn't forgive the players, who quite frankly still owe us fans an answer, and that answer must come next season. So it's Bobby V.'s job, at very least, to ensure that these beer-guzzling, fried-chicken munching dick-hats either play like professionals or sit their fat-asses on the bench.

Other than that, I expect Bobby V. to be entertaining. I understand that the Red Sox didn't hire Jim Leyland or Tony LaRussa, someone great enough to nearly assure a turn-around next season. Bobby V. is a band-aid who can't really lose while the Sox wait for Farrell's contract to come up in 2013. Bobby V. is not the greatest manager out there, but, goddamn, the guy can eat some pancakes.

Fare thee well, douche bag.

2011-11-12T11:29:00.007-05:00

If the title of this post is somehow ambiguous to you, let me air my thoughts on Jonathan Papelbon leaving Boston without any trace of equivocation: See you later, asshole, and don't let the door hit you in the ass.

Sure, on paper Papelbon is unparalleled in Red Sox history. He owns the career record for saves. He was the only closer in major league history to reach 35 saves in his first three full seasons. He was lights out in 2007 and, more importantly, he owns a ring. However, I am going to ask any real Sox fan sentimentalizing over his departure and playing your Dropkick Murphy's CD's while crying into your Bud Light one question (and someone is feeling the colon today; no pun intended): Did you ever feel completely comfortable with Papelbon coming out of the pen these past three seasons?

Let's forget his goofy attempts at intimidation with that stupid stare into home plate and be completely honest in our assessments. He was never that scary to hitters. He has one pitch, and if he can't locate the fastball---and as he ages the zip will wear off it like mattress tracks on a whore's back*---he's going to get shelled. Early in his career, Schilling tried to show him the splitter, but it never took. Granted, in closer lore, all you need is fastball. Right. Assuming you're Mariano Fucking Rivera and no one on the planet can hit your cutter. Papelbon is no Mariano Rivera. He's no Trever Hoffman. He's an above average closer who is being overpaid on a Lackey-level.

And, Red Sox fans, don't buy this guy's bullshit. He never planned to come back to Boston. This guy's career path---and, yes, it's a business and you can't fault him for this---has been crystal clear from Day One. He's been playing for the payday, and he got it. He never signed long term with the Red Sox because he wanted to get back on the market when his contract was up. He said as much. So let him choke on his cigars and dance his dumb-ass jigs in Philly. Like most of these guys, he was a mercenary in Boston. Now he's gone. Big deal.

Finally, let's remember Papelbon by his last games in a Boston uniform in both the regular season and the post-season. His last post-season game was against Anaheim in the ALDS where he coughed up three runs, blowing a lead in Fenway, and sending the Red Sox home for the season. His last regular season was in Baltimore last September, where he had two outs and a chance to give the Red Sox a puncher's chance at the post-season. Papelbon gave up three hits, two runs, and again sent the Red Sox packing.

Enjoy it, Philly. In the immortal words of Kenny Powers: you're fucking out, Papelbon.

*How about that simile. Someone has his A-game today.

Getting my Led out

2011-10-29T18:47:00.013-04:00

As an adolescent, growing up in Rhode Island in the early-90s, on the local rock station, 94 HJY, each day they had an hour of programming called "Get the Led Out,"devoted to the worship of my rock gods: Led Zeppelin. And each day, I was tickled fucking pink. Mind you, by this point, John Bonham was already a decade dead, and the band's last album, In Through the Out Door was an afterthought (note: I don't count Coda as a real Zeppelin album; it was swag thrown together to honor a contract). As Pearl Jam and Nirvana and grunge began to replace the hair bands of 80s, Zeppelin was already being considered a relic, a staple of your rock diet, but definitely not hip. Jimmy Page was working with David Coverdale of Whitesnake, and Robert Plant had yet to tap the hot indie/folk chick musician market, yet Led Zeppelin was still very much alive in my baked teenage eyes.

As an adolescent, my bedroom was papered with Led Zeppelin posters. When my door was closed, I quietly dreamed of being skinny enough to wear Jimmy Page's jumpsuits with the Oriental snakes and moons and stars and black magic allusions embroidered on the leg. I lusted for Robert Plant's hair---as most women I know, to this day, still do. My wardrobe consisted of torn jeans, flannel shirts, and black Led Zeppelin concert t-shirts, although I did own a couple of Pink Floyd and Guns N' Roses shirts, as well. And I took heed of the advice from Fast Times at Ridgemont High about playing Led Zeppelin when you were alone with your girlfriend. Consequently, I'm sure my high school girlfriends throw knives at their husbands when a Led Zeppelin song plays in the background.

In short, I was all about Led Zeppelin.

I'm now 36 years-old, and I've kicked my unhealthy obsession with Led Zeppelin to cyber-stalk the Red Sox, and, oh, and I have a wife and kids and all that stuff, too. But some days, I just need a taste of my old smack and this morning, when I woke up with a lingering headache, I knew the only way to resolve the problem was to get my fucking Led out.

Earlier today, I asked my close and intimate Facebook friends the question: What Led Zeppelin song would have to be included on the consummate Zep playlist? I limited my list to 15 songs and knew I'd have some tough decisions to make. So I listened to others, drank a lot of beer, and ultimately arrived at the following:

1. "Bron-y-aur" (from Physical Graffiti, not "The Bron-y-aur Stomp" from Led Zeppelin III)

2. "Good Times, Bad Times" (Led Zeppelin I)

3. "Hey, Hey, What Can I Do?" (a B-side of "Immigrant Song" from Led Zeppelin III)

4. "In the Evening" (In Through the Out Door)

5. "Night Flight" (Physical Graffiti)

6. "Nobody's Fault But Mine" (Presence)

7. "The Ocean" (Houses of the Holy)

8. "Out of the Tiles" (Led Zeppelin III)

9. "The Rain Song" (Houses of the Holy)

10. "The Rover" (Physical Graffiti)

11. "Tangerine" (Led Zeppelin II)

12. "Ten Years Gone" (Physical Graffiti)

13. "Thank You" (live version from The BBC Sessions)

14. "Travelling Riverside Blues" (a Robert Johnson cover released as a single)

15. "Whole Lotta Love" (Led Zeppelin II)

In other news...

2011-10-15T10:56:00.004-04:00

So I found out yesterday that my short story "Fishbone" was one of five finalists for The Norman Mailer Award, a national creative writing contest for high school English teachers. First prize was a cool $10,000 and a fellowship to The Norman Mailer Writers Colony in Provincetown next summer. I'm getting a trophy.

Always a bridesmaid.

They dropped so low--in my Regard

2011-10-12T17:03:00.009-04:00

The other day, I was reading Emily Dickinson's "It dropped so low---in my Regard" with my high school American literature class, and it occurred to me to make a connection that might help explain the way I interpret her central metaphysical metaphor.

That connection: The 2011 Red Sox were "the Plated Wares" and shame on me for "entertaining" them "Upon my Silver Shelf."

As the Red Sox 2011 season's dirty laundry continues to air, following today's expose by Bob Hohler in The Globe, I could only read it and shake my head as I felt more and more like a ninny. The fact that I came to the defense, week after week, for this group of repugnant prima donnas, narcissists, and hucksters makes me somewhat culpable by proxy. For 36 years, I've cheered for this team with the proverbial blinders on. Sure, this is nothing novel. For example, after leaving the Sox, it was later revealed that Clemens was a world-class asshole, and Manny recently outed himself as wife-beater; and sure, there are always some bad seeds in every batch. The story line for this year's team, however, is that the bad seeds, the Kentucky Fried jerk-offs, were actually the norm in the clubhouse, and the players that respected the game and played the way it is meant to be played---Pedroia and Ellsbury and Aceves---were the aberrations.

Let's start with Lester, Lackey, Wakefield, Buccholz, and King Douche himself, Josh Beckett, appearing in front of the Green Monster in some shit-kicker's country music video for a song titled "Hell Yeah, I Like Beer." Don't get me wrong: I like beer, too, but this video was filmed some time in the spring, setting the tenor for season. Meanwhile, John Lackey's world was going to shit, or so he said to the media after one of his commonplace 10-run/four-inning starts. His wife had breast cancer---so eventually he had to, you know, file for divorce---and at the time, even the biggest cynic had to feel for the guy. Nope. The big lug found a few minutes during his deep, deep malaise to make a music video.

Until the last week, I have been a classic Josh Beckett apologist. I loved the guy. But now, it seems, I was completely wrong about this prick. He was allegedly the ring leader of the beer-drinking, fried chicken eating, video-gamers who took to the clubhouse to partake in the aforementioned activities while his team was fighting for a playoff seed.

And having Jon Lester's name implicated in all this is my first real "say it ain't so, Joe" moment.

Again, I was duped.

In short, I've been yapping on and on for years about the Yankees, but it turns out the biggest assholes in baseball have been my home team all-along. While it's easy to say fuck these overpaid millionaires for throwing their middle fingers at the fans and the region and the game; fuck them and their manager and their general manager, who have since been fired, and don't let the doors hit you on the ass on the way out town; fuck The Crypt-Keeper and rest of the ownership and those Liverpool pole-suckers on Henry's other team; while it's easy to dismiss all this and say they'll get them next year, something irreparable has happened. In a way, I've lost my baseball innocence through this whole ordeal.

And yes, my young students, "I blamed the Fate that flung it---less/Than I denounced Myself" and this thing stings the most. While I can move past the 2011 Red Sox epic collapse---it's in my DNA as a fan---I'm not sure, as a fan, I'll ever get beyond being deceived by this team, watching these guys I so fervently admired "go to pieces on the Stones".

So until next year, folks. I need the long winter to recover from this.

It's all about the bricks.

2011-09-29T20:21:00.008-04:00

This year, in anticipation of the 100-year anniversary of Fenway Park, the ownership team of the Red Sox started selling bricks. I'm not shitting you. For $250---and that's for the smaller brick---you can purchase a brick with a personal inscription to be placed in Gates C or B at Fenway Park. But that's not all. Oh no. You also receive a replica brick, a custom case to display your brick, a certificate acknowledging your brick, and your very own map so you can point out your brick to your friends on your next visit to Fenway Park. Chances are if you can afford $250 for a fucking brick, you can also afford Red Sox tickets where you get to watch other filthy rich men underachieve to the tune of $2 million a game and, rest-assured, your brick money is helping to pay their salaries.

You see, the brick is an apt metaphor for 2011 Red Sox season---ridiculously-expensive, inert, and ultimately useless, unless all of your replica bricks can come together to make a wall.

The brick is the perfect symbol of The Pink Hat fans who have been "selling out" Fenway every night for the past eight summers, where they sing "Sweet Caroline," start a wave, and leave in the top of ninth to beat the traffic out of Boston. These so-called "fans" have no real interest in the game of baseball and could care less if the team wins or loses. My hope only is they'll stop coming to games after this season's debacle, and I'll be able to afford to take my son to Fenway like my own dad took me.

For the past month, The Red Sox also played with the emotional torque of bricks, and in the end, it was impossible to light them on fire.

And the last game on the season was definitely a brick to the nose. In fact, it almost felt like old times, and I found a trace hint of nostalgia in my anger and dejection last night.

If I had $250 to blow on a brick, I might be tempted to buy one and really personalize my inscription:

Dear 2011 Red Sox,

Go shit a brick. You suck.

Yours,

The Asshole Who Bought a Brick

All in all, you were all just bricks in the wall.

A dubious distinction

2011-09-24T10:58:00.004-04:00

There's an afternoon game today on Fox, which translates to: don't make plans before 9 p.m. And there's the pleasure of listening to Joe "Fuck" Buck and Tim "Windbag" McCarver audio-blow the Yankees. There's a double-header tomorrow in the Bronx where the Yankees could do what I once dreamed the Red Sox would have the opportunity to do, which is play the role of the sniper. Then there's three in Camden Yards where the suddenly mighty O's can take the final dump on their corpses.

Yeah, it's been a great season for Red Sox fans.

In the end, The Red Sox will probably worm their way into the post-season, and God help me if they have the nerve to celebrate in their locker room if they clinch. There should not be a single bottle of champagne, a single can of Bud Light or Papelbon sucking on a stupid cigar and dancing like a jackass. If they make it to the post-season, they should simply thank the fates for aligning, take Ambien, and get a good night's rest so their sore backs and stiff necks don't keep them out of playoff games.

It's supposed to rain most of the weekend in New York City, and it's going to be unseasonably warm in Baltimore. If you clinch, the Pink Hats will be there on Yawkey Way to cheer you when you come home. They'll sing "Sweet Caroline" in their authentic David Ortiz jerseys outside your bus. They'll chant for J.D. Drew. They'll pay $200 a seat to watch you get smoked in the playoffs. Don't expect the real fans to be there, boys. You'll still have a lot of explaining to do.

Hell freezes over.

2011-09-16T17:32:00.009-04:00

I never thought this day would come. It once seemed unfathomable, blasphemous to say what I'm about to say. If you listen to sports talk radio, however, you've been hearing this from the die-hards all day; meanwhile, the Pink Hats have been loosening their vocal cords to assure they really belt out "Sweet Caroline" in the 8th inning tonight. Here it is:

I hope the Red Sox lose.

There. I said it. I hope Tampa hands this bunch of overpaid, underachieving whining Delilahs their asses in the final three games of this series, takes possession of The Wild Card and sends these apathetic douche bags home to play golf in October.

In my lifetime, I'd be hard-pressed to recall a more contemptuous Red Sox team than the one that will take the field in a couple of hours. Minus a couple of hot streaks, the 2011 Red Sox have played without passion, without fire, without personality, and without the will to win. They weren't prepared to play in April, and they're playing their fiddles as Fenway burns around them now. It's as if the entire team has morphed into clones of JD Drew, collecting their paychecks and caring less. This ball club's nonchalance has made them a veritable snore to watch and easy to hate. And, in my opinion, the king's share of this epidemic apathy falls on the shoulders of the manager.

Tito Francona has sat in that dugout spitting seeds and shrugging while his team has swirled down the shitter. Tito makes excuses for his players under-performing. Then Tito shrugs. Tito tells the press that Bard looked good after blowing the second of what would be three straight blown saves. Then Tito shrugs. Tito stands by idly as his superstars bench themselves because they slept wrong on a plane ride. Then Tito shrugs. But the one Tito can say is that all his players love him. He's a great fucking guy. Guess what, Tito? They loved Grady Little, too.

As Tito shrugs and spits and shrugs, Joe Maddon wins with a quarter of the salaries.

Right now, Tampa is playing for their lives, and honestly, it's refreshing to see a team who cares out there on the field. That team, regardless of their jerseys, deserves to win. Maybe the Red Sox will come out of the dugout and sing along to Neil Diamond with the dipshits at the ball game tonight as Tampa hands them their jocks for the sixth straight game. I say, "Good!"

I used to say it'd be a cold day in hell until I'd root for a team against the Red Sox, and mind you, I'll still never root for the Yankees. But, sadly, the day has come, and a small part of me just died.

The cliche says that "money can't buy happiness." In the case of real Red Sox fans, nothing has ever been truer.

The Red Sox in September

2011-09-11T19:36:00.002-04:00

I have nothing to say.

Top 10 Hurricane Songs for Douches

2011-08-26T14:46:00.005-04:00

While the Red Sox rolled over Texas these past three nights, swinging perhaps the hottest bats of the season, and Wakefield is going for his 200th win in Fenway tonight against an Oakland team that gave up 22 runs (that's not a typo) against the loathsome Spank-jobs yesterday, all this good baseball news is being railroaded by this god-forsaken hurricane business.

As the fear-mongers in the media are already busy beating their drums, telling people to strap themselves to their beds like the girl in The Exorcist and buy out the stocks of bottled water at BJ's wholesale store---seeing my emotional age is roughly 14, I couldn't resist the BJ's reference---you're also starting to see Facebook users posting links to songs that reference hurricanes and storms. Please, folks, resist the urge. By posting any of the following ten songs, you are stamping your own "I'm a douche" certificate.

I posted this earlier today on Facebook and need to credit the people who came up with some of these titles. So without further adieu, here are The Top 10 Hurricane Songs that will assure you're a douche if you play or post them anytime in the next three days.

10. "Come Monday" by Jimmy Buffett. Given the timeline of the storm, and Buffett's ties to all things nautical, you're not only a douche, but an ass-hat for this one.

9. "Riders in the Storm" by The Doors. Jim Morrison gets my vote for one of the biggest DB's in rock and roll history, and if you think you're creating a storm-worthy ambiance with that cryptic little keyboard riff in the beginning, you're beyond my help.

8. "Against the Wind" by Bob Seger. Listen, Forrest Gump owns that song, so unless you're Forrest Gump or Bubba the shrimp guy, please, don't do it. (Diane Morin)

7. "Have You Ever Seen the Rain" or "Who'll Stop the Rain" by CCR. The answers to these questions are, respectively, "Yes" and "I have no clue." Listen, we're all well-aware that it's raining. It's a fucking hurricane!

6. "Come on Eileen" by Dexys Midnight Runners (changing "Eileen" or "Irene"). This is so douchey, I'm apprehensive to even address it. Listen, if my name was Eileen and you decided to interchangeably call me Irene, I'd fart on your head. (Dave Pichette)

5. "Storm Front" by Billy Joel. Shame on you if you're familiar with this crappy song. Shame on me for being familiar with this crappy song, which was the crappy title track to a crappy album I once owned. Uh-oh, I think I just douched myself.

4. "The Rain Song" or "Fool in the Rain" by Led Zeppelin. If you have to use a hurricane as an excuse to get your "led" out, you're a douche. Non-douches will rock out to Led Zeppelin anytime, anywhere.

3. "Hurricane" by Bob Dylan. If you're posting this song as a witty musical retort to Mother Nature, you clearly never listened to any of the lyrics, and there are about 36,000 words in this beast, and it's not about the weather.

2. "Like a Hurricane" by Neil Young. Whether it's the rock-your-balls-off electric version or the sweet unplugged version Neil plays on the pipe organ, you're cheapening the song by tethering it to weather. Granted, it's not Neil's best simile, but this song kicks ass, so don't ruin it by being a douche.

1. "Rock You Like a Hurricane" by The Scorpions. Seriously, isn't this one pretty self-explanatory?

Does anyone else have songs that I might be missing? Post them in the comments section.

Sports Talk Radio

2011-08-15T17:43:00.008-04:00

My wife got in my car the other day, and as we were pulling out of the driveway, she made a face like she had picked up the scent of something decomposing. "What are you listening to?"

"The Sports Hub," I said. "It's a Boston sports talk radio. You know, they talk about the Red Sox and the Bruins and The Patriots and The Celtics."

"They talk about it all day?"

"Yes."

"Don't they ever run out of things to talk about?"

"No," I said, gripping the wheel out of shear frustration that this line of questioning was making it impossible for me to hear what Mazz was saying about John Lackey, the Red Sox starting pitcher that night. "Sports talk radio is a soap opera for males. The story lines are endless."

"I can't believe they talk about sports all day."

"They do," I said and turned up the volume.

My transition into a full-fledged sports talk radio listener has occurred, slowly, over the last year or two. Around five years ago, I dumped listening to music on the morning commute to work in favor of NPR, a move that made me feel old at the time. But now, as a loyal listener of 98. 5 The Sports Hub, I think I can officially include myself in the venerable subclass of Middle-aged Married Man (MMM).

There's no way around it.

Being a MMM isn't as bad as it sounds. Essentially, most men hit an age---circa 35 years-old---where we give up on the whole idea of looking or seeming cool. Blasting music in our cars seems more like a sad attempt at holding on to our younger, wilder selves than a genuine expression of our innate need to rock, so we ditch the tunes, and instead of listening to electric guitar rip through our brains, we want to hear other MMM's with lives more pathetic than our own call into these programs. If you've never listened to sports talk radio, it's worth spending half an hour just hear the one guy---and every show has one---who calls in from his parents' basement, working himself into an apoplectic fit about whether or not the Red Sox/Yankees rivalry is bigger than the Bruins/Canadians rivalry in New England. While most of this manifests from the fact that said caller is 42 and has never touched a bra, it's still great theater.

Now, while not all MMM's like sports, most like talk radio. If you're an MMM and an intellectual, you might choose NPR for your commute, or if you happen to have an extra chromosome, you might listen to conservative talk radio. But a good number of us choose sports. Why? For the very same reason we follow sports teams: It's a diversion from our every day lives, which---let's face it---are no longer filled with parties, wild bars, and different women each weekend.

That is, of course, until we hit our mid-life crisis, somewhere in the vicinity of 45-50 years-old. Then we buy convertibles, drive around blasting Jay-Z, and date girls half our age who likes us only because we pay for everything.

"Are you ever going to call into one of these shows?" My wife asked.

"Maybe," I said, dreaming of a witty comment that would earn me the respect of the talk show hosts Felger and Mazz, or even Toucher and Rich. "Maybe, I will. Maybe someday I will."

We have Nate from Manchester on the line. How's it going, Nate?

Totally distraught

2011-08-06T11:22:00.008-04:00

Being kicked in the nuts with a steel-toed boot. Passing urine that burns with the intensity of hell-fire. Stubbing a toe. Accidentally crapping your pants on a first date.

All of this is preferable to watching the Red Sox lose to the Spank-boys.

Make no bones about it, Sox fans, last night's 3-2 loss, with Lester on the hill in Friendly Fenway, was nothing short of catastrophic for a team that has been routinely splitting series with sub-.500 teams for the last two weeks.

Am I overreacting? Of course. Barring some unforeseen atrocity, The Red Sox will make the playoffs, either as the AL East champions or more likely wearing their most comfortable underpants as the wildcard team. I'm fairly confident of this. But the fact that I'm so distraught over last night's loss speaks to my larger point.

There is nothing, nothing worse for Red Sox fans than watching the Yankees beat the Red Sox. My unfettered rancor for the ass-clowns in pinstripes could possibly be the most fervent feeling I possess as a person on this earth, and seeing the Yankees---and by proxy, their fans---experience any kind of joy makes me puke in my mouth. I can't stand seeing a Yankee smile. In my ideal world, every player donning a New York uniform would wear the countenance of eternal suffering, like the inhabitants of Dante's Hell (see above).

Am I overreacting, again? Of course. But this the Red Sox/Yankees, in August, in the middle of a pennant race, no less, and things aren't looking so good right now. With the Dough Boy throwing for the Spanks today and our special $16 million dollars worth of below-average, our (excuse me while I gag thinking about Lackey) "big game pitcher" going for the Sox, I'd say things are looking downright awful.

Having a tooth rot in your mouth. Blowing your nose and discovering viscous blood. Being caught masturbating. Running out of beer.

Yes. It's all preferable to losing to the Yankees.

Trading deadline ephemera

2011-07-31T19:05:00.006-04:00

And here we go.

Reportedly, a former Orioles executive said before the trade for Erik Bedard that all signs point to the fact that Bedard didn't want to be traded and he's unreliable health-wise. He wasn't a big-market pitcher. Then Bedard went out on Friday night, coming off the DL, and pitched for an inning two-thirds, getting shellacked, and pulled from the game. All signs point toward bad move. Is it me, or does this have train wreck written all over it.
As I posted on my Facebook page, my six year-old son told me the other day that "a burp is just a fart in your mouth." The more I think about it, the more I think he's right.
Last night, Philip Humber pitched for Chicago, and I giggled throughout his entire outing, thinking about what a tough time high school would've been for him. Do you still wonder where my son gets it from?
All of the bands that I listen to, everyone has heard of. Just saying.
It's occurred to me---and the numbers prove it---that no one really reads this blog. Does that make me delusional for continuing to write blog entries? What's next? Will I declare myself King of Nate-Land and march down the street carrying a scepter and a six-pack? Oh, the possibilities.
I think "Laser Show" is fairly accurate description of what Pedroia does when he catches fire at the plate.
Republicans and Democrats, I'm tired of all of them. This video, albeit from England, does a nice job describing the world's economic problems in terms even morons like me can understand.
If I owned a horse, I'd name it Lester.
This version of my friend Dan Cray's song "More Than Booze" is gorgeous. Wait, have you ever heard of him?
At the trading deadline, The Red Sox have the second best record in baseball, the best in the AL. It seems this team is for real. I'm a happy panda.

OchoCinco es bueno

2011-07-30T09:34:00.006-04:00

As the trade deadline looms, and The Sox are sniffing around for a starting pitcher, seeing The Ugliest Dude Alive with the Hottest Wife, a.k.a. Clay Buchholz, might not return until 2015 due to a sore back, I'm going to reserve my comments until tomorrow after 4 p.m. Let's just say this: I'm cool with Derek Lowe coming back, and so are the Boston bar owners.

This week, however, the Patriots have usurped the headlines with a couple of outrageous acquisitions. Make no mistake, I don't think anyone with half a brain will question the talent of Albert Haynesworth and Chad OchoCinco: it's the personalities that raise questions.

Flat-out, Haynesworth is a uber-douche. His checkered history as a sidelines headcase, a selfish teammate, and a Big Ben-esque misogynist make me wonder how he's going to translate in Hoodie-World. Oh, and he goes on trial Aug. 23 for sexual assault and faces a possible 180 days in the clink. But he only allegedly fondled a waitress. He didn't carry a gun or organize dog fights. I'm sure he won't see any time.

Then there's Chad OchoCinco, and I have to say I LOVE THIS GUY! From the Sharpie on, I've always liked him. When HBO filmed the documentary of Cincinnati's training camp for Hard Knocks a couple of years ago, I watched it simply to see Chad OchoCinco (Johnson, dancing machine). He's a character, and being someone who fiddles with fiction, I like characters. In the same way I liked watching Manny until he completely bailed on the team; in the same way I loved hearing Pedro in interviews; in the same way I found myself glued to Marchand and Seguin's epic partying after winning the Cup, I'm sucker for the off-field story line. My wife calls them "male soap operas," and I think it's an accurate term.

I honestly can't wait to read OchoCinco's tweets this season. I love this stuff. I'm not a stats guy, and I'm not even going to touch the Moss vs. OchoCinco debate, which will inevitably arise when you have similar eccentric receivers, but this acquisition has suddenly made the fall---and the end of my summer vacation---a little more palatable.

Foul balls

2011-07-22T13:38:00.004-04:00

Is it me, or has a butt-ton of attention been paid to foul balls lately? In fact, the foul ball seems to be the story trumping the ones that are actually hit in play. Now, let me get all Socratic on your asses. Is this a reflection of the slow pace of baseball and our society's collective short attention spams? Or is this a bastardization of reality television, where the stars are the audience?

I'll pause while you ponder.

There.

To begin, I'd be remiss and irreverent---irreverent even by this blog's standards---if I didn't at least mention the tragedy in Texas [note: I didn't link the video, just the article]. However, as the father of a six year-old son, a son who is already inheriting my love of the game, I find it difficult to think about this, forget writing about it.

On a much, much lighter note, perhaps my favorite foul ball clip of the season, so far, is this one. This guy, who most likely has never even kissed a woman, not only steals the foul ball from a female fan, he launches himself two rows to get it. Listen, buddy, I'm certainly no Casanova, but if you're looking to get laid, you need to work on your game.

The most bizarre clip of the season comes from a Sox game. Watch this. The ball lands in this guy's beer! Now, at Fenway Park, with beers costing $8 a pop, would I rather have a souvenir or my beer? Give me the beer. As far as I know, you can't get a buzz off baseballs.

And I know I posted this last season, and it became a media spectacle, but this foul ball still takes home the trophy for the most amusing clip. This guy sucks, plain and simple. While granted I'm not a certified relationship counselor, ladies, if the guy you're dating (or married to) won't cover you from a foul ball at baseball game, there are fundamental problems that likely will never be resolved. Get out. Now.

That'll be $500. You're welcome.

Red Sox Report Card: Part II (Offense)

2011-07-10T13:06:00.017-04:00

A few minutes ago, I grew misty-eyed watching a highlight reel from the first half of the Red Sox 2011 season on NESN. As a fan, I recalled all the hours I've spent, the beers I've knocked back, the f-bombs I've detonated over the first half of the season and, well, I got choked up. Of course, and this is great thing about being a Red Sox fan, it is always one losing streak away from planting my foot through the television screen.

The Catchers.

Jarrod Saltalamacchia: B-. Again, I realize I devoted an entire post to "The Salty Sack of Suck" and obsessed over the fact that he married his high school gym teacher, but he really hasn't been too bad. The bat has come around a bit, and defensively, he's competent. Victor Martinez, he is not; however, he's batting .251 and, for a catcher, you'll take it.

Jason Varitek: C+. Oh, Captain, my Captain. If I could grade intangibles, he'd be off the charts, but Varitek is getting old (sadly, he around my age) and he doesn't have the bat speed he once had. But I still love the guy.

The Infield.

Adrian Gonzalez: A+. I was telling my father the other day that Adrian Gonzalez may be the best all-around ballplayer I can remember playing for the Red Sox in my lifetime. He is my man-crush, our Savior, simply brilliant. In fact, I'm going to stop writing about him and dedicate a song instead.

Dustin Pedroia: B+. Pedroia started slow, but he was so pissed at himself for not making the All-Star team that he's come back with his patterned "laser shows" lately. I love his grit, his post-game interviews, and his awkwardness in Sullivan Tire commercials.

Marco Scutaro: C. I feel about Scutaro the same way I feel about lettuce: not much. However, seeing Jed Lowrie hurts himself each time he takes a shit, and Jose Iglesias isn't quite there yet, it's Scutaro for now. Bleh.

Kevin Youkilis: B+. Is this man arguably the biggest whiner in professional sports (in the running with the creepy Sedin twins)? Yes. Am I glad he's on the Red Sox? Affirmative. Now, since a gynecological injury kept Gay-Rod out, Youk is going to the All-Star game. Nice.

The Outfield.

Carl Crawford: C. He's overpaid. Everyone knows this. And he's been hurt for the last month. While I'd be remiss to not acknowledge his knack for the walk-off so far, unlike Gonzalez (I swoon mentioning his name), this is not the package that was promised.

Jacoby Ellsbury: A. After last year's debacle, where I told my wife she couldn't wear her Ellsbury t-shirt anymore, he's come back and sent a resounding message to doubters like me. However, don't be shocked to see his name thrown around at the trading deadline.

JD Drew: F. Mr. Blutarsky...

Josh Reddick: A. Here is a glimpse at the future rightfielder, and there was much rejoicing. The kid can play. So far, he's batting a cool .414 in the big leagues. I just wish he'd get rid of the douche bag chin-strap beard.

The Designated Hitter.

David Ortiz: A. People will say to me, "Papi is back on the juice." And I'll say, "So what." He's putting up incredible numbers and is, once again, a formidable force from the left side of the plate. In other words, he's Big Papi, again.

The Best Thing to Happen This Season.

Here. The dude grabs his girlfriend's boob on television. Mad props for this play, but Remy and Orsillo's responses are even better.

Red Sox Report Card: Part I (pitching)

2011-07-08T17:27:00.008-04:00

I'm a teacher and, as part of my job, I have to assign grades based on my assessment of performance. With the All-Star Break looming, this seems an opportune time to assess the 2011 Red Sox because, you know, what I think really fucking matters.

With tonight's game against the Orioles two and half hours away (and I'm still slightly in love Buck Showalter's countenance after last night's back-to-back-to-back home runs because the douche ran his mouth in a Men's Journal article in the off-season), here's an assessment of the Red Sox pitching staff, based on...well, nothing. I'll handle the offense tomorrow.

The Starters.

Jon Lester: B. Lester was my man-crush last year before I was swooned away by Adrian Gonzalez. And while Lester has been his bullish "fuck cancer" self at times this year, he's also been somewhat inconsistent. Before the season, I tried to make the case for Lester as the best left-hander in baseball, but after watching Cliff Lee put on his clinic against the Sox last week, I can't begin to make the argument anymore.

Josh Beckett: A. Not only does Beckett look a little like me, plus six inches (height, assholes), he has been the Sox veritable ace so far. I saw Beckett pitch against CC Dough-boy and Spank-jobs on Sunday Night Baseball at Fenway in April. Amazing. I fell in love again that night, and he's hardly disappointed since.

Clay Buchholz: C+. The only reason I'm giving Buchholz such a high grade is because he's so goddamn ugly, and his wife is so goddamn hot. You have to give points for that. Otherwise, aside from his injuries, he has yet to show a glimpse of the pitcher he was last season.

Dice-K: F (as in "fuck you" and your apocryphal gyro-ball and your huge contract and your ostracizing yourself from the team and your sad mediocrity in American baseball)

John Lackey: F. Mr. Blutarsky zero-point-zero.

Tim Wakefield: B. Wakefield, who started the season as a 45 year-old mop up man, has once again come through for the Red Sox in a pinch. If you're a baseball fan and you don't like Tim Wakefield, most likely you're a flaming asshole-ish dickhole.

Andrew Miller: B-. This kid was drafted by Detroit with his cock swinging in the wind about five years ago. Then the Tigers rushed him into the big leagues, which fucked with his head, and he became a long-shot for the Sox. So far, however, he's done all right. Maybe, dude. Maybe.

The Bullpen.

Bobby Jenks: D-. He was supposed to be a contender, albeit a fat contender. Between injuries and sub par outings, he's been a Glass Jaw Joe for Mike Tyson's Punch Out, plus 250 lbs.

Matt Albers: B. Who? What? He's been all right.

Dan Wheeler: D. I was rooting for this guy because he's from Rhode Island---in the same way I root for Ferrally Brothers' movies and the band Deer Tick. He grew up in Warwick, the town next to mine. But, so far, when he hasn't been injured, he's been a liability. Dude, come on, do it for Little Rhody.

Daniel Bard: A-. I'll admit, I wrote Bard off with the rest of Red Sox 2011 roster after the first two weeks of the season. I thought he was a guy who could only throw a fastball, and hitters had figured him out. I was wrong. He's developed his change-up and has been one of the best set-up guys in baseball.

Jonathan Papelbon: B+. Contract year, and he's making his case as a career closer. However, I still never feel completely comfortable when he comes in with a lead less than two runs. Why is this? Oh, because he's blown a ton of saves the past three seasons, thus earning the nickname Papelblown. Clever, huh?

Happy 4th of July, America, F--- Yeah!

2011-07-03T19:39:00.003-04:00

Okay, so maybe this is a little bit dick-ish to post on the country's birthday, but if you can't laugh at this satire (you really should see the move Team America, if you haven't), I'd venture to guess you're not someone who spends a ton of time on this blog anyway. You might also believe that I care as much about baseball as my blogging persona does, which would bump me right toward to the top of the list of recipients needing "life" donors.

A couple of literary short shout-outs then I'll let you return to your steaks (fuck yeah!) and beer (fuck yeah!) and fireworks (fuck yeah!) and potato salad (fuck yeah!). I recently had a short story titled "The Wild Men" in the Spring 2011 Issue of The Hawaii Review, and I have a poem titled "The Teenage Couple Who Has Sex in the Slasher Flick" in the 2011 Issue of The Meadow, edited by my good friend Lindsay Wilson (fuck yeah!).

We'll get back to baseball, including my All-Break Report Card next week. In the meantime, fuck yeah!

Whiny bitches

2011-06-30T12:22:00.008-04:00

There are a few simple rules in life that I try to adhere to in order to maintain some vague trace of sanity. Here they are:

1. Don't bet on the Red Sox.
2. Don't date a woman who can beat you at arm wrestling.
3. Don't drink before noon.

Simple, right? However, when Tito FranCOMA is batting Darnell McDonald second against a team that might be the best in the majors, with an offense that has managed one run in the last 18 innings in the Cheese Steak Mecca, Rule #3 gets thrown out the window.

For years now on this blog, I've been preaching what seems to be common knowledge: the NL is an inferior league. And Sox usually, to use the parlance of Sir Dustin Pedroia, "rake" in these inter-league games, and going into the inter-league games this season, The Red Sox were the most formidable team in baseball.

And then the whining started.

Fine. I can deal with a slump (not really), but what has been the most difficult thing to stomach has been watching my team morph into a bunch of whining bitches on par with any of Bravo's Real Housewives. It started a week before they went on the road with this whole overblown issue of how they were going to get Papi into the line-up. Tito started getting his panties in a bunch over whether or not Adrian Gonzalez should play right field, and it becomes a regional crisis---far more significant than, say, global warming---in the Boston media. God fucking forbid the Red Sox have to play nine games without a DH. Oh, woe is me! Youk starts calling on Bud Selig to re-examine the injustice. The bitching and whining in the clubhouse hits a fevered pitch.

Are you serious? So instead of going into Pittsburgh and kicking the snot out of the Pirates, they bitch and whine and pout and drop two out of three games. Now, they're hours away from being swept in Philly while that dumb-ass green-thing mascot with the stupid dick-like snout dry-humps the top of the dugout. Nice.

Ultimately, you can gauge the character of team by how they behave when they're losing. Yes, the Red Sox had one of the most impressive paper-clubs (behind Philly) going into the season, but watching these cry-babies for the last three weeks has made me sick to my stomach. Not to sound like a beer commercial---although I'm going to sound like a beer commercial---but man-up, bitches, and win some goddamn games.

Either that, or set your date to go shoe-shopping with Tamara amd Gretchen. One or the other, please. You look ridiculous.

[Edit: I realize how sexist this post is, but sometimes, when you're a man who thrives on sports-talk radio, the urge to swing your cock becomes irresistible.]

A great game

2011-06-22T12:57:00.006-04:00

Last night, I had the privilege of watching a baseball game played to near-perfection. The final score was 1-0. One of the pitchers took a no-no into the sixth inning before having it broken up on a wall-ball double that ended up scoring the only run of the game. There were no errors, only a past ball, and there was sacrifice bunting, small ball, and a couple of web gems. In the ninth inning, the tying and go-ahead runs were on with the closer in. The game was played in a little under two and half hours because the batters weren't stepping of the box every ten seconds to dick with their batting gloves, and the pitchers weren't knitting sweaters between each pitch.

In short, it was a dream game to watch, and I didn't have pay $200 for tickets and another $40 for parking, and $8 for a "bend me over" Bud Light like I would have at Fenway Park. Instead, my wife and I took our son to a New Hampshire Fisher Cats AA game against the Altoona Curve---and, yes, I admit, I had to look up where the hell Altoona was located (it's in Pennsylvania, in case you're curious)---and for $30 we bought seats a row behind the third base dugout, where we could almost see the seams spinning on the pitches.

And when we got home---no traffic coming out of the game---The Red Sox were still playing the pathetic Padres, and it was still in the sixth inning. The games, by the way, started at roughly the same time. The Red Sox lost, which was completely unacceptable, but, all in all, I had a good baseball night.

Listen, despite my posturing on this blog as an obnoxious Red Sox fan, I am, first and foremost, a fan of the game. Unlike most of the Pink Hats in the box seats posing as the "Fenway Faithful" in their brand new Bruins t-shirts, I stay off my cell phone when I'm watching live baseball and actually watch the game. While I realize I'm at risk of sounding sanctimonious here, I find very few things in life as satisfying as being in the stands for a well-played baseball game. For me, it's right up there with an ice cold beer on a hot summer day, an afternoon nap, and the moment I experience when something I've been writing clicks and comes together.

While the Red Sox start and three minutes, and I have every plan of parking my ass on the couch to assure they don't lose a series to fucking San Diego before going on a nine game NL road trip, it's reassuring to know that instead of taking out a second mortgage to bring my family to Fenway, any time I have a hankering for live baseball, I can drive five-minutes and catch The Fisher Cats.

As someone perpetually on the slow end of the learning curve, I've finally discovered this little AA gem that the middle-class baseball fan in New England can enjoy.

Open Letter to the 2011 Red Sox

2011-06-12T17:40:00.004-04:00

Gentlemen,

On the eve of your ninth straight win, a veritable carpet-bombing of the lowly Blue Jays, after sweeping the paltry Oakland batch and the Spankees with ritualistic precision, I come to you contrite. I come to you begging for forgiveness. My sarcasm in earlier posts, when calling you "The Greatest Team in the History of Professional Sports," was both stupid and unjust, as you're making a case for the aforementioned title as I type. Clearly, I have no intuitive sense of irony. I am a dumb, dumb man and my abject attempts at humor were fatuous and vapid.

You see, gentlemen, when you started the season with a miserable 0-6 record, I was at the head of the lynch mob, my torch afire and screaming until my own miserable lungs were exhausted. In fact, the pre-2004 Nate Graziano was quietly enjoying the masochism, enjoying the stage where I could spew my tired Gen. X sarcasm.

Again, I was wrong.

Adrian Gonzalez: You were the best kept secret in baseball, tucked away in San Diego with your bat on your shoulder---waiting, waiting, waiting to woo us in a big market. You have been everything that was advertised, and seeing gay marriage is legal in Massachusetts, I'd be happy to be bride, as long as we don't have to consummate the union. I don't swing that way.

Papi: I am so, so happy you're back on the juice. What a difference! You're smiling in the clubhouse, making the Yankees look like bitches; in short, you're your old self! Great to have you back!

Josh Beckett: for the past couple of years, I've been slightly surly when people would approach me and say I look like you. Now I'm considering shaving so we can have identical facial hair. You rule, Josh, my brother!

Jon Lester: Money.

Jacoby Ellsbury: I'm am truly sorry about all of my "Lady" Ellsbury cracks last season. I now believe your ribs were legitimately bothering you, preventing you from being the A-list lead-off man you've been so far this glorious year. Admittedly, I had no way of gauging your pain, and my irreverence is unforgivable. I'm a douche. I suck.

Jarrod Saltalamacchia: I apologize for the whole "Salty Sack of Suck" stuff with the South Park clip.You've proven me wrong, and it is me, sir, not you, who is the "salty sack of suck."

Theo Epstein: God, it must feel good NOT to be Brian Cashman right now.

John Henry: You're creepy.

Please, gentlemen, accept my humble apology. Thank you for sweeping three straight series; thank you for putting Yankee fans back on their heels, forcing them to bring up their "27 rings," which is the only thing Yankee fans can say when they've been blatantly out-dueled; and thank you for being so fucking good.

With love and admiration,

Nate Graziano
"A Salty Sack of Baseball Blogging Suck"

Let's Go Bruins!

2011-06-08T17:35:00.006-04:00

This is very cool if you haven't seen it yet. An impromptu "Let's go Bruins" chant breaks out at a Phish concert of all places. Damn, even the hippies hate the Canucks, and hippies love everyone.

And while we've been blinded by the Bruins' recent ass-kicking of a team that almost makes The Spankboys seem likeable, The Sox have coolly taken four in a row from the Yankees in their [edit: somewhat] new whiffle-ball field.

Go Sox and Bruins!

[edit: Okay, I realize they've been playing in the "new" stadium for four years, but for guys like me, who used to watch Dimaggio and Mantle in the old Yankee Stadium, it is still relatively new.]

Go Bruins

2011-06-06T17:33:00.004-04:00

There's only one place to turn when you're facing defeat at the hands of a better opponent with a seemingly insurmountable task ahead of you. That place resides inside the 90-minute Cold War propaganda film that has prompted many, many unfit American men (present company included) to try and lift their bodies at 45-degree angles while lying flat on a table.

Yes, the Boston Bruins are in an unenviable position, not only battling a fearsome opponent, but an entire country. Critics are saying, "Vancouver is too strong. The Bruins can't win."

Sound familiar?

So in the stupidly patriotic American-tradition, The Bruins need to whoop these chumps, Rocky-style, and teach the damn Canadians that no amount of donuts and Molson beer and untouched natural resources can compare to America's vast reserves of heart, soul, and...um, guns.

Go Bruins.

Am I a Pink Hat?

2011-06-01T16:51:00.004-04:00

To anyone who reads this blog, meaning the two of you (counting immediate family), it's common knowledge that I have been one of the harshest critics of the Boston Pink Hats. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, "Pink Hat" was coined following the 2004 Red Sox epic run to their first World Championship in 86 years, which included the abject humiliation of a certain group of smug shits in pinstripes. As the Sox beat the Yankees to advance to the World Series against St. Louis, the bandwagon fans started pouring into Fenway Park in buckets of affluent ass-sludge, wearing their new Red Sox regalia, specifically the female "fans"---who couldn't tell you who Ted Williams was---with their pink Red Sox hats and their bouncy little ponytails popping out the back.

Contempt doesn't come close to describing my opinion of these people who ultimately helped Lebron James and his buddies at The Fenway Sports Group drive ticket prices to an obscenity and coined the loathsome media term "Red Sox Nation."

Now, with the Bruins taking the ice in a couple of hours for their first Stanley Cup final in 21 years and chasing their first championship since 1972, the Pink Hats, or fair-weather fans, are again coming out of the woodworks. And to my own disgust and dismay, I believe I might be one of them.

I have never been a huge a hockey fan pre-playoff season. Seldom do I watch regular season games, but when it matters, I'll root for the home team and I find hockey to be one of the most exciting sports to watch. For example, regardless of whether you're a hockey fan or not, last Friday's Game 7 against the Lightning was one of the finest New England sporting events I've ever seen, up there with "The Bloody Sock" and the 2002 Super Bowl.

Since I've started listening to The Felger and Mazz on The Sports Hub 98.5 on my commutes home from work (I now listen to sports radio, thus I'm solidifying my role as a middle-aged American male), I've become more cognizant of the passionate Bruins fans who have been sitting on their hands while the other New England teams have enjoyed their successes in the past decade. And if I were to be honest with myself and try to empathize with these fans, I would despise the likes of myself, the guy who goes along for the playoff-ride.

Perhaps the old wisdom is correct: we act out against the things we hate most about our selves. Yes, I'll watch all the games in this Stanley Cup series, but if the Bruins topple the Canucks and hoist the Cup, my hat is off those fans who have been through the long, painful and often heart-wrenching trek of the true fan. For these people, more than any one else, I want to see this happen.

Go Bruins!

Fishbones

2011-05-28T14:46:00.002-04:00

There are things that are difficult for any man to say---"I feel (insert any abstraction)" or "You're right, honey, I don't need another beer" or "Okay, Jeter is not really gay."

But, far and beyond, the most difficult thing a man can say is "I was wrong."

You will rightfully note my past posts titled "A Salty Sack of Suck" and "They're Going To Be Fine (Notes From an Asshole)" and "Charlie Says, 'Relax." And it seems like each baseball season I come out spewing optimism, followed by a complete and total rejection of the team where I make cynical and snarky comments (perhaps posting South Park video clips), which ultimately results in contrition, and reverts back to a renewal of my pessimism.

Right now, however, the Red Sox are playing, as advertised: Like the Best Team in the History of Professional Sports. Baseball fans are now seeing what will happen when this line-up, busting at the buttons with potential, will look like running on all cylinders. Crawford is starting to earn his money (relatively); Lady Ellsbury is red hot; Youk is Youk; Pedey is Pedey; and even the aforementioned "Salty Sack of Suck" is starting to make Theo look good. Josh Beckett is back to his "I'm an asshole so try to hit my shit" self. My man-crush Jon Lester is stellar, and even Tim Wakefield---who, if you have a baseball soul, you have to love---has been solid.

The cynic is saying that I'm jinxing the bastards by writing this, but the realist knows that this is a team that is, far and beyond, better than any of their opponents. When sportswriters looked at the 2011 Red Sox on paper, they unanimously agreed that this team has an unfair advantage. When they started the season like late-Bea Arthur doing the pole vault, baseball fans outside of the Hub rejoiced with indignant high-fives, and Sox fans, like myself, resorted to apocalyptic posts and snide scoffs.

So here it is: I was wrong.

The 2011 Red Sox are the real deal, folks. They are the team to beat. And while I wouldn't waste the gas money to see John Lackey pitch at McCoy if I were stranded in Pawtucket;and if Josh Bard doesn't develop a second pitch he's going to continue to throw batting practice at the set-up position; and Dice-K can stay forever in Japan, as far as I'm concerned; this team is clearly very good. The team to beat.

I was wrong.

For the first time in my life, I'm not worrying about the Red Sox. This, of course, could be (to use the cliche) the Kiss of Death, but, for now, I'll save my fretting for the Bruins, trying to win the first Cup in 39 years against a formidable Vancouver team.

And, by the way, Jeter is gay. It was all histrionics. You get the point.

Ephemera

2011-05-22T12:32:00.006-04:00

It's May 22, and I'm alive! Talk about a hangover: imagine waking up the morning after you told everyone the world was going to end, like this Camping douche. Do you even bother getting out of bed? Then again, after the Red Sox and Bruins' apocalyptic chokes yesterday, I didn't particularly feel like showing my face today.

Oh wait. I never leave the house. Problem solved.

Adrian Gonzalez came as packaged, and you can make an argument that he's the best player in baseball. I want to put a poster of him in my bedroom, like I did with Roger Clemens and Wade Boggs when I was a kid, but my wife vetoed the idea. She thinks it's "creepy."
There an interview with me on Cheek Teeth, the blog for the literary journal Trachodon, where I contributed a poem in Issue #2. Check it out here.
"Fuckin' A" might be the most versatile phrase in the English language: You stub your toe ("FUCKin' A!"); you hit a lottery ticket ("fuckIN' A"); your best friend tells you he found his wife in bed with another guy ("aww, fuckin' a, dude"); you find yourself reading this crap ("fuckin'a, what's wrong with me?").
Boston Globe sportswriter Dan Shaughnessy compared Claude Julien to Grady Little in his column, and he's spot on. I'm worried about the Bruins. They have "choke" all over them, right now, and the perfect dipshit to watch it go down.
Here's a video of my poem "Cracker and Me." I'm now a YouTube presence.
Yes, I was one of the first and most vociferous naysayers when it came to The Red Sox pathetic start out of the gate. Yesterday, I was going to admit I was entirely wrong then last night Tito FranCOMA, thumb firmly up ass, watched as his bullpen gave up eight runs to the Cubs in the eighth inning, blowing a two run lead. Where was Bard? Papelbon? Do inter-league games not count anymore?
I bet Arnold Schwarzenegger was rooting for The Rapture.
Gregg Yeti kicks ass.
I'm reading it again with my American Lit. class, and I have to say, The Great Gatsby is the great American novel. The older I get, the less I feel the need to dissect the book and can simply enjoy the story. That's the point of reading, right?
Did I mention how impressed I am with Adrian Gonzalez? The other big acquisitions from the last two years---Crawford, Jenks, Lackey, Wheeler, Salty---not so much.
There's nothing better than a Sunday afternoon nap. Had the rapture happened, I would've been shit out of luck. The Great Gatsby on the couch on a Sunday afternoon, life, even this sordid den of iniquity we inhabit here on Earth, is sometimes pretty sweet.

They're going to be fine (notes from an asshole)

2011-05-07T10:03:00.006-04:00

Last night, I had the pleasure on sitting next to a Canadians' fan at the local watering hole as we watched the Bruins advance to their first conference final in 19 years. While the poor jilted soul haplessly cheered for the deflated Flyers, cursed Chara (because that's what Montreal fans do: whine and bitch and cry), and snorted in disgust as The Bruins drove the nails into the coffins, I grinned in the self-satisfied way that only an obnoxious New Englander can.

Let me preface this by saying, I'm not a huge hockey fan. As this guy rattled off the underwear sizes of each player on the ice---I'm guessing as a backhand pissing contest to prove me inept in my fandom---the Greatest Team in the History of Modern Civilization, the 2011 Red Sox were getting shellacked for the second day straight, a grand total of 20-2 in two games.

Plot twist: This dope was also a Red Sox fan.

So as The Best Team Since the Coining of the Word "Sport" was getting cock-slapped by the Twins, I couldn't help but bring up the parallels between 2004 Red Sox and the 2011 Bruins---the gritty underdogs, retribution, a post-season run that seems mystically destined.

Snort, snort, stats. "I'm fine with the Red Sox," he said, changing the subject. "I'm sick of people overreacting. They're going to be fine."

Which brings me back to the Red Sox of 2011, as opposed to the Dirt Dogs of '04. Watching this team lately has been like dating a schizophrenic. Every now and then we'll see flashes of the team that was advertised. For example, the eighth inning Tuesday night's game when Gonzalez and Papi went back-to-back after Lester was his usual bull on the mound. But then you look at the standings, and this team is 14-18 in LAST PLACE IN THE AL EAST!

I believe I am justified in saying that I am sick and tired of people telling me to calm down, looking at this team on paper and saying they're "going to be fine." It simply is not acceptable. It's not "fine" how this bunch of overpaid dandies is under-performing. And it comes down to one thing, the essential quality that any team worth their weight in shit possesses: a passion for the game.

This year's Red Sox have no fire on the field. Maybe they need a game where the benches clear, where Veritek feeds A-Rod a fistful of catcher's mitt; maybe they need a manager who will throw the bats at them in the showers, ala Bull Durham; maybe they need to start playing like athletes instead of employees; maybe they need to take a lesson from the Bruins and Tim Thomas and grind it out. Unless something lights a spark under these jerk-asses, I'm going to be sitting at the bar next to a paradoxical Canadians/Red Sox fan spewing stats and telling me the Red Sox are "going to be fine."

The lesson here for Red Sox fans is don’t be a Hab. Because until this team starts playing with a modicum of passion, and until we all start calling them out on it, we’re all complicit in the problem.

And, hey buddy, go Bruins! They're going to be fine.

Charlie says "Relax."

2011-04-13T16:34:00.004-04:00

In a season that becomes more and more absurd by the hour, we find out today that Charlie Sheen---yes, Mr. Tiger Blood---said last night in an interview on The Sports Hub that Red Sox fans need to "relax." According to The Warlock, the Sox should start "duh-winning" any day now.

Of course, Charlie Sheen telling people to relax is akin to Tommy Lee telling someone to sober up, and, honestly, with the Red Sox currently sporting the worst record in the MLB, there will no relaxing for this cowboy.

Before I spout off about this overpaid pack of lolly-gaggers, let me start with a positive thing in this young baseball season---for me, at least. On Friday night, I received a Facebook message from my friend Chad, a guy I haven't seen since childhood, offering me "the impossible ticket" for Sunday night's game against the Yankees. Not only did Chad and I get to actualize lifelong dreams of seeing the Red Sox play the Yankees at Fenway, but Beckett threw his best ball since the 2007 post-season. Afterwards, I left Fenway Park elated, and despite a dismal record, I was brimming with optimism about this season's prospects. "I had them all wrong," I said to Chad. "If Beckett pitches like this, the Sox are going to be tough to beat."

Then came Dice-K, a guy who could ruin a vacation to the island of Ogygia with Calypso and her nymphs.

And then came last night's rusty nail on the chalkboard, a 3-2 loss where Lester threw well. Mercifully, tonight's game, with John "Big Game" Lackey taking the hill, has been rained out.

Now I can understand why people would tell us not to hit the panic button after the first week, but now, almost three weeks into the season, The Best Team Ever has THE WORST record in baseball. To overcome the deficit they've already created for themselves, they're going to have to play some near-perfect ball and prey for an internal collapse on par with their own from The Yankees. Tony Massarotti dices the numbers in today's article in The Globe, and it's frightening. I think I'd rather watch Tom Brady dance than a Red Sox game these days.

While it's not impossible to imagine The Sox coming back, it's fair to say no one imagined a train wreck of this magnitude so early in the season, and the odds already seem insurmountable.

So we're supposed to relax, right, Charlie? Suck my Adonis DNA, you douche.

Tossing and turning.

2011-04-07T22:10:00.003-04:00

I can't sleep. I've seriously worked myself into such a fit about the goddamn Red Sox that every time I close my eyes and try to sleep, I hear Terry Francona's voice: "You have to stop trying so hard. You're forcing things."

Perhaps a small rant will serve the purpose of an Ambien. If not, it's time to take the train to the pharmaceutically-induced slumber station.

I'll start with the obvious: This is bad. This is really bad. Logic tells us that a team with this much talent will eventually start "duh" winning, so the cause for alarm should not be the fact that the Red Sox are "duh" winless in their first six games. That's not getting to the root of the problems this group of overpaid dandies are facing right now. They can make up six games. They can make ten games. A team with this much talent could get hot and tear up the American League like expected, but I have some serious doubts.

For starters, right now, the Sox look like the main characters in an ancient-Greek tale of hubris. They came into the season unprepared, and the fault for this lies largely on the manager and his coaching staff. When is Francona going to stop letting these guys "lolly-gag" (to borrow the term from Bull Durham) during spring training? They lost 10 games in a row during The Grapefruit League, but it seems the team figured they couldn't be beaten when it counted; they were too good. All of my cultural references and world views stem from one of the six Rocky movies, and right now, I keep thinking about Rocky's haphazard training before his first fight with Clubber Lang. And look at the results. Like The Italian Stallion, the Red Sox came into this season unprepared to play. They thought they were too good to lose.

Surprise, dickheads. Now you're 0-6 and going into a series with The Yankees where you're going to have to turn to John "Big Game" Lackey.

Which brings me to my next reason for being so dubious: Their starting pitching isn't nearly as good as its packaging. Yes, Lester is a bull, and he'll go out and almost always give the team a chance to win, and, yes, Buchholz has nasty stuff and he'll be competitive. But Lackey's a lemon, and Beckett is looking more and more like he's washed up (with only four short years left on his fat contract). And Dice-K...the guy is a fucking train wreck. Watching him pitch is physically painful (I get stabbing stomach pains). Without this much-ballyhooed depth in the starting rotation, this team is not only screwed this year, but for years to come---unless they can somehow trade Lackey and Beckett. I hope I'm wrong on this one, but I'm starting to think I'm not.

When this team takes the field for the Opening Day ceremonies tomorrow, they deserve to booed back into the dugout. Imagine if you went to work unprepared to do your job. Would your boss and colleagues cheer for you? Would they say, "Don't worry, it's a long life, and Tommy will be working here for at least another decade. He'll come around"? Would they?

You can bet The Pink Hats will be on their feet tomorrow, cheering and belting out "Sweet Caroline" with $150 dollar box seats, but that's The Pink Hats. There shouldn't be any noise at the ballpark, no celebrations and no cheering. This team is expected to win, and they should start doing their jobs before you cheer them.

But, again, I'm concerned that it's not going to happen.

Good night, Tito. I think I'll go to sleep now.

A Salty sack of suck

2011-04-04T16:16:00.003-04:00

I know, I know. It's only been three games, and Red Sox fans need to chill the hell out. We're acting like the season is over, like the Greatest Team in the History of Civilized Sports is packing it up and heading for the gold course. I know. It's unreasonable and irrational behavior.

But let me ask you this: when have you ever, ever known a Red Sox fan to behave reasonably and rationally. Sure, the company men at NESN are telling us that all is well in the same breath they plug Creep Henry's Liverpool footsie team, but all is not well. All is far from fucking well.

While there are many facets of The Greatest Team in the History of Civilized Sports' first three games worthy of my ire, I'm going to concentrate on one, mostly due to the fact that this player's name on the line-up card makes zero sense to me. In fact, this player's name wastes about as much space on a line-up card as said player does in the batting box. The player is Jarrod "I Married My Cougar Gym Teacher" Saltalamacchia---nicknamed Salty, as Chocolate Salty Balls (see video above).

Theo Epstein has had a hard-on for Salty for three or four years now and has constantly referred to him as a big "prospect." But at what point---dare I ask---does a prospect who never produces become a bum? By the end of Sunday's game, when Chocolate Salty Balls came to the plate, I was wishing Doug Mirabelli was back. So I went and looked up Salty's statistics, and let's just say, they're sour.

Since his rookie season in 2007 with Atlanta and Texas, where he put up decent numbers, The Salt-lick hasn't played more than 90 games in a season nor batted above .255. Now I realize .250 is respectable for a strong defensive catcher, but seriously?

In the writing world, we don't have this latitude. No one says: "He has a lot of talent, he's just never written anything good" or "He can really write a great sentence, he just can't put them together in a paragraph."

Or how about the ugly kid who everyone keeps saying is going to someday fill out, turn into a beautiful swam, but never does. At what age do you throw it in and admit it's never going to happen?

Right now, the Red Sox have a giant salt sack of suck behind the plate and only our Captain, fallen cold and dead, in the dugout to replace him. After Texas finished their two-step on the faces of The Greatest Team in the History of Civilized Sports last weekend, the Red Sox are now in dire need of a big series in Cleveland, something to wash away the salty taste of the Snowball The Nation's received via Theo.

Should I start on the starting pitching now? It's too early to be this angry.

Play ball

2011-04-01T10:53:00.005-04:00

I've long believed that Opening Day for a baseball fan's home team should be observed as a holiday. It takes hours of mental preparation for a true baseball fan to get ready for Opening Day, and due to the copious mental expenditure (as well as the necessary beer consumption), we're simply not fit to work. Whether you're a teacher, a lawyer, a CEO, an executioner or a porn star, your heart is not in your work. Although, admittedly, society will need some doctors, firefighters, police officers and bartenders to take one for the team.

This year I got my wish, and I have Opening Day off. However, in keeping with the ancient wisdom that advises one to be careful what they wish for, Opening Day in Red Sox Nation came with Mother Nature dropping one last Cleveland Steamer on our chests.

As I type, close to six inches of snow has already accumulated outside, and it's still going strong.

This isn't right. As look out the window, I can only shake my head. While I don't expect a lot from the weather (it is New England), it's now snowing in April. Seriously? This isn't baseball weather. This is all wrong. Make this stop. I hate you, winter! I hate you, you evil whore.

One of the many salvations offered by baseball season is supposed to be the symbolic end of winter. If you have never lived in a cold weather climate, you might not understand where I'm coming from, but winters are spiritually and emotionally exhausting. And where I live in New Hampshire, spring is almost non-existent. We go from snow to mud to summer. Therefore, the start of baseball is our spring, our season of rebirth. Instead of flowers budding, we have Youk throwing tantrums, Pedroia growing a comb-over, Buchholz getting uglier, and Drew waiting to be injured.

It's fucking bliss, folks!

Still, with the first pitch under five hours away, I have that kid-on-Christmas giddiness that even the snow can't steal from me. Later this afternoon, in Texas, will officially demarcate what I hope to be a long season of Red Sox dominance.

So I say, snow or not, spring starts today. Play ball, boys, and go Sox!

The damned Yankee glass

2011-03-26T10:23:00.011-04:00

Now that Opening Day is less than forty-eight hours away, my blog is getting back to business, getting back to baseball. There's no more space for foolishness and frivolities on here. I'll be getting back to the type of in-depth analysis you won't find in your local news rags. I have tunnel-vision, a singular focus, laser beams, folks.

So last week I was at the local watering hole, the place where I like to watch the Sox games and provide color-commentary for people who want to punch me. I was watching Josh Beckett, yet again, confound Red Sox fans---confounding in the sense that no one really understands how or why he got that fat-ass contract when all signs are pointing to "washed-up." Between Beckett, Ortiz, and Drew's contracts, you could pay my tabs for the rest of my life, and I'm convinced, the money would be better spent.

I digress in this digressive post. So I was watching the game with Roger, one of my bar buddies, and we finished our beers at the same time. While I was bitching about Beckett, Sylvia, our ebullient bartender, slid us refills, and I happened to glance at Roger's glass.

"Nice glass, asshole," I said.

Roger, who was watching the game, looked at his beer. The damned Yankee glass. "What can I do? It's already poured."

Now, Roger had what we call a "two-choice dilemma." For some ungodly reason, my local watering hole has a pint glass with a Yankee symbol on it: the wretched Uncle Sam hat on the top of a bat that makes me want to puke in my mouth. In the past, when I've been served a beer in the offending pint glass, I've kindly asked to have it poured in a different mug, and if the bartender is not too busy, usually they'll accommodate my request. But the question stands: Why, in a New England bar, does such a glass this exist?

I inquired within. It seems that a customer, a regular, brought in the glass and requests to drink from it. Fair enough. Yet still, would this kind of offense occur in a local bar in New York City? In Albany? Hell, in Western Connecticut?

Growing up, Yankee fans in New England, like Beckett's contract, perplexed me. Pre-2004, I asked my father to explain the phenomenon to me. I was but a wee-child, a moo-moo cow. My dad told me his theory that Yankee fans who grow up in New England are losers in life, people who have such a deep-seeded insecurities that they need to attach themselves to perennial winners. It made sense. Now I can't tell you whether or not the Yankee fan in question, the owner of the damned glass, is from New York or not; however, in the words of "The Dude" Jeff Lebowski, his "unchecked aggression" will not stand, especially so close to Opening Day.

Before Yankee fans get their panties in a bunch, I do understand that the Red Sox have engaged in a vicious game of roll reversal this season and are now, behind super-creep John Henry and the gang in the front office, attempting to buy their own rings.

Hell, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this anymore. Let's call it my post-modern post.

Roger drank his beer and ordered another one, and I drank mine and ordered another one. The damned Yankee glass still exists at the watering hole, and I've made it my raison d'etre (Is it sexy when I speak French?) to somehow break it before this season expires. Beckett and The Sox have sucked ass this spring, and I shaved a mustache.

Hell yes. It's baseball season. Is it time to have your oil changed?

My reason, Mr. Camus: The Red Sox

2011-02-19T11:55:00.006-05:00

In responding to Camus' famous existential question Why shouldn't I kill myself today?, I'm going to apply some Socratic Method:

Have you looked at the fucking Red Sox this year?

Let me preface my gushing---and the giddy girl-like giggling that erupts from me every time I think about this lineup---by the saying, as a lifelong Red Sox fan, I will never fully shake the feeling that the bottom could fall out at any second. I haven't completely written off the possibility of an earthquake in Texas on Opening Day, the ground literally splitting and devouring Alex [edit: I had a Freudian slip; I meant Adrian, although Alex was highly underrated at SS for the Sox] Gonzalez and Dustin Pedroia on a routine grounder to the right side. It's entirely possible that Jon Lester could spontaneously combust, or Carl Crawford could be flattened by a frozen turd dropped from the shitter of a 747 flying overhead.

Yes, I've thought about these things.

However, for the first time that I can remember, The Red Sox are going into the season with the swagger of being "the team to beat." Granted, they've paid dearly for this title, and guys like myself would have to take out a second mortgage on my house to afford tickets to Fenway, still it's a new and pleasant sensation.

For the first time that I can remember, I'm approaching the season not giving a shit about The Yankees. Usually, by this point, I've started my tirade of sophomoric homosexual jokes about The Yankee clubhouse, borne from the knowledge that the Yankees had the better team. Not this year, kids. And I am certain, in their heart of black hearts, Yankee fans know this, too.

Oh Cliff Lee, where art thou?

At this point, I only have two concerns. Barring any of the aforementioned scenarios, The Red Sox are up and down solid with the exception of the catcher position and the country of Japan. On a side note, I recently learned that Jarrod Saltalamacchia married his high school gym teacher, but it's not the fact that kid chases cougars that concerns me. It's the fact that he's unproven, and Varitek...well, he's better in the dugout. And the $50 million dollar cash dump we call Dice-K and his buddy Choke-a-jima make me uneasy. Otherwise, what else is there to say? The Sox are stacked.

So, Mr. Camus, I'm going to pass on Kool-Aid today. Baseball is right around the corner, and I'm feeling good about it. Vive le Sox!

Why Truck Day.

2011-02-06T09:42:00.007-05:00

So Red Sox fans demarcate the date that the truck carrying the players' gear leaves Fenway Park en route to Fort Myers?

Yes. Yes, we do. We call it Truck Day, and it's coming on Tuesday.

For outsiders, I can completely understand how this might resemble lunacy, fanaticism taken to the nth-degree. But, really, it speaks to the winters in New England. Particularly this year. Granted, we don't live in Siberia, but The Red Sox still symbolize spring and another chance at redemption. For those of us who don't wear Pink Hats, pre-2004 (and, I should note, the biggest choke in professional sports history by a certain group of pin-striped shit-hounds), each spring carried the potential of being the year. Now that we've experienced the year, twice, it still signifies the fact that we made it through another winter, and the boys of summer will soon be taking another crack at the fall.

When the truck pulls out from Yawkey Way on Tuesday, there will be herds of rabid fans wrapped in their winter coats watching it leave, cheering it on, huffing the gas. Soon this ridiculous snow will melt, and we won't be scraping ice of our windshields each morning. Soon we'll be wearing t-shirts, clutching a cold drink, and listening to Remy and Orsillo as a warm breeze shoots through the living room. As I said, winter has been rough this year, and on Tuesday, Sox fans will see its first small hint of relent.

TS Eliot wrote in "The Waste Land" that "April is the cruellest month."

To quote Kenny Powers of Eastbound and Down: "Mr. Eliot, you're fucking out!"

Rock Me Tonite

2011-01-21T17:29:00.007-05:00

As twisted as it may seem, I've long been an advocate of Billy Squier's music, which I suppose says more about me than it does the music. Growing up in New England, I felt a connection to the boy from Massachusetts who made it big, and hell, Don't Say No, aside from being an obvious date-rape mantra, isn't a bad album.

Then tonight (or as Squier pens it "tonite"), I was doing some YouTube surfing and stumbled upon this gem. Consequently, I must re-examine my position.

Take a second and watch this video. I'll wait....

Okay. Here are a few unsettling observations:

1. I'm having a difficult time with the overall vision of the video. Let me get this straight. Billy Squier wakes up naked and alone in silk sheets, although, seriously, who could sleep through those synthesizers? He admits to being "guilty of love in the third-degree." If anyone is a lawyer, I need some clarification. Is that a misdemeanor or a felony? He then dresses in canvas pants and a pre-ripped Hulk Hogan t-shirt (like we don't know what's coming next). As the music builds to its crescendo, Billy starts to have seizures. He rips off the Hulk Hogan shirt (big surprise) and puts on a pink tank-top and slides down a pole (who the fuck has a pole in his bedroom?). The next thing we know, he's wearing a bandanna around his neck and playing his guitar. Inexplicably, his band has arrived. Or they were always there in the next room as Billy seized? Has Billy been "rocked"? Was it "tonite"? Did the jury come back with a guilty verdict? What hell happened?

2. Truly, if people in the '80s watched this video and weren't creeped out by Billy crawling on his elbows toward the camera, I guess there's a cultural chasm that I'll never understand.

3. Here's the thing: I'm not a man who dances. I've never been able to dance or purported anything to the extent. But I COULD DO THAT! Admittedly, I'd struggle with the crawl across the floor---my elbows are very sensitive---but the arm swinging, sliding down poles, air guitar, I'm all over it.

I'm truly baffled and saddened by this video. Can I continue to make an argument for Billy Squier's music? Can I file this in the capacious bin labeled "It was the '80s"? Call Camus. I'm having an existential crisis.

2011: The Year of The Bad Ass

2011-01-12T13:44:00.005-05:00

In the past few years, I've made some remarkable strides in shedding the sensitivity I cultivated back in my ponytail-days as an undergrad. In some senses, it's natural selection. In the mid-90s, the sensitive ponytail man could adapt to the social and political climates of times. Now, after a decade blighted by war and terror and Sarah Palin, the environment demands that a man become bad-ass.

As I said, I've already taken some pro-active steps. For example, I've stopped crying when I'm intoxicated. For many years, you could've set your watch by my waterworks: "He's been drinking for three hours, and he's about put on a Jim Croce CD. T-minus 10." No longer. My tear ducts are like old pipes, starting to crack due to lack of moisture. Have you ever seen Clint Eastwood cry? No? That's because he's bad-ass.

So I've made a short list of some small things that will help me achieve my ultimate goal of becoming a full-fledged bad-ass by the end 2011.

1. Chew a toothpick. It seems too simple to be effective, but this small accoutrement goes a long way in bad-ass posturing. A toothpick in the corner of my mouth sends the message, "He seems preoccupied with his toothpick and slightly indifferent to everyone. He must be bad-ass."

2. Employ the term "beat-down" with rhetorical regularity. If someone happens to miss the toothpick and starts cramping my space, I'll simply say, "Are you looking for a beat-down?" Of course, I'm banking on the fact that the other person will recognize the question as rhetorical and back away. If I actually have to attempt a beat-down, I might end up crying.

3. Get a neck tattoo that reads, Son of a Bitch. As a general rule, it's best not to fuck with people who have neck tattoos. Now, imagine if someone has a tattoo that circumscribes the neck with the words Son of a bitch...ladies and gentleman, straight from federal prison, let's give a warm welcome to Bad-Ass!

4. Buy a Rottweiler and name him Jesus Christ. Not only am I walking around with a dog so dangerous that it could potentially rip out someone's throat, I've taken it to the next level with a name that's so sacrilegious my pup couldn't get a role as an extra in The Omen movies. Bad-ass men own bad-ass dogs.

5. Listen solely to Satanic Speed Metal. Whether or not the bands actually worship the Prince of Darkness is not my immediate concern, nor is the music, per se. I simply need a few CD's for my car (a Hyundai, yes, I'll work on that) and some band names to bat around when asked about my music. Therefore, I can rattle off, "Let's see, I listen to Destroyer 666, Sodom, Venom, Slayer. Toxic Holocaust is what's playing in my car right now. Why? You don't like it? Do you want a beat-down?"

New stuff for The New Year

2010-12-28T15:20:00.004-05:00

In the past couple of weeks, as The Red Sox have been blowing up the headlines, I've had a few pieces published on a couple of cool websites. These short prose pieces are tethered by a loose narrative and set on a lake at the foothills of The White Mountains. For years, I've been picking at this project, but only recently have I started submitting some of the work.

The first piece is titled "Not for Vegetarians" and appeared in the Rusty Barnes (editor of Night Train) online side-project Fried Chicken and Coffee.

Then, this piece, titled "Memorial Day Weekend," was published in the reputable and fantastic Word Riot and includes an audio file of me reading it.

Finally, "The Maple Leaf" was published in a recent edition of Red Fez, an impressive online journal of accessible fiction, poetry, and everything else.

Okay, that's enough about me. Let's talk about you. What do you think of me? Seriously, though, I don't mean to be self-indulgent, but then again, this whole blog is self-indulgent (see blog name). In other words, I apologize for myself... I mean, have a Happy New Year.

It's hard being a hypocrite

2010-12-18T13:31:00.006-05:00

"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself.
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)"

---Walt Whitman "Song of Myself"

I've used this Whitman quote throughout my adult life to explain away the numerous, rather multitudinous hypocrisies I've embraced. Let's put it this way: I'm no choir boy, and generally speaking, there isn't a ton of moral combustion inside my dank, sordid soul.

However, with this week's signings of Dan Wheeler and Bobbie Jenks, I'm experiencing a true existential quagmire, seeing my baseball fandom is the one thing that I hold to a high moral standard. For over a decade, I've bitched and moaned about The Yankees' obnoxious acquisitions of All-Star teams. I've found their Hot Stove spending-sprees---think A-Rod, Texeira, Grandersen, Sabathia, Burnett (hee-hee), Giambi, Sheffield, Clemens, etc---distasteful and deplorable, perennially raging about The Spank-boys "buying rings." I couldn't understand how Yankee fans could find any gratification in victory, knowing their team used cash over chemistry.

Well, now I'm starting to get it.

Stacked to the ceiling, The 2011 Red Sox have no holes, except for catcher. Thanks to Cliff Lee jilting New York (note to Yankee fans: stop spitting on opposing pitchers' wives; it might come back to bite you), no one in The American League can match up with Boston---at least on paper. And, honestly, I'm a bit disgusted by this.

While I'm sure The Boston Pink Hats are pissing themselves with hollow bliss right now (this whole thing stems from the fair-weather fans losing interest last season), for longtime Sox fans, this is akin wearing someone else's pants. Part of my love for The Red Sox has been their role of the gritty underdog. While The New York Yankees have historically represented affluence and ostentation and...well, New York City, The Red Sox have been the screwed-by-life bastard sons of Dostoevsky novels, the consummate lovable losers. This is largely what made 2004---and 86 years---worth the wait. It was true sweetness.

For these reasons, I simply can't celebrate what the front office has done in the past month. The Red Sox may win a World Championship this year, although The Phillies have a starting rotation that could arguably be one of the best in baseball history. Yes. The Red Sox should win World Series rings this year.

They bought 'em, fair and square.

Please Welcome the 2011 Dorian Gray Sox

2010-12-11T08:58:00.006-05:00

For those of you struggling to blow the dust off your memories of sophomore English in high school, A Picture of Dorian Gray is the playwright Oscar Wilde's most celebrated novel about (surprise) flamboyantly vain, hedonistic homosexual men, one of whom (Dorian Gray) sells his soul to stay forever young and handsome and debauched and gay. The catch: his gruesome soul is reflected in a portrait of him painted by his gay painter friend, Basil, a portrait that turns hideous.

I'm not sure where the portrait of The 2011 Red Sox is hanging, perhaps in the bedroom of owner/crypt-keeper John Henry and his impossibly hot young wife (she doesn't care about his money), but wherever it is, I'm guessing the uniforms are sprouting pinstripes.

Boy, I did a lot of leg-work to set this up: The Red Sox have turned into the Yankees.

Let me start by acknowledging that, in the past, I have been one of the most vociferous critics of the Spank-boys off-season spending sprees in an attempt to buy rings. Let me also point out that only once in the past decade has that worked. On the corners in the infield at the new Yankee Stadium are two players the Red Sox coveted, and the Yankees swept up with their bags of cash, symbols of the abject humiliation felt by Sox fans, the perpetual underdog-ness. To carry my book analogy to the next level, The Yankees have always been the Lord Henry's, the older (and queer) proponents of self-indulgence without heed of the luxary tax.

With this week's signings of both Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford, The Red Sox have essentially sold their souls to look beautiful through 2017. Listen, I'm not complaining. Like any fan, I want to see my team win; although in my case, I also want to see The Yankees suffer from a stubborn case of season-long diarrhea that has their player awkwardly squeezing their cheeks each time they enter the batter's box. However, something about this week's signing feels wrong to me.

Here is my full-disclosure, seeing I spent most of this week trying to be as obnoxious as possible to my Yankee-fan colleagues and friends, who are now in the unenviable position of having to sign Cliff Lee until he's 72 years old. Behind my fist-bumps with fellow Sox fans, I've been hosting a vague malaise, a feeling like this isn't right. It's as if The Red Sox got a makeover, and they look much, much nicer, but they don't look like The Red Sox anymore.

This isn't necessarily a bad thing. I've needed to come to terms with the fact that the climax of my life as a Red Sox fan occurred in 2004, when the cast of Idiots took four straight from The Yankees and celebrated in their kitchen as The Spank-boys' dejected fans quietly tried to tuck away their "1918" signs. Any true Red Sox fan will tell that was highlight, not The World Series. And it will never get better than that night when fell to my knees in front of my television, crying, and threw both middle fingers at the screen, yelling, "Fuck you, Yankees! Suck on this!"

Nor will it come close.

So the 2011 Dorian Gray Sox will be fielding seven All-Stars along with an All-Star closer and four All-Stars in the starting rotation. On paper, they're going to be tough to beat. And I have the privilege of watching a team that will be competitive every season in the foreseeable future. Have I indulged in the new Sox fan game of guessing the batting order--Will it be Ellsbury, Crawford, Pedroia, Gonzalez, Youk or Ellsbury, Pedroia, Crawford, Gonzalez, Youk? It's a fun game and totally indulgent.

I'll get used to the new All-Star team and, I'm sure, raise a toast or two to them. Just be sure to keep that portrait covered, Crypt-keeper, far away from Fenway Park.

Excited about Gonzalez

2010-12-04T15:10:00.007-05:00

If you're sensing a cosmic disturbance today, don't be alarmed. The disturbance can be easily attributed to the fact that every male Red Sox fan, from New Haven to Bar Harbor, got a hard-on this morning after reading that, at long-last, Theo got his man. There's no need for Viagra in New England today; Cialis, see you later. Simply whisper the name Adrian Gonzalez, and you'll find five guys with stiffies that can cut through diamonds.

As of this morning, and pending a physical, San Diego's superstar first baseball will now be donning the threads of The Olde Towne team. Like most rabid Red Sox fans, who have no life of their own and live vicariously through baseball, I am elated. This is analogous to spending years trying to land a date with one of the hottest women you know---to quote Van Halen, "A blue-eyed murder in a Size 5 dress for years---flirting and getting close to her, and closer, only to have her pull away each day. Then you wake up one morning, and she's in your bed, going down on you.

That's gives you some idea of the unfettered joy we're experiencing right now. And, yes, I understand how gay all of this sounds. And, no, I don't have a man-crush on Adrian Gonzalez. I'm monogamous in my man-crushes, and Jon Lester and I still haven't broken up from last season.

However, I'm not alone here. Check out this article on NESN ambiguously titled "Top 10 Reasons to Get Excited About Adrian Gonzalez."

So what, exactly, does all of this mean? If you're not a baseball fan, I'm assuming you've already stopped reading before getting to this point---unless, of course, you're curious about how far I'll take this clearly homoerotic post. I'm like Mr. Garrison writing his romance novel on South Park. If you are a baseball fan, I don't need to explain it.

But I will!

What this means is the rest of The American League, particularly the peckers in pinstripes, are going to start scrambling to follow suit. What it means is The Yankees are going to throw obnoxious amounts of money and maybe the keys to Gotham at Carl Crawford and Cliff Lee. What it means is The Red Sox now have a top of the order that rivals any in baseball with Ellsbury, Pedroia, Gonzalez (I giggled like a giddy little girl while typing that), Youkilis. And, hey, why not go after Jason Werth? You match that with a starting rotation that is arguably the deepest in baseball---Lester and Lacke and Beckett and Buchholz, oh my---and the holiday season just got sweeter for Sox fans.

Careful standing under the mistletoe tonight, ladies. There's a virile group of Sox fans prowling town. Boston got Gonzalez. Grrrrr, baby. Grrrrr.

Happy Thanksgiving

2010-11-24T08:17:00.003-05:00

I know, I know, I post this same video every year. However, Burroughs wrote this in 1986, and it's still spot on. Actually, it might be more pertinent in these partisan days of Glenn Beck and a "wholesome" white America. In fact, if I may, I'm going to humbly add my own Thanksgiving verses of appreciation...

Thanks for the Tea Party, and the perpetuation of "stupid" as an American ideology.

Thanks filibusters and assurance that nothing gets done in our government.

Thanks for fighting against gay marriage, and the vigilance it requires to protect the "sanctity of heterosexual marriages." Everyone knows that it's the anatomy of whom you lie with in bed that determines the level of your love.

Thanks for squawking about health care reform. Only the white or the wealthy or the educated or the employed deserve the basic human decency of being treated when they're sick.

Thanks for The New York Yankees.

Thanks for Fox News, and the perpetuation of "stupid" as an American ideology.

Thanks for reading my blog...no, seriously. Thanks.

On teaching poetry

2010-11-15T17:13:00.008-05:00

If you're looking for some profound musing on craft to pass out to your graduate students, this ain't it.

If you're looking for one man's subjective account of teaching poetry to high school students in a public school, you've come to the right spot.

Let me start with a rhetorical question, because we all know how well rhetorical questions work at the beginning of a piece of writing: Why is it that two weeks into any poetry unit I teach I suddenly want to strangle myself with my own tongue?

First of all, I'm a poet. Scratch that. I write poetry but cringe whenever someone uses the label "poet" to describe their self. There's something so very, very pretentious about it. As if to say: Despite the fact that I practice a craft that has far more practitioners than readers, I still manage to maintain an air of self-importance that can't be penetrated by a diamond cutter.

Anyhow, my last three books have, indeed, been collections of poetry, so when the poetry unit comes rolling around each year, it's not something I'm entirely ill-prepared to teach.

In fact, each time I start a poetry unit, I begin it with an entirely misguided and delusional sense of optimism. I think, This is it. This time I'm going to hook 'em. This time I have all of these great new poems by all of these great young poets in my arsenal, and dammit, these kids are going to learn to love poetry. To hell with those dead white men and suicidal white chicks; this stuff is new and fresh and vital and in touch with these kids' worlds.

Wrong.

I'm actually starting to accept the fact that the vast majority of people in this world---aside from, apparently, the Chileans---could care less about poetry. Regardless of what I do as a writing or literature teacher, every time I put a poem in front of a student, they're going to look up at me like I've placed a turd on their desk.

Listen, I'm not saying that poetry isn't important. I believe it is fresh and vital and contains the potential to reach people in ways that no other art form can. However, this does not change the fact that few people read it, and even fewer care to learn how.

Does this mean we should stop teaching poetry in public schools (you should end with a rhetorical question, as well)? No. Not at all. Like we do when we write our poems, we need to forge ahead and lower our shoulders against everything that seems logical and impossible. While, for most people, the turd will likely never turn into a vibrant pulsing slice of someone's life and experiences and observations, a sneak peek into the mind of a true and vital seeker, it does matter.

Strange yet exuberant, the poems do matter. And that, my friends, is called "movement."

Stuff to use for stuffing

2010-11-10T17:00:00.004-05:00

My favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal is the stuffing, which should come as no surprise (see the blog entry titled "Trouble with Man-Titties"). However, I find it a little vulgar when the turkey itself is stuffed. I know, I know, vegetarians out there are already clutching tofu pillows and wiping their eyes with kale. But seriously, there's something I find oddly unsettling about reaching into the hollowed guts of a turkey carcass and munching on the stuff.

I digress.

There's been some stuff going on in my little literary life that's worthy of mention---assuming you're reading this right now because you 1.) know, or know of me, and 2.) understand the relativity of the word "worthy."

I recently had a short story published titled "Vandals" in a great new literary journal titled Sententia, edited by Ryan W. Bradley and Paula Bomer, the latter who has a really interesting-sounding collection of short fiction titled Baby and Other Stories coming out shortly from Word Riot Press.

The Trailer Park Quarterly, edited by my friend Dan Crocker, recently posted their second issue, which included one of my flash pieces, "Hot Dog Night at the County Jail." Also, Dan and I are participating in a new realm of idiocy on the internet, a radio show called The Natty and Cracker Hour. Check it out every other Friday at 11 p.m.

Finally, I recently signed with the super bad-ass literary agent Sarah LaPolla at Curtis Brown Ltd. We're cooking up some literary stuff, and it's super bad-ass awesome. I'd tell you what it is, but I'd have to kill you.

It just occurred to me: Has anyone ever invented a grilled stuffing sandwich? I'd like to try that and feed my man-titties.

Vote on Tuesday!

2010-10-31T14:00:00.005-04:00

Need I remind you why you need to get out on Tuesday?

While I try to shy away from political grandstanding on my blog, this feels like a moral obligation. With the GOP---and especially these Tea Party wing-nuts---threatening to take over The House and filibuster the shit out of everything in The Senate for the next two years, perhaps it's time to remember those eight years that lead up to our Orwellian war on "terror" and the current economic tailspin.

Listen, I would never be audacious enough to blame it ALL on the cowboy, Darth Sidious (a.k.a. Dick Cheney) and the rest of the Bush gang, and the Democrats are, admittedly, wussies when it comes pushing through their policies; however, if the pundits are correct and things comes to pass on Tuesday the way they're predicted, this country will wake on Wednesday morning in a whole new world of shit.

So be sure to take the time to vote on Tuesday. I'm Nate Graziano, and I endorse this message.

The word is schadenfreude

2010-10-23T14:05:00.004-04:00

I like to consider myself a man with a rock-solid sense of ethics, seldom do I vacillate and, less often, am I baffled by situations of ethical ambiguity. In short, I'm usually Kenny Powers confident in this category.

Last night, however, I was stumped by baseball. While my distinct enmity for The New York Yankees---that special venom that sits on my taste buds anytime I see pinstripes---required that I celebrate in New York's misery after taking a veritable ass-whuppin' at the hands of The Texas Rangers, I was somewhat conflicted by the aforementioned celebration. For two reasons:

The first---and I couldn't quite get past this---stemmed from the image in Game 2 of former-president GW Dipshit clapping in the stands at Arlington. Like most liberals, I will never forgive The Lonestar State for eight years of violence, kowtowing to the rich while the middle-class was obliterated, and pure, unfettered, ass-in-my-hands stupidity. Can I really rejoice with a team that was owned and supported by this clown? This is also the state where Darth Sidious, aka Dick Cheney, blew off his buddy's face with buck shot, an ancillary yet pertinent side note.

Then there was the simple fact that the team celebrated their victory by spraying ginger ale all over each other. Now, I have nothing but admiration for Josh Hamilton and the way he turned around his life; however, as a fan of baseball and a bit of a traditionalist, there's something flat-out wrong about this scenario. Admittedly, all male athletic celebrations reek of homoeroticism, and I'm cool with that. But I can't quite seem to wrap my head around the ginger ale. Sure, it's a sweet and touching story, but, goddamn, it's just wrong.

Nonetheless, I'm still slightly giddy by the fact that 1.) The $2oo million All-Stars got spanked by a team with a regular reason record comparable to Red Sox; 2.) It was A-Rod, who The Spank-boys paid Texas plus his exorbitant salary, watching the final strike; and C.) The fucking Yankees lost! While I know and anticipate The Yankee fan response ("The Red Sox were playing golf" and "Who has 27 rings?"), the German word for what I'm feeling is "schadenfreude," or taking pleasure in someone else's misery. And were the tables turned, Yankee fans would be singing the exact same tune.

After The Yankees go on another ridiculous Hot Stove spending spree and land Cliff Lee and Carl Crawford and every other aging free-agent asking for a gaudy salary, I'll be regretting this post. But for right now, the word is "schadenfreude." And right now, I left my heart in San Francisco. Go Giants!

Not funny

2010-10-17T10:12:00.002-04:00

Jokes.com

Greg Giraldo - Drinking

comedians.comedycentral.com

Greg Giraldo Stand-Up

Greg Giraldo Jokes

Hasselhoff Roast Videos

I just found out today, while surfing the net instead of doing anything productive, that comedian Greg Giraldo, forty-four, passed away from an apparent prescription drug overdose.

Simply said, Giraldo, who was ubiquitous on Comedy Central in recent years, got it. For me, he was a rare stand-up comedian in the sense that he always seemed to be speaking directly to me and my own unique experiences. Unabashed, he called them as he saw them and never pulled a punch---the type of comedy that takes razor-wit and an abundance of balls to pull off.

He left behind three sons. None of this is funny.

Troubles with Man-titties

2010-10-08T10:50:00.015-04:00

I first noticed the existence of my man-titties seven years ago. My wife and I had just taken her new IUD for a test spin, and I was completely nude, which was strange for me, seeing nakedness, especially my own, terrifies me to the point where I try to stay clothed at all times. In school, when we were told to read 1984, I was the only one in my class who didn’t find the idea of The Party uniforms, to always be worn, horrifying and offensive. I rather liked it.

With my back to my wife, she draped her arm around my chest and cupped my breast.

I shrieked. “What did you just do?”

“What do you mean? I was just touching you,” she said, nestling her face into my neck.

“You grabbed something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What did you grab?” I sat up and flicked on the light. Feeling filthy and violated, I quickly reached for a t-shirt on the floor and covered my chest.

My wife pulled a pillow over her eyes. “What’s wrong with you now?”

“You just grabbed my boob.”

“Turn off the light and go to sleep,” she said. “I promise I won’t touch you again.”

“No,” I wailed, “you don’t understand. I’ve grown man-titties! Oh God! Not man-titties!” I snapped off the light and flung myself dramatically onto my back. I began to sob.

“It isn’t that bad,” my wife said.

I knew it was lie by the way her voice hiccupped on the word bad. While it was a kind and noble attempt to soothe me, she couldn’t quite conceal her disappointment at the pile of weeping neuroses that had manacled her “till death do us part.”

“This is worse than bad,” I said sharply, curling into a fetal position in the corner of the bed. “This is devastating.”

***

I admit to having an unhealthy aversion to fat. While I’m consumed by vanity, it’s a conditional vanity. Although the concept of fat terrified me at the time, and still does, this terror was complicated—more accurately, contradicted—by the fact that I used to do nothing to prevent fatness. In fact, I did the opposite: I drank excessively, ate fattening processed foods, and slept after large meals like a plump nursing child. I was, and still am, what one might label “clinically lazy.”

Since the first discover my male mammary glands, however, I have been jogging regularly and have adopted my wife’s hippy bird-food cuisine—she’s a rail so I figure it must work. In the past five years, my cup-size has reduced from a solid-B to a small-A. Progress.

Still, this does nothing to mollify the mortification I experience daily when I look in the mirror, suck in my beer gut, and see a body that looks like it was lab-tested at Dunkin’ Donuts.

Recently, at a routine doctor’s visit (as a hypochondriac all my visits are “routine” seeing, with the help WebMD, I self-diagnose a new fatal disease weekly), the nurse asked me to step on the scale. Mortified by the suggestion, I balked.

“Why do I have to be weighed?” I asked. “I’m here to see if I have Lupus. What does my weight have to do with anything?”

“It’s for our records,” she said.

So I stripped off my shoes and sweatshirt---which, if you don't know, can add up to five pounds in clothing weight---and gingerly stepped on the scale. I watched as the nurse continued to slide the lever to the right, then heaved the next lever over as well. When she finally stopped, the whole horrible truth was revealed.

***

Fatness has not always been a problem for me. A little over decade and an half ago, I wrestled at a lean one-hundred and sixty pounds. I was a trim, fit profile of the human form—plucked from a fucking Whitman poem.

Then something happened: college.

Somehow, I ended up joining a fraternity and ballooned my way toward the Mendoza Line (for those who aren’t up on baseball terminology that’s two-hundred, named after Mario Mendoza, a journeyman ballplayer whose career batting average hovered around .200). While flirting around The Mendoza Line, I never actually got there.

That was until this recent debacle at the doctor’s office (I don’t have Lupus, by the way). But I did find out that for almost fifteen years, I have been lounging like a beached whale on the aforementioned Mendoza Line.

***

Long before The Mendoza Line, and well before my budding man-breasts appeared, I was a sufferer of FFS, or Fat Face Syndrome. As far as I know, I am the first to identify FFS as a disease. I coined the term following an unfortunate incident with a wedding photo. The remarkable thing about getting fat is that most people have no idea how fat they’ve become until confronted with a photograph, until the empirical evidence is there and incontrovertible, and you see yourself in a photograph and say, “Holy crap, I’m fat fuck!”

Yes, there will be people in your life who will offer hollow solace—like my rail-thin wife—by saying things like “Oh, it’s just a bad picture” or “The camera adds ten pounds.”

Bullshit! That’s skinny-talk.

According to my own definition, FFS is identified by the following symptoms: an unnatural width in the face from cheekbone to cheekbone; a lack of a definable profile due excessive flab under the jawbone; additional chins; and the appearance of what I’ve labeled “the jellyroll,” or a thin roll of fat that circumnavigates the neck. In the offending wedding photo, my face was wider than an industrial skillet, and with my head turned at a slight angle, my profile looked like a bullfrog’s.

Since early-adulthood, I’ve being growing facial hair as a means of diverting attention from my FFS; however, each time I trim my goatee, the true Kurtzian “horror” rears its ugly head.

But this is not about my FFS—how easily I’m derailed when I get worked up—this is about the abominable growth of my man-titties in Winter of 2003.

***

The day after my wife’s inadvertent fondling and the subsequent discovery of man-titties, I moped around work like I’d been told I actually had a terminal disease. But my wife, a bloodless woman, didn’t want to hear me bitch. There was not an ounce of human compassion running through her icy veins. She did not believe I suffered from any of the aforementioned disorders. On the contrary, she seemed to think that they were manifestations of deeper and more troubling neuroses, perhaps stemming from my penchant for prescription drugs. Because tranquilizers made Elvis fat, she argues, I have created a distorted image of "fat" in myself.

Do I see myself on par with the King of Rock and Roll?

Doesn’t that stand in stark contrast with my self-loathing?

Knowing I wasn’t going to get any compassion or consolation from my wife, I popped an Ativan, poured myself a glass of wine, and picked up the phone to call Cracker.

“Cracker, it’s Natty. I have a serious problem.”

“Speak.”

“I’ve grown man-titties,” I said. I took off my shirt and stared at them in the mirror. I squeezed my left tit and whimpered.

“Oh, Jesus,” Cracker said, his voice vibrating with alarm. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” I said. “Eliza fondled them last night. Oh, Cracker, what am I going to do? I can’t stand to look at myself anymore. This is a nightmare where I never wake up. I’m looking at them right now. I hate them, Cracker! I hate my man-titties!”

“Calm down. It’s all right,” Cracker said. “We can work on this. Don’t do anything drastic. What are you doing right now?”

“I told you! I’m looking at them! They’re disgusting!” I started twisting them, hoping they would magically fall off, hoping it was all just a cruel gag and I’d wake up tomorrow, tit-less.

“Have you stopped eating?” Cracker asked.

“Of course.”

“Good. Are you drinking?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Are you drinking beer or wine?”

“Wine.”

“Good. Beer is fattening. Most man-titties belong to beer drinkers.” I could hear Cracker cracking open a beer on the other line. “Now, I want you to listen to me. Put down the glass of wine.” He spoke in a calm, methodical voice, like he was talking me down from a ledge. It pleased me to be helped.

“Okay,” I said, practicing some deep breathing I learned from a yoga class I took in college, a class I’d always attended too stoned to blink.

“Now,” Cracker continued, “you need to start doing push-ups. You need to tighten your chest muscles. Do five push-ups right now and count ‘em off.” His voice was firm and fastidious. I followed his instructions. I couldn’t live with my man-titties and couldn’t afford not to follow Cracker's advice. Desperation will make a man do curious things.

I laid down flat on my chest and began thinking of Rocky Balboa. Anytime I'm involved in an activity that requires physical exertion, I think of Rocky. Due to our shared Italian heritage, thinking of him usually provides the necessary burst of adrenalin. Other times, it backfires, and I’ll become weepy thinking about his speech at the end of Rocky II where he holds up the belt and tells Adrian he “did it.” It’s really a toss up.

Luckily, this time, it psyched me up, and I began doing push-ups. Little had I realized that the muscles in my arms had begun a slow atrophy since the last time I did a push-up, which was during wrestling season my senior year in high school, when I was a strapping buck.

“Count ‘em out, you fat-titted bitch!” Cracker yelled over the phone.

“One. Two. Three…this hurts. Foooo…”

“One more!” Cracker screamed.

“FOOOOOOOUR!”

I fell on my stomach.

“Repeat as necessary,” said Cracker.

“Thanks, Cracker.”

The Natty and Cracker Hour

2010-09-30T20:17:00.002-04:00

At last, the authors of The Idiot Trilogy have returned, and this time, they're taking it to the airwaves. Okay, internet radio, which might not technically be radio waves, but I'm a not science guy. And I'm not sure what I mean by "taking it" to the airwaves. It sounded tough and assertive and no-bullshit. But this is a hosted by the same guys who wrote Chickenshits, so there's a distinct possibility, last minute, we might get scared and cancel the show.

Then I'll call Cracker. "Cracker, we were supposed to do our radio show," I'll say.

"Natty, no one was going to listen anyway."

"You're right, Cracker. By Willy's Balls, you tell the truth."

Tomorrow night at 11 p. m. EST on this internet radio link, we'll be airing the inaugural episode of The Natty and Cracker Hour and hosting our good friend Rebecca Schumedja, the hipster poet. Call in and join us for the baptism of Cracker as a Catholic. If you're unfortunate enough to be home on a Friday night at 11 p.m., this is great excuse to grab a beer and join us.

New story

2010-09-14T07:57:00.003-04:00

I have a new story titled "Minor Keys" on Storyglossia. This piece is told from the first-person point-of-view of a 17 year-old girl named Jenny, who finds herself over-her-head in a troublesome situation with an older guy.

This is part of the circle of stories I've been writing, on and off, since grad school. If you're interested, the next story in this plot line is titled "Sasquatch," and it was published a couple of years ago by Freight Stories.

There's also a flash fiction piece in Jenny's voice titled "A Long Way from New Hampshire" on The Wilderness House Literary Review.

Enjoy.

New Douche Hair

2010-09-11T16:40:00.006-04:00

Sometimes I astound myself with the enormity of my self-indulgence. Without dicing existential tomatoes, I'm well-aware that there's a world outside of myself, a world rife with violence and pain and injustice and heartache, but none of it has seemed all that interesting, important or significant since the haircut, a cataclysm on scale with the floods in Pakistan.

Okay, I saw you grimace. Hyperbole only goes so far until it becomes insensitivity. But, goddamn it, this is my hair and I'm vain!

A week and three days past, in the Year of Our Lord, 2010, I walked into Great Clips with my son, both of us looking to clean up our respective mops in anticipation of the first of school. My hair was on the longish-side---think Jackson Browne circa 1975---and I didn't want to look like a small-time pot-dealer with my new classes starting.

Allow me to digress. Despite my inexorable vanity, I have been going to hair-shearing factories with banal generic monikers like SuperCuts, Great Cuts, Great Clips, The Pube Hut, etc. for almost a decade and have received the same essential cut every time. I call it "The Men's Regular," a clip on the sides and back and some snips off the top.

Here's the thing: the whole idea of trying to explain what I truly want my hair to look like makes me anxious, nervous, and uncomfortable. When I envision my hair, I see myself with Tom Brady's face, so everything looks great in theory. I always have a plan going in, but when I sit down in the chair, and the woman (the reason men go places like SuperCuts is the outside chance that a hot chick will cut our hair and accidentally brush her boob against our head) asks me what I want, I freeze. My words become jumbled.

It was no different at Great Clips, a week and three days ago, when the woman cutting my hair, a young girl with a sexy Spanish-accent, asked me what I wanted to do with my hair.

"Um, just a regular haircut," I said, frazzled. "You know, clean it up."

My little Latin clipper seemed zealous, exuberant about severing my Jackson Browne and making me, a 35 year-old high school English teacher, look hip. But, apparently, she needed more directives. "Clean it up" wasn't going to cut it (funny, me pun).

Before I could protest, a great mound of grayish-black hair was sheared from the top of my head, and from there, it became a blood-letting. I knew for the next month of my life I'd be handling the ubiquitous "Did you get a haircut" question, trailed by the "What a douche" whispers as the questioner walked away.

And, as you can see, my haircut looks douchey. Molded with hair gel, the front is flirting with faux-hawk, but there's no other option. So I'm in douche purgatory as it grows out. But I've learned my lesson, and my days at The Pube Hut are over. My wife has suggested her hairstylist, and while it might seem gay or metro, it beats the hell out of this.

There is much tragedy in this world of ours. In the words of Joseph Conrad, it's the "horror." And I'm yet another causality, another stooge for this big stupid stage.

-------

On another note: my story "My Husband, Houdini" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by the editor of Bananafish. Thank you, Daniel. I'm humbled and honored.

Begone, knave

2010-08-24T13:18:00.004-04:00

Johnny Damon reminds me of a knave from a Shakespeare play. He’s Edmund from King Lear; Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream; Petruchio from The Taming of the Shrew; perhaps, he's the Sweet Prince himself in Hamlet. By calling him a "knave," I don’t mean that Johnny Damon is necessarily evil. He is, however, disingenuous, boastful while seemingly sincere, a trickster, a chameleon, and overall, full of shit.

I hope I can post this piece fast enough for it to be relevant. Right now, Johnny is “thinking hard”—a paradox, for sure, in The Land on Damon—about whether or not he will accept Boston’s offer to return for the final six weeks of the season. But seeing he’s absolutely loves New York…I mean, Detroit, like any good actor, he needs time to rehearse his role.

My thoughts on this issue were said best by Boston Globe columnist Eric Wilbur. Unfortunately, Mr. Wilbur had to refrain from using any of George Carlin’s seven dirty words. I don’t. So here goes.

If Johnny Damon does return to Boston, baseball fans everywhere will see---once and for all--- how two-faced and willfully ignorant that these Red Sox Nation Pink Hat, media-created, fair-weather, piss-soaked, retarded shithead motherfuckers truly are. Like a bunch of trained seals, they’ll stand and give Johnny his big phony "welcome back" ovation, and ever the performer, Johnny will raise his helmet and rub a crocodile tear from his eye. There will be all this cooing about “the reunion” and how it was never really Johnny that Sox fans hated, but those dreaded pinstripes. And The Pink Hats will forget (if they bothered to read about it) the barking Johnny did in the off-season in 2006 about how the Red Sox disrespected him—before running that saccharine full-page bullshit ad in the Boston Globe (above). And The Pink Hats will forget how Johnny was so, so happy to be a Yankee and how he so, so appreciated that rich Yankee-tradition—after he told Boston media he would “never” play for the Yankees.

Is anyone seeing a pattern?

Maybe this new marriage between the knave and the clueless Pink Hat fans who stand only to sing “Sweet Caroline” or when some small melodramatic morsel of nostalgia---remember Nomar's return?----compels them, maybe it will be harmonious. But I, for one, am not buying Johnny Damon’s bullshit. I hope he stays in Detroit where he really, really loves it, and let my injury-stricken Sox go down with their dignity intact.

Knave, begone.

Just because.

2010-08-13T00:25:00.002-04:00

Just because I'll be seeing old friends this weekend.

Just because we're all a little better off with a little Jerry in our lives.

Just because my wife is home, and we need to relax.

Just because this makes me smile.

MULLET-OUS: Part II: "My Face Is About to Explode"

2010-08-07T19:04:00.006-04:00

Things were slightly better in Mullet-ville after a dismal sophomore year of high school. There are, however, a couple of things that can be discerned from Mullet Portrait #2:

1. It's still the same essentially mullet; in fact, I'm not someone who changes my hairstyle all too often. I've had the same haircut, varying in length, for the past 12 years or so. There was a brief period, circa 2003-05, where I bought hair-clippers and buzzed my head, but, as you might expect, I looked like a guy who should ride the little bus. Unless a male---especially Caucasian males---is going bald and trying to work with baldness, he should not shave his head. Ultimately, it looks bad, grows back into Chia-hair, and seems largely unnecessary unless you're a.) in boot camp b.) serving our country in a Middle-Eastern desert, or c.) part of the Aryan Nation. The only thing worse is "cop hair," which is the close buzz with a little pubic patch on top. I digress.

2. The blue sweater, which I rocked for the next decade, is a step up from the sad shower curtain-patterned shirt, unbuttoned halfway to expose my pasty white hairless chest, in Mullet Portrait #1.

3. I'm almost smiling. This can only mean one thing: There was a female insane enough to let me touch her boobs.

However, despite advances toward becoming a semi-tolerable member of the human race, my acne became an indefatigable force on my face, shoulders, and back. For the next two years, I would see a dermatologist, a short man shaped like a weeble with a creepy Hitler 'stache, who tried everything known to modern medicine at the time to clear it up. Finally, I decided to take Acutane, which was like taking daily napalm pills that nuked my skin from the inside out. I had a six-month sunburn, but it did the trick and my skin cleared before I left for college.

Yes. Things were slightly better, but the mullet was also starting to lose popular favor as Grunge music, flannel shirts, and the spider-plant---sometimes referred to as "half-a-hippie"--- hairstyles [edit: for those of you who don't remember, you shaved the sides and back while the you grew the top long, long, long) became the rage. I would eventually grow the spider plant, but only after grudgingly giving up my mullet, two years later.

So take it in, folks. While certainly not the most ostentatious mullet (it's no Kentucky Waterfall), it's clear that I partied while getting my business done. And look at that shit-eating grin. I have a mullet and I'm modestly happy. It only goes to show you what I complete idiot I was. Am.

Someone call the little bus.

MULLET-OUS: Part I: "It Sucks To Be 15"

2010-07-24T19:26:00.008-04:00

For many years, I've labored over this: Would I ever disclose pictures of my mullet in a public forum? Once worn with pride, my mullet has shamed me throughout my adult life. However, after doing an internet radio show last week with Karl Koweski, I figured it was time to exorcise these demons.

Let's start at the end and flashback because I like to do funky shit like that.

As a first-year college student in 1993, a year or so into the Grunge era, roughly two years after the mullet was even remotely fashionable in anyplace other than The South and certain pockets of Mid-America, I showed up on campus at a small college in New Hampshire, to quote another former mullet-man David Crosby, with "my freak flag flying." My mullet was lush and lively, an inexorable force on the back of my neck. I figured the babes would be lining up to run their hands through those luscious black locks, so when I moved into the dorm, I was truly confounded by the fact that I wasn't making any friends.

Shucking the obvious, I blamed it on my Rhode Island-accent.

Then two weeks into my college life, after realizing two guys on my floor were also from Rhode Island, I marched to the barber downtown and had my mullet severed. Never again, other than in these pictures I now share with you, would my mullet show its now ignominious locks.

But at one time, it killed.

When I started growing it (see picture above), I was 15-years-old, filled with the universal teenage angst, and ready to start PAHH-TEYY-INNN'. Bring on the babes. Bring on the booze. Bring on the drugs.

But there was one small problem: I was a complete fucking loser.

While I played on the football team, I was basically a tackling dummy for the varsity squad. Each week on the practice team, I was a slower and dumber version of our opponent's halfback, and the varsity defense would hammer me until I was so concussed I couldn't stand steady. These days, parents would freak out given, you know, science and evidence and shit. But at the time, we called it "taking your lumps."

Meanwhile, in an attempt to seem somewhat cool, my mullet grew and grew and became something I could use as a personal tag. Like so many kids on the skids, I found solace in hard rock and heavy metal. I was listening to G'N R's Appetite, Metallica, the obligatory Zeppelin and Van Halen (Sammy was a pussy) and Sabbath, Iron Maiden and The Cult, so what the hell gives? Why weren't the metal chicks digging me?

Again, I refer you to the picture above.

Things didn't get much better that year. My grades tanked, and shortly before turning 16, I discovered pot. Actually, it was about to get slightly better.

Internet radio tonight

2010-07-10T17:49:00.003-04:00

For anyone interested, I'm going to be doing an internet radio show with my friend Karl Koweski tonight. This is sure to be as bawdy, irreverent, and crude as you might expect a conversation between Karl and me to be.

If you'd like to join in the fun, call into the show and chat, the number is at the top of this link.

Check it out here.

For those of you looking for a wholesome Garrison Keiller-type poetry hour show, stay away. Stay far, far away. This WILL likely offend you.

On reading Jackie Collins

2010-07-07T12:05:00.009-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, my wife came home from the used bookstore around the corner from our house with a present for me. The present was a worn copy of Jackie Collins' Lovers and Gamblers. "Read it," she said. "Jackie Collins is pretty much porn for middle-aged women."

With summer vacation beginning and a list of "literary" books I wanted to plough before school starts again in August, I agreed to read the first 50 pages, figuring I can pick up a few tricks from a best-selling author. The next thing I knew I was on Page 490 and there was no way anyone was going to stop me from finishing the fucker.

Listen, I'm not going to try to make a case for Jackie Collins to be immortalized in the literary canon, but at the same time, I can't stand half of the books in the so-called literary canon. I hold the canon and every obdurate high school Engliish teacher cramming Ethan Frome down the throats of their students partially responsible for this country's epidemic apathy when it comes to reading. And for anyone who is looking to become a writer, I would agree that the classics must be part of your essential diet, however, that diet should also include a healthy dose of genre writers and commercial fiction. The most frustrating thing about reading literary fiction, in my opinion, is the pacing. Too many times, the authors---who are clearly skilled and talented in their craft---fall in love with their own sentences, which results in a 25-page single-paragraph description of a pubic hair on a toilet seat.

But back to Jackie Collins and Lovers and Gamblers. First of all, sadly, this is the type of prose that would be lambasted in a graduate workshop. The characters in Jackie Collins' world exist according to a hierarchy of physical attributes. Men with big cocks rank supreme, as do women with big tits. And it took about 5 pages until I figured that the character with the big cock would end up with the female character with the big tits by the end of the novel. But I was all right with it, mostly because they'd have to screw approximately 500 partners each until they arrived at this realization. Basically, the book's narrative tension is a long build up to one climatic titty-fuck.

And the characters all have names thieved from a list of porn star monikers: Al King (guy with big cock), Dallas (girl with big tits whose last name was mentioned once then mysteriously disappeared), Bernie Suntan, Linda Cosmos, Cody Hills, Manny Shorto, Karmen Rush...you get the picture. For the first 400 pages or so, these characters lived to get laid. It's the equivalent of having a world populated by people who all possess a 16-year-old boy's libido.

Then, in the final 100 pages or so, a plane carrying most of the main characters is hijacked and crashes in the Amazon, and the rest of the book becomes a pornographic version of Conrad's Heart of Darkness, where the characters look straight into the barrel of their own existential hollowness and doom and decide to fuck to forget about it. If they don't fuck, they're eaten by alligators. There's a moral there.

That's 600 pages of Lovers and Gamblers in a nutshell. And I couldn't get enough of it.

Collins delivers exactly the product her readers are looking to buy, and when you consider that writing and publishing IS an industry, you can't go wrong with that formula. There are also aspects of her writing that anyone looking to write a novel can learn from. For example, she does an excellent job with narrative hooks and chapter breaks. Like most successful commercial novelists, she knows how to keep the plot moving. She does seamless work with the third-person omniscient voice as well. In fact, I think it would behoove graduate programs to spend more time developing these skills, especially seeing that most of the MFA students are aspiring to be successful in the commercial market. Instead of spending all of their time stroking Cormac McCarthy and David Foster Wallace, why not concentrate on making the writing commercially viable?

So am I going to run out and buy another Jackie Collins novel? No. I think I've had enough for now. But I believe there's something to be said for reading for only the entertainment value. Teachers spend way too much time talking about symbolism and theme (whatever that is), and in the process, we're sucking the fun out of reading. And while a lot of writers whine about the fact that no one reads anymore, it's occurred to me that, maybe, we're also somehow complicit in this.

Thanks for the read, Ms. Collins, and thanks for reminding me that reading can be largely self-indulgent.

Who reads this shit?

2010-07-04T11:31:00.003-04:00

This morning, while I was shampooing my hair and belting out Carley Simon songs in the shower (as I've been known to do from time to time), a question popped into my head: Who really reads print literary journals anymore, other than writers?

I imagine some people are already rolling their eyes, poo-pooing me. I suppose literary agents read them in search of the next big thing, and I guess the family and friends of the editors and contributors browse them and rightfully laud the hard work that goes into publishing a journal, but it seems to me if you really want to get your work out to larger and broader pool of readers then it makes sense to have it on-line and use resources like Facebook and blogs to direct traffic toward it.

Yet still, writers love to hang their hats on "pub-creds" that they can use in a CV or a query letter. Like braggart parents, they love talking about the places they've published. Therefore, it's not necessarily the fact that they're being read, it's that they got one past the editors, and THAT seems bogus to me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm guilty of it, too. Most writers need to feed the ego. Like anyone else in any profession, they need the validation that the work they're doing is good and appreciated by others. I get that. But publication in the slick prestigious literary journals seems more like winning a contest than it does sharing with others our thoughts and questions about the human condition. And maybe there are some purists out there who don't write for an audience and simply create for the sake of creation. This, however, is not me. I'm so vain (I bet I think this blog about me).

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this, or what it is about Carley Simon songs that made me think of it. But I'd love to hear your thoughts, assuming, that is, you're actually reading this shit.

Be back soon...in the meantime

2010-06-18T00:38:00.002-04:00

I haven't forgotten this blog. I've just been busy dealing with those characters from BP, plugging shit, thinking deeply about baseball and new ways of executing the "pull my finger" gag. I'm a busy man.

In the meantime, here's my friend Dan Cray, the guy whose lyrics I lift for just about every epigraph in just about every book of poetry I've written. Dan rocks.

You're welcome

2010-05-29T17:17:00.003-04:00

This SNL skit is a classic, one of the best. Now stop what you're doing and watch this one. Even if you've seen this a hundred times, I challenge you to try not laughing. Go ahead. Try it.

Sunday Afternoon Musings

2010-05-16T12:18:00.002-04:00

There's a half an hour to the Sox game and a stack of student papers I need to read. While I've never been one to gush about the weather, it's a picturesque spring day in New England. I think I'll stay inside. Here's today musing on baseball, writing, life.

It seems to me that in order to write well you don't have to be a genius (for my sake, I hope this is true). It seems to me that you just need some knowledge of language and how it works, a library card, and the ability to laugh while suffering.
Following the Red Sox is like being in a bad marriage, I wrote about this for Slurve Magazine this week. After blowing a five-run lead with Lester pitching last night, I really want to end things between us, but I can't. Boston, I wish I knew how to quit you.
I've heard some "literary" writers pooh-pooh the YA genre, as if it's somehow less sophisticated to write to an adolescent audience. To these pretentious asses, I suggest reading John Green's Looking for Alaska, which a couple of my creative writing students suggested I read. It's the best book I've read this year. For real.
Someone on Facebook posted this quote from Robert Bly's book Iron John: A Book About Men: "Hermes is the god of the interior nervous system. His presence amounts to heavenly wit. When we are in Hermes' field, messages pass with fantastic speed between the brain and the fingertips, between the heart and the tear ducts, between the genitals and the eyes, between the part of us that suffers and the part of us that laughs." Nice. Very nice.
Red Sox Fact (from my Red Sox desk calendar): No player has ever it a home run over the right field roof at Fenway Park.
When I retire from teaching, I want to become a Jedi knight. Does anyone know how I can make this happen?
Does anyone really read this blog? If you do, if you are reading this, identify yourself in the comments section. I want to know you, chat. And, Liz, you're my wife and I make you read this. I don't think that counts.

Letter of Apology to David Ortiz

2010-05-15T17:35:00.006-04:00

Dear Mr. Ortiz,

As you may recall, I had to write a similar letter to Nick Green last year after penning a post, which at least half of my 40 followers read (maybe less), where I referred to him as "Nick Green the Dick Machine" and accused him of "working for the Yankees" after a throwing error cost the Red Sox a game against the Mariners. Admittedly, I'm a man of dubious honor, yet I apologized to Nick Green for my insolent and puerile remarks.

As you may also recall, earlier this season, I assigned you the moniker of "Big Poopy," a pathetic and sophomoric play off your real nickname "Big Papi," a title that commands respect. I then wrote in a blog post on April 17:

"Oh Big Poopy, Big Poopy Big Poopy. How does one go from a folk-hero to someone who is so painful to watch that you almost have to turn away. Wait, I know. He stops taking steroids."

While I was not able to watch those majestic moonshots you hit at Comerica Park last night---I was at a father-daughter dance listening to Justin Beiber at ear-bleed level as hordes of elementary school girls screeched---I saw those homeruns on replay, and, Mr. Ortiz, it was reminiscent of the bombs you hit back in the day, when it was Boston on the winning end of a historic collapse (Did you see that Bruins game last night? What the fuck?). This prompted me to look up your statistics for the month of May, so far.

Kudos, Mr. Ortiz. weel-done. May I call you Papi? Okay. Mr. Ortiz is fine with me. Anyway, this was your second two-homer game this month, and your batting average, while still on the paltry side at .231, is slowly climbing, like I knew it would.

Essentially, Mr. Ortiz, when I wrote that you "looked like an old man waiting for his Viagra to kick in" every time you stepped in the batter's box, I was simply trying to impress people with my analogy, which I considered to possess a modicum of wit. I was wrong. Truth be told, I've always had insecurity issues stemming from a nagging inferiority complex that I can trace back to being force-fed Catholicism as a child. While I know your faith is very important to you, and in no means wish to disparage it, growing up feeling like a lowly sinner with a terminable case of perversion has forced me to over-compensate as an adult and write some of the ridiculous things I've written---articles, poems, stories, you name it. Honestly, Mr. Ortiz, I just want to be loved.

Again, I apologize for my behavior and wish you continued success this season. If you can harness our inner-Jesus and find it in your big jolly Papi-heart to forgive me, I will be forever grateful. I promise this will not happen again, unless, of course, these last few weeks prove to be an aberration and you go back to sucking ass. Then I will go back to calling you "Poopy," blaming your abysmal statistics on steroid withdrawal, and advocating for your immediate release.

Thank you, Mr. Ortiz. And good luck tonight.

Yours truly,

Nate Graziano

New Soxcast 4-28

2010-04-28T14:37:00.006-04:00

Here's this week's Soxcast. It's a little late, I apologize.

I do, however, want to address and excuse my accent. I'm originally from Rhode Island, and when I read something aloud (my students and anyone who has heard me at a book reading will attest to this) the accent, for some reason, becomes pronounced. While it might seem like I'm trying to add histrionic color to these Podcasts, I assure you, I'm not that much of a douche.

AND it is NOT a Boston or Massachusetts accent; it's a Rhode Island accent, thank you very much. No self-respecting Rhode Islander wants to be lumped with Mass-holes.

Enjoy, and Go Sox!

Literary stuff

2010-04-25T09:47:00.002-04:00

All right, the Sox are beating up on Baltimore. Way to go, guys. With the O's bullpen, it's a little like beating a newborn in an arm-wrestling match then celebrating afterwards.

I am, however, going to briefly step out of my role as an imaginary sportswriter (if you're jonesing for a Graziano sports fix, I have a new article on Slurve Magazine here) and don the garbs of a literary man, the type of guy who scratches his chin and wears blazers and boat shoes.

A veritable shitload of my writing has been published in a number of on-line journals this week, starting with a flash fiction piece titled "The New Girl" in one of my favorite literary journals, Night Train. The couple in this piece is revisited in a short story titled "My Husband, Houdini" on a really nice-looking new on-line journal called Bananafish, I'm assuming after the Salinger masterpiece. Mark and Lisa, the dysfunctional couple in these stories, can also be found in the archives of The Trailer Park Quarterly with "The Man of the House" and in annals of Night Train again with "Almost Christmas" and "Moon Walk."

I know, that's a lot to take in. But if you have some time to kill, it'll give you some reading material to check out on your new iPad, you hipster.

I also had poems appear in both the print version and on-line edition of Verse Wisconsin. Check out my poem "Elizabeth Graziano" here.

There you go, folks, an entire afternoon's worth of Nate Graziano for you. Caution: in certain tests, Nate Graziano's writing has been known to cause cramping, vomiting, rectal bleeding, dizziness, shortness of breath, irrational anger, headaches, and flatulence. If you have an erection lasting more than three hours, seek immediate medical attention.

Final thoughts on the Red Sox today

2010-04-17T23:21:00.003-04:00

My father, who raised me as a Red Sox fan, sent this picture to me. He took it in Woodstock, Vermont, last weekend, and after the Sox couldn't produce a run with the bases loaded with no one out in 11th inning (nice work, Big Poopy), he felt it accurately represented the team.

I concur, Dad. And ditto for Game 2.

My New Soxcast

2010-04-17T18:39:00.003-04:00

Spew and Poopy (or why the Red Sox ruin my life)

2010-04-17T12:53:00.001-04:00

I'm going to rant, rant in a Kerouacian burst of pure, unfettered piss. If you have young children, cover their eyes because this isn't going to pretty (nor necessarily sensible). If you're so inclined, fix yourself a beverage. If you're not already, sit down. Buckle in. This is what I really think.

For those of you willing to give JD Spew (a nickname credited to my college friend Rob who was kind enough to share his spite with me) and Big Poopy mulligans, then stop reading now because they're in my cross hairs.

Let's start with statistics: Spew is currently batting a miserable .129 and, get this, has struck out nearly half of the time he's stepped to the plate (14 K's in 31 AB's). Aside from this, the man plays with the enthusiasm of a fucking corpse, and don't forget this, he is currently the second highest paid player on the Red Sox (Lackey earns more), making a cool $14 million to suck ass. Here's a guy who goes on the 15-day DL if his dick hurts. Goddamn it, I can't stand the guy. I want to see suffering on his face, the torment of man in the twilight of his overpaid, sadly-average career as a baseball player. But no. Spew's facial expression never changes. While on the field, he looks about as interested in his job as the someone who bags groceries. I can't stand it. Sure, he had a great post-season in 2007. If that's all the Sox get for their money---and remembers, Boras the Ass snuck Spew's contract into the Dice-K deal (nice one, Theo!)---to put it bluntly, they got bent over in that deal.

Oh, Big Poopy. Big Poopy, Big Poopy, Big useless Poopy. How does one go from folk-hero to someone who is so painful to watch play that you almost have to turn away. Wait, I know. He stops using steroids. A friend recently asked me why Boston fans are getting so down on the guy after all that he's done for the Sox. And let's face it, without Papi and Manny, there are no World Series rings in Beantown. But this is, reciprocally, why we're so quick to throw the big lug under the bus. Sox fans had a helluva time taking the high-ground on the steroids issue, especially when A-Fraud got slammed, but when the truth about Papi and Manny was revealed (in hindsight, it was a beautiful game of denial by Sox fans), it hurt more than we care to admit. Now that Big Papi couldn't hit water if he fell out of a fucking boat, we're rechanneling our disappointment with him into pure disdain. Let's look at Big Poopy's stats so far (by the way, he's the third highest paid player on the team at $12.5 million worth of whiff): He's batting .172, having struck OVER half the time he's been at the plate with 15 K's at 29 AB's, and he looks like an old man waiting for his Viagra to kick in every time he steps into the batter's box. Pure poop.

I seriously need to stop watching them. And, so far, this teams has all the personality of a planter's wart. So go ahead, Pink Hats, keep belting out your Neil Diamond songs during the eighth inning and pretending that this team is exciting to watch, but by their very construction, having been built on pitching and defense, they're a snore. I don't want to watch them anymore. I need to find a hobby. I need to get a life. Fuck the Red Sox.

At least until tonight, at 7 p.m. when, like a battered wife, I go crawling back, crawling back to those bastards.

Go Sox!

Four-game rant

2010-04-10T14:16:00.001-04:00

Okay, so it's only four games into the season, and Tito and Theo and Larry (oh my!) will impress upon us to not go smacking the panic button like some two-bit stripper giving her own ass a wailing on stage.

I'm not going to panic. I'm not going to panic.

Oh, fuck that! With a team supposedly built on pitching and defense---giving up a free out each time Big Poopy steps to the plate---if your bullpen can't hold a lead YOU'RE FUCKED!!

Did you see that? I just used two exclamation points. Do you have any idea how pissed I am right now? They dropped two of three to the Spank-Boys, and---the coup de gras---last night they lose to the goddamn Royals. There are Special Olympic softball teams that can out slug Kansas City. This is pathetic. Papelblown-save (there will no ass-monkey gigs in centerfield if you keep this up), Big Poopy (see above), Choke-a-jima, Josh (re)Bard, Marco Who-the-fuck-are-you-and-where-are-you-throwing-the-ball, all of them, pathetic.

Strap in,Sox fans. If these first four games are any taste of what we have coming in the next 158, we're going to start to thinking about the Patriots in June. Oh wait, the Pats suck, too.

Get thee to a liquor store. Now!

Look inside my crystal ball...

2010-04-04T10:08:00.000-04:00

(I said "ball.")

Happy Opening Day, folks. While I am adamantly against Opening Day being on a Sunday night, I still have this "kid on Christmas Eve" feeling swirling in my gut right now (although it might be the Mexican food I had last night). Baseball season starts today. Oh fuck yeah!

For whatever reason---which is mostly my self-centered world view---I also feel it's incumbent upon me to make some predictions. However, let's make this clear: I'm not a stats guy. While many true baseball fans are disciples of Bill James and study numbers and scouting reports, I like to take a more humanistic approach to the game. In other words, I go with my swirling gut, embrace my prejudice, and generally talk out my ass (if you haven't noticed). So here we go.

Disclaimer: I'm terrible at spelling last names, so forgive the abundance of butchering in this post.

AL East: My baseball universe revolves around the AL East, with the Red Sox playing the role of God, in the ass-kicking Old Testament sense. However, I'm also a lifetime fan and grew up with each season being another chapter of disappointment. Despite two World Series titles, I can't shake my pessimism and would never be audacious enough to predict the Sox winning the division. I also would never pick the Yankees to win anything, other than The Douchiest Team in the MLB Award. Therefore, and you're hearing it here, I'm predicting Tampa to take the AL East this year. While The Rays are often fall off the radar, they have rock-solid starting pitching (Shields and Gaza), possibly the best bat in baseball (Longoria), and a kick-ass manager (Madden). They're always a headache for The Red Sox, especially in Tampa, and I can see them sneaking up on The Sox and Yankees and repeating a 2008 performance. Well, not really. But I won't pick the Sox or the Yankees, so Tampa it is.

AL Central: The Tigers trade in Granderson for Johnny "The Asswipe" Damon. While their pitching has a ton of potential with Verlander and Nate Robertson, I won't pick them for the simple reason that they signed Judas (it's Easter, dammit). I'm also a fan of Ozzie Guillen and think his motor-mouth and straight serum is great for baseball. The White Sox take the Central.

AL West: This is going to be a dog fight. Anaheim let go of their ace (thank you), and for a big market team, that's Bush League. Texas has some fierce bats, but I'm going with Seattle. My reason (aside from Felix Hernandez): Brian, a Mariner's fan, is one of the only people who comments on my blog, so I'm throwing him a bone. There you go, buddy. The Mariners rule The West.

Wild Card: Dah Sox.

Now, I'm going to be honest, other than interleague games, I pay little mind to the National League until the playoffs. In fact, for a guy who purports to write "a baseball blog," I'm terribly ignorant about the NL. Here's what I know about National League in bulleted points:

Albert Pujols is the modern-day Babe Ruth. The best player in the game.

The Mets spend a butt-load of cash and, somehow, still manage to suck.

Philly is pretty good.

Manny plays for the Dodgers under Joe Torre.

They don't have the designated hitter, and that might be fine in little league, so Tommy can learn how to swing the bat, but I like watching homeruns, and I love the fact that pitchers in the AL can throw at hitters with no repercussions. I like dirty games, cheating, and steroids for professional athletes.

That's about it. For baseball purists and fans of the game, you've probably stopped reading already so this is a moot point. For those who give a shit, here are my NL picks:

NL East: Philly is pretty good.

NL Central: Other than the Red Sox, the only team in baseball that I like is the Cubs, probably for obvious reasons. Let's go Cubbies.

NL West: Manny being Manny. Torre being Torre. The Dodgers take it.

Wild Card: I left my heart in San Francisco.

There it is, folks. Those are my completely biased and ignorant picks. And a reminder for those of you who are interested: I'm going to be writing some pieces for Slurve Magazine this season. Check it out. And Jon Konrath, the editor of Air in the Paragraph Line, did an interview with me. Rock on.

Play ball. (I said "ball.")

April Fool's Day

2010-04-01T16:26:00.000-04:00

By the way, that last post was an April Fool's Day prank.

Yankees suck!

Stop the hatin'

2010-03-31T20:38:00.000-04:00

I had an epiphany today. I was standing on my head, like I do each afternoon when I get home from work (it helps clear my third-eye), then suddenly I realized the amount of mental and emotional energy I expend hating The New York Yankees. Seriously, with energy I spend yelling and bitching and constructing sophomoric jokes about The Yankee players' questionable sexualities, I could write a book, or do something practical, like develop census surveys.

So, starting tomorrow, no longer will I be one of the haters.

No longer will I call A-Rod any of the following: Gay-Rod, A-Tard, A-Hole, Jeter's bitch, or Sally. Maybe Sally. But none of the other ones.

No longer will I roll my eyes or shake my head whenever someone mentions The Yankees winning the World Series last year. No longer will I petulantly bark back,"They're supposed to win every year. They pay for it, fair and square. Fuckers."

No longer will I wish childish and terrible things to befall the team, such as wishing the entire Yankee clubhouse would break out with violent diarrhea and there will not be enough stalls.

No longer, I say. That was the old-Nate, a neurotic slightly-disturbed man who exists in a perpetual state of paranoia. He's gone. Meet the new-Nate, a man who is going to harness all of his negative energy and re-channel it into something positive.

The new-Nate has arrived.

So come here, Derek Jeter, and let's hug it out (not in a gay way).

Preseason...boring

2010-03-24T20:28:00.000-04:00

As much as I try to enjoy it, as much as I attempt to fake it, I just can't get into preseason baseball.

Last week, on St. Patrick's Day, my daughter was sick, and it was my turn to stay home with her. So I figured I'd make the best of it, boil some corned beef, pour a stout, and watch the Sox play with my little girl at one p.m.

Two innings later, I'm clipping my toes and playing Memory with Paige, using her Walt Disney Princess cards. Usually, my kids already know, during a Sox game, I'm off limits. No games. No questions (unless they pertain to baseball). No crying (unless an important player, like Pedroia, goes down with a season-ending injury). And definitely no standing in front of the television.

I know the Sox are sucking out, but it's The Grapefruit League. Big deal. Buchholz tosses a bad game yesterday. He was probably working on a fourth pitch. Who cares? Big Papi can't hit a toilet seat with own big ass. Like we didn't know that was coming.

It's preseason. It's boring. No one cares.

By the way, I'm going to be writing some articles for Slurve Magazine, which will premiere a new website on April 4 with an article I wrote on the Top Nine Baseball Moments of the Last Decade. The on-line magazine combines literature with baseball. I couldn't stay away.

Open Letter to Nomar

2010-03-14T13:46:00.000-04:00

Dear Nomar/No-mah/Nomie/Quitter/Cry Baby,

I greet you on this most joyous of days, not to celebrate your dog-and-pony show retirement party, but rather to raise a toast to today's occasion. Yes. Steak and BJ Day. Someone should order you a steak, Nomie, because you already received the other half from the Sox ownership this week. Larry and The Crypt Keeper and Boy-Theo and the rest of the brass, each of them got in a few good licks. In fact, between your water works show at the plate last July when you returned to Fenway and this week's sham, a good portion of Red Sox Nation---The Pink Hats and fans with selective amnesia---all of them kneeled down to honor you.

Not me, buddy. Since that night at the old Yankee Stadium in 2004 when Jeter jumped into the crowd in extra innings for foul ball, while you sat on the bench pouting about your contract, you've been dead to me.

Listen, Nomie, you would've been hard-pressed during your time in Boston to find a fan who worshipped your playing more than I did. For God's sake, I wanted to name my first-born Nomar (luckily, she was a girl, and my wife would've never gone for it anyway). But the way you left town-- and let's not forget this, buddy---was ignominious, pathetic, and ultimately made you look like nothing more than another overpaid, gluttonous glorified grubber. And let's face the facts here, No-mah: by that point, you were already damaged goods, and, boy, it was a lot more fun to watch Orlando Cabrera play ball than to watch you exercise your bottom lip, you fucking baby.

This week, we watched your little play at spring training: sign a contract for 15 hours, put on a jersey, and then retire as a Red Sox. It was all very tender and touching, as tender and touching as a prostate exam. What a load of shit! This is the type of thing that makes me disgusted to be a Red Sox fan. They should have handed out Pink Hats for the ceremony, blasted "Sweet Caroline" through the PA system, and had Rem-Dawg's cater the festivities with $12 hot dogs and $8 thimbles of Bud Light. I'm not sure who you thought you were fooling, or if you were just doing some PR before starting your new gig at ESPN.

And good with that analyst job, Nomar. I can't wait to hear your insight when it comes to players quitting on their team mid-season because they're not happy with their contracts. Maybe they can get Manny in the studio to help you. Actually, Manny might be fun.

You, Nomar, can go celebrate this day with yourself. Thanks for nothing, you fraud.

Regards,

The Thinking Half of Red Sox Nation

My Man-Crush

2010-03-07T11:07:00.000-05:00

Lester/Lackey/Beckett. The three aces have become a single entity in my mind, and full disclosure: I think I might have a man-crush (also referred to as a bromance) on them.

As Opening Day nears and talk about the upcoming season has crept its way into restaurants, grocery stores, the teachers' lounge, I've found myself saying the same thing to just about everyone. When asked what I think of The Sox' chances this year, I'll say, "If they stay healthy, Lester/Lackey/Beckett..."

Then I'll stop and get weak-kneed and starry-eyed. I'll heave a big adoring sigh, lost in a dream of three-game series against the Yankees, three shutouts, the entire city of New York hanging their heads in submission, weeping the sweet, sweet tears of defeat and humiliation.

"So?" The person I'm speaking to will ask. "What about them?"

While my school-girlish instinct is to say, "Aren't they dreamy?" I won't. No. Instead, I'll throw out my chest, snarl with my top lip, adjust myself. "If The Sox get in the post-season, no one will beat those three in a short series. No one."

And, again, Lester/Lackey/Beckett will make me giddy.

Here's the thing about my man-crush: the man-crush is not on any of them individually, it's on all three of them, the entity I'll call Lester/Lackey/Beckett. (I guess that makes a bit of party girl, huh?) In fact, like any irrational crush, I've crossed the line into unhealthy adulation. In my eyes, Lester/Lackey/Beckett, these demigods, can do no wrong. When I read that Lackey pitched a two perfect innings yesterday, I thought, right, of course he did.

Right now, Lester.Lackey/Beckett is the solution to everything. Boy, the health care system is a real mess. Let's ask Lester/Lackey/Beckett to fix it. The economy? Lester/Lackey/Beckett. Your ass itches. I guess they can't help you there.

This, remember, folks, is being written on March 7. Talk to me in two months, if one of them starts slow or gets hurt, and it will be an entirely different song I'm singing. My man-crush may have turned into hate-mail.

What can I say, I'm a Sox fan.

P.S. Don't forget, next Sunday, March 14, is a very special day. Plan accordingly.

Olympic ephemera

2010-02-28T09:38:00.000-05:00

Watching the men's hockey has been tremendous, and it all culminates in today's gold metal game between the USA and Canada. Regardless of the outcome, you couldn't script a better scenario. However, after seeing the Canadian public's bout of clinical depression following the last loss to the USA, I have a feeling the country will go the route of Jonestown and drink the Kool-Aid if The United States wins again.

Boner from Growing Pains is dead. While I'm going to refrain from any of the innumerable dick-jokes I could come up with and pay respects to the dead, I am going to question the producers of the show. How did they manage to name a character Boner on a wholesome family show? Was there no irony in the 80s? It would be akin to naming a character on a Disney show "Come-Shot" or "Dirty Sanchez," which happens to be the nickname many of us Patriots fans use for The Jet's quarterback Mark Sanchez.

Mike Lowell really is a stand-up, articulate guy. Part of me is pulling for him to have a big spring and shake-up the squad. Doubtful, but I'd love to see it.

While the Opening Ceremonies brought us Bryan Adams and ice dicks, I wonder if the Closing Ceremonies tonight will bring us The Barenaked Ladies singing "If I Had a Million Dollars" for all the endorsements the Olympic champions will have coming their way. Maybe they'll have giant ice boobs this time. Nice.

Kevin Sampsell's A Common Pornography is one of the best memoirs I've read in years. If you haven't already, you should pick up a copy. Rock on, Kevin.

It doesn't seem like Lyndsay Vonn and Julia Mancuso are going to resolve their dispute with a Sapphic kiss. Son of a bitch!

On that note, I think I figured out, specifically, the male allure to watching female figure skating, and it has to do with having the complete, unobstructed view up their skirts. It's almost too easy. Almost.

(above) Beckett and Lester and Lackey, oh my! Beckett and Lester and Lackey, oh my! Wake me up, Dorothy. I must be dreaming.

Have you listened to Deer Tick? You should. They're a band from Rhode Island, and only good things come from Rhode Island. Think me and Pauly D.

Let me amend that so I don't include the Central Falls superintendent and the State Education Commissioner. They suck.

Baseball is right around the corner. Amen.

Go Team USA! Kick some Canuck ass today.

My two cents on a two-cent mind.

2010-02-24T20:12:00.000-05:00

Johnny Damon.

The amiable Red Sox caveman turned flitty ass-bag Judas has signed to become a Detroit Tiger (Woods). By the way, on a discursive note, did anyone else get a chuckle with Tiger using the Wade Boggs-defense? Yes, Tiger, you have a problem. It's called a Y-chromosome.

Johnny Damon. Right.

When he was with the Sox, I loved the guy, despite the fact that he made stringing together a coherent sentence seem like quantum physics. He was the original "idiot," an icon. And then.

While this next sentence will seem like a superfluous "no shit" to Sox fans, let me say this, for the record: If a Red Sox player, particularly a popular "face-of-the-franchise" guy like Johnny-boy, signs with the Spankees, they are officially, in my opinion, persona non grata in New England forever.

Now, some fans and writers have been intimating that Johnny might get a hero's welcome from the Fenway Faithful when he returns in a Tiger jersey. This prospect makes me want to puke up all the beers I consumed during the 2004 post-season, an estimated amount of brew that could fill a hot tub. To me, this is like embracing the man that was banging your wife because she dumped him.

Seriously?

When Johnny Damon returns this season, I, for one, will have the same sickened feeling I've had since he signed with pinstriped pricks five years ago. I'm a man who never lets a grudge slip through my fingers; it's part of what makes me such an infuriatingly simple-minded Sox fan. Johnny Damon---and his Brandon Walsh sideburns with his douche bag faux-spiked hair---can kiss my white ass. While at one time I considered him one of us, he has been dead to me for five years. I hate him like I hate A-Tard (take that one, Sarah Palin) and Joba the Slut and C.C. Cheeseburger and The Big B.J. Burnett, and I will always hate Johnny Damon. And to the Sox fans who are even thinking about cheering Jeter's former-bitch, I say, "Shame on you!"

Johnny Damon.

Seriously?

Big Bats

2010-02-19T18:56:00.000-05:00

The 2010 Red Sox's problem is the same problem that has been harrowing men for centuries, the problem that has caused men to overcompensate out of fear that their weakness might become apparent. Yes, The Red Sox, like most males, lack the Big Bat.

Warning: the following onslaught of double-entendres might cause dizziness, shortness of breath, a realization of shortness of appendages, liver problems, or diarrhea.

While The Crypt-Keeper John Henry threw his cash at John Lackey like a housewife at a male stripper in a leopard-skin banana-hammock, the Sox still can't swagger into spring training this season like, say, the impressively-endowed (although very homosexual) Yankees. Granted, on paper, the Sox rotation reads as tight as a Hemingway line. Unflappable. But beware, while folks love to wield cliches like "Pitching wins pennants" and "It's not the size of the boat, it's the motion in the ocean," in our heart of hearts, we all know the truth.

Yes. Admittedly, the prospect of having Lester, Beckett, and Lackey in a short series arouses the imagination; however, when your deep in a tight game, Mike Cameron, Marcus Scutaro, or a less-than-sturdy Andre Beltre does little to ease the anxiety. And when you're looking for Youk to plug the Four-hole, forgive me, if I question the potential. Big Papi has become a Little Dribble of his former self, and V-Mart, a more than adequate hitter in the catcher slot, is not the monster with the wood we were looking for.

And J.D. Drew has always been limp and disappointing.

But we haven't begun spring training yet. There's always the chance of enhancement. And, you know what, sometimes the little guys win. Not often, but every now and then.

Ice Dicks and The Great Nothing

2010-02-14T11:25:00.000-05:00

While I realize it's Valentine's Day, a holiday created by greeting card companies for guys trying to get laid, may I kindly remind everyone that March 14 is just around the corner. For those of you who don't know, March 14 is the guy's Valentine's Day, a holiday worthy of its own website. That's right, mark your calendars for Steak and BJ Day. Gentleman, pass the word. You deserve it.

This time of year, the gap between football and baseball season, is generally the most miserable time of the year for me. That's why we celebrate things like Truck Day in Red Sox Nation. Last Friday, a crowd actually gathered outside Fenway Park to watch the equipment truck leave for Fort Myers. Listen, I certainly take the Red Sox far more seriously than I should, but waiting in the freezing cold, in February, in New England, to watch a fucking truck drive off!

Get thee a life, sir!

This year, however, I have the Olympics to keep my attention. Now, I'm not necessarily the most patriotic guy on the block, but I'm pulling for our athletes. Whether it's curling or the two-man luge, which might be the most ostensibly gay sport outside of wrestling, I feel a pin-prick of pride when they're playing "The Star-Spangled Banner" with our countryman on the top tier of the platform; I feel like cracking a Bud and bombing the snot out of a random Middle East country. And figure skating, hell, it's only a small step down from softcore porn.

By the way, I was watching the Opening Game ceremonies on Friday night, which I now realize is just as pathetic as waiting for the truck on Truck Day, and was floored when Canada brought out Bryan Adams and a hot chick in a blue dress to sing a song specifically written for The Winter Games in Vancouver. Adams, dressed like a waiter, waves his arms and dances in front of ice sculptures shaped like giant phalluses. It was like watching an Albee play, for God's sake. And while I waited for Rush, The Bare Naked Ladies, and Celine Dion to complete the Canadian music experience for me, sadly, it was just Bryan Adams and the hot chick in the blue dress.

And the ice dicks.

Still, I wait in this great and barren block of nothingness on my calendar. I wait, not for a truck packed with bats and balls and jock straps, but for something of real significance, something to fill this existential hole, something like Thursday, when pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training.

Baseball season, yo.

Winter blues.

2010-02-04T20:41:00.000-05:00

I've had a bad bout of the winter blues the past two weeks, which is not uncommon in cold climates. I've made apathy a lifestyle, and each morning when I wake up, I can't wait to go to bed. But there's only one way, I know, to beat back these bitter winter days:

Get a pair of headphones, crank the volume as loud as it can go, and listen to Iron Maiden while you show the winter your pimp hand!

How hirsute...NOT

2010-01-23T18:04:00.000-05:00

How is the mustache coming? Remember, this Wednesday night at River Run Bookstore in Portsmouth at 7 p.m. Rusty Barnes and I will ostensibly be reading poetry and fiction, but really, I'm looking for someone who is really, really rockin' the 'stache.

My mustache is not going so well. Some of you may have noted that I shaved my goatee on Wednesday night, thinking I'd have a week to grow a robust hedge of facial hair above my top lip. I was wrong. At best, I'll look a little like an eighth grade boy whose father hasn't bought him his first shaving kit yet. It's weak, folks. Really weak.

Hope, however, is not entirely lost. While watching an infomercial for hair transplants today, and seeing all of these men around my age with their pubes stapled to the tops of their heads---and pretty damn happy about it---it occurred to me I could look into having hair transplanted from my head, where it is plentiful, on to my top lip. Why not? Transplants must work. It's not like famous Red Sox-trader asswipe and sex-addict Wade Boggs would steer me in the wrong direction, right?

Then, there's the Cliff "Wolfman" Clavin approach. For those of you who watched Cheers, you might remember the episode where the guys at the bar had a beard growing contest and Cliff, whose beard was spotty and chintzy and weak, super-glued hair to his face at the last minute and won the contest.

Regardless, with or without a mustache, I hope to see you in Portsmouth on Wednesday night. Happy hair-growth.

Dewey Evans Mustache Contest

2010-01-14T10:48:00.000-05:00

Growing up, right-fielder Dwight Evans was one of my favorite Red Sox player. In fact, aside from J.D. Drew, who goes on the DL for 60 days for an ingrown pube, the Sox have had a couple of affable right-fielders in my lifetime. Although he was one of those Jesus-freaks who should have been born with mute button, it was hard one not to like Trot Nixon as well; unless, of course, you're a Yankee fan.

But Dewey. Not only was the man a Fenway favorite, but he had one of the most impressive mustaches of his time, or any time, for that matter. It wasn't that his mustache was overly robust or unruly; instead, it exuded style and charm and masculinity. Everything a good mustache should do.Lord, what I wouldn't do to have a mustache like that.

Therefore, in honor of Dewey's 'stache, and my recently published poem "Men with Mustaches," I will be giving away free prizes to any man (or woman) who shows up at my reading with Rusty Barnes at River Run Bookstore in Portsmouth, N.H. on January 27 with a mustache. The prizes are limited, so if there are multiple men with mustaches in the crowd, Rusty and I will have to judge the winners.

Gentleman, this gives you two weeks to get to work. Ladies, you can either purchase a fake mustache---or maybe you can grow one, I don't know---or encourage your husband/boyfriend/token gay friend/stalker/etc. to grow a mustache and come with you to the reading. My vision is an audience full of beautiful Dewey 'staches.

Good luck.

Note: I realize this could completely blow up in my face, and no one will participate (or show up), and I'll be the only asshole with a mustache. But, hell, who wants to go to a stuffy reading with a stuffy crowd and stuffy writers reading stuffy stuff? That's not how Rusty and I roll. That's not "The Situation." Hope to see you there.

Baseball can't come soon enough...

2010-01-11T11:58:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, The Patriots looked like a bunch of old ladies playing backyard bocce ball. They were subsequently humiliated, and now the season is over. It's still January. The Sox won't be starting for another two months, and watching spring training games is a little like combing the newspaper for underwear ads. I'm not a big basketball or hockey fan---I'll watch the games when it gets to the playoffs---but baseball will have started by then. What am I supposed to do? What will I watch during the long frigid nights of a New England winter?

Deep in the despair of a jilted fan, I sunk to a new low in my television viewing last night. I know, I could have read a book, sat quietly on the couch, and avoided this whole train wreck I'm about to describe, but I was feeling lackadaisical after the Pat's loss, aggravated with their slipshod performance, so utterly exasperated, I watched two hours of Jersey Shore on MTV. In fact, two hours of watching eight (then seven after Angelina, that bitch, left) of the most interesting sociological case studies of recent record didn't quite sate my appetite, so I watched another two episodes On-Demand.

This morning I woke up feeling, I assume, what I'd feel like if I slept with one of these people: guilty, dirty, stupid, and strangely satisfied.

Okay. For those of you unfamiliar with this reality-television retch of hair gel, high heels, and protein shakes, the basic premise is the producers of the show placed eight carefully chosen "guidos" and "guidettes" in a beach house on the Jersey Shore. That's it. They didn't need to do anything else. Just watching these people, whose superficiality makes Paris Hilton seem cerebral, is both awesome and terrifying. Like a there's been a terrible car accident on the side of the road, you can't look away. Every episode is the same thing, more hooking up in the hot tub, getting in bar brawls, and a tacit competition to see who will speak the new "stupidest thing you've ever heard." And each episode one-up's the previous one.

Having grown up in Rhode Island, these people are not entirely foreign to me; in fact, Pauly D., who has also made multiple appearances on the Hot Chicks With Douche Bags blog, is from Johnston, R.I. We used different titles to describe them---sparcones, hairspray whores, da-na-na's, Cranston chicks, jerk-off's, and, of course, douche bags---but they're all the same thing. And now, fifteen years later, they're back in my life, and I welcomed them with my arms wide open.

Was last night an anomaly? Or will I watch Jersey Shore again? At least until baseball season. Should I be reading a book instead? Probably. But, seriously, lighten up.

Or, as Mike "The Situation," whose entire world centers around his abs, might advise, I could hit the gym, the tanning booth, and then the laundry mat. Afterwards, I'll comb the bars and creep on some bitches.

By the way, I have some new poems in The Fox Chase Review. Currently, I'm working on a manuscript of love sonnets dedicated to Ronnie and Sammy "The Sweetheart." It's tentatively titled You're So Fucking Hot.

A New Year (thank God)

2010-01-03T20:25:00.000-05:00

While I was very upset that Jennifer Lopez stole my New Year's Eve outfit, like most people in this country, I shed no tears watching 2009 pass like a bad bout of gas.

While blogging last year, I also realized I was spreading myself too widely in my imagined roles. In other words, I realized I can't be an imaginary sportswriter and an imaginary author (although I have books published, I'm still largely imaginary in the literary world), as well as being an imaginary cool guy (okay, so that's only imagined by me). So I've decided, in 2010, I'm going to stick to my guns and SOLELY be an imaginary sportswriter. This, mind you, doesn't mean I won't tie pop culture, sophomoric humor, and irrational editorializing into my blog. Imagine me as a cruder, less funny, and less talented Bill Simmons, one who writes poetry and fiction because he's a masochistic man with a Peter Pan complex and doesn't REALLY want the pressure of being taken seriously (or so that's how I explain rejection to myself).

So we embark on a New Year, my 30 friends. A few of you have dropped from my "Followers" list lately, but fear not. I watched a documentary on David Koresh and The Branch Davidians the other night, and dropping out from a group headed by someone who is clearly unstable is quite common. It weeds out the cowards. Stick with me. And for this fine new year, I promise you, my friends, there will be no shortage of Yankee cum-rants, outrageously absurd baseball conspiracy theories, the lovely non sequitur, and sprinklings of self-promotion.

For example, anyone who has read this blog knows I'm full of shit, but now I'm Full of Crow.

Anyway, thank you to those of you who read my insanity, buy my books, or give me your precious time while you're bored at work, trying to look busy while mindlessly surfing the web, quietly happy that there's something new to read in your "I'm bored at work" internet queue.

If Jesus loves you, that's all right with me. If not, try Facebook. Someone will love you there.

Christmas ephemera

2009-12-22T21:15:00.000-05:00

Ladies and gentleman, Worcester's own Mr. Billy Squier, and all those people I remember watching on MTV growing up. You know...the people who shaped my life while I waited for Motley Crue videos to come on.
So Mike Lowell is...back? Um. Awkward.
I'll admit: I don't mind wearing a Santa's hat around the house at Christmas time. It's warm and festive and gay (Am I punning? Can you pull off a Santa's hat and still look straight? Does it matter? Are you following me?)
I watched Santa's Slay, a slasher film in the darkly comedic vein of The Evil Dead. It was free On-Demand on Fear.net. I truly enjoy slasher films. Good or bad, they oddly relax me.
What the fuck is the deal with Billy Squier's sweater in this video clip? I know, it's the 80s, but is that a blanket excuse for wearing something that resembles visual vomit? I don't know. Maybe it does. Does that near-kiss with J.J. Jackson signify a type of Huck/Jim love affair? Do they wear Santa's hats? I'm confused.
If you sprinkle sugar on a piece of shit, will it taste like a cookie? Ask Senate Democrats.
Favorite Christmas song: "Carol of the Bells" (particularly Gary Hoey's version).
John's Lackey's wife, Krista is from Maine. She graduated from UNH. Great. But John Lackey is from Texas. Does any of this mean anything? Not unless you're desperate for copy.
Martha Quinn is not hot. Sorry. I'm sure she's a wonderful woman, but I always saw her as a babysitter, one who would let us stay up a half an hour later because she was cool. Maybe I'm dating myself.
Favorite Christmas movie: A Christmas Carol (1983, starring George C. Scott). It's still the best Christmas story ever told---Dicken's didn't dick with us.
We have a poster of Obama in our house, on the wall in our living room, and I'm not sure what to do with it. I'll keep it there. And "hope" it'll move.
If you've never seen this, you have to see it. Still one of the funniest SNL skits I've ever seen.
Whether you follow this blog or have stumbled upon it; whether I know you and love you, or whether you know me and hate me; whether you're a Sox fan or a Yankee fan (somewhere inside you, there is a soul), I wish you a Happy Holiday. You deserve it.

Merry Christmas, Sox fans

2009-12-15T15:38:00.000-05:00

After my last rant, which you can read below, it behooves me to respond to The Red Sox five year $85 million signing of former-Angel's ace John Lackey.

First, there's pie in my face. In fact, Theo has been holding his cards so close to his chest that I don't think anyone saw this acquisition coming. Am I happy about the signing? Of course. I'm fucking thrilled! Would any baseball fan bitch about their team having a starting rotation with three legitimate aces? Lester, Beckett, Lackey---the sound of that is musical, isn't it? If Theo can come up with a big bat---and, no, Mike Cameron is NOT the solution---then I can't see how The Sox would not be the favorites going into the 2010 season.

Next, I need to retract all of the terrible things I've said about John Lackey when he was pitching for Anaheim. For example, I will no longer call him "Lenny," which is a reference to the character in the Steinbeck novel, Of Mice and Man. I came up with the nickname two seasons ago when I decided that Lackey looked mildly retarded: it's his eyes. Now, I don't care if he IS mildly retarded; if he goes out and wins 18 games and shuts down The Bronx Boners, I don't care how well he scores on the SAT's.

I do, however, have to mention the fact that his contract, the money they're paying this guy, is obscene and obnoxious. Listen, if I were someone who takes the ethical high ground, I wouldn't be a baseball fan, or a professional sports fan in general. I would be sitting outside the labs where scientists are working on a cure for cancer and cheering them on, which, in all fairness, is what we should be doing. But every now and then, I have to take a step back and point out the obvious, especially during this holiday season in this economy, where decent, hard-working people are out of work, losing their houses, and unable to put presents beneath the tree for their kids this year. To think that these athletes make more in a game than most of us make in a year is truly a sad commentary on the misplaced priorities in our society. But, again, I watch baseball and buy merchandise; therefore, I'm part of the problem.

Finally, when I'm wrong, I'll admit it. Last week, when we were putting up our Christmas tree, my son Owen and I each put up one of the two Red Sox ornaments we have celebrating Sox 2004 and 2007 World Championships, respectively. As we were hanging them on the tree, I told Owen to "get used to these two bulbs because we'll never see another one. The freakin' bums have already tanked the season."

I was wrong. Merry Christmas.

Lots of holes in our 2nd place Sox

2009-12-11T09:42:00.001-05:00

I know a lot of Sox fans can't stand Dan Shaughnessy, but I happen to enjoy his column. While The Globe sports writers---or, sadly, soon to be ex-Globe writers if the newspaper folds---take a lot of flack from The Nation, it's my opinion that they're frequently spot-on when they're calling out the team. This article by Shaughnessy says it all, and far more eloquently than I can.

To summarize, the management---mainly, former-Boy Wonder Theo and the world's biggest creep-o-zoid John Henry---is all but conceding next season and calling it "a bridge" year for the Red Sox. Meaning: they realize they can't compete with the Yankees (especially after they signed Granderson) so they're going to use 2010 to give their prospects some time to mature, rather than trading them for a big name and going full-blast at dethroning the Spankboys in pinstripes. Fine. Despite the fact that John Henry is a billionaire who could afford to pay some big game players without clearing out the prospects, that's fine. It's a long-term investment in youth. It siphons all thunder and anticipation for fans going into next season, but fine. It's a plan, nonetheless.

But here's the thing that really irks me: they're still raising ticket prices to get into that crack den on Yawkey Way.

This harkens back to my inexorable loath for the goddamn Pink Hats, the clueless masses of assholes who will pay the money for overpriced tickets to watch a second place team rot in mediocrity just so they can sing "Sweet Caroline" in the 8th inning with the rest of the retards who believe they're taking part in some long-standing Fenway tradition.

Am I bitter? Hell yes, I'm bitter. But it's righteous indignation. The last time I could afford to go to a Red Sox game was in 2003---and even then I couldn't afford it, but my wife bought me tickets for my birthday. But for two of us to go to Fenway for a night now, we're looking at an easy two bills (not including the eight-dollar Dixie cups of Bud Light). When I was growing up, I went to Fenway Park with my father every year, and it was far more of a tradition than singing Neil Diamond with 36,000 other white people who couldn't tell you three other Neil Diamond songs. Granted, my family wasn't poor, but we were solidly middle-class; the same as my wife and I are today. And my son is getting to age where I would like nothing more than to take the boy to a Red Sox game, but it financially isn't going to happen. Why? Not because I couldn't save the money and take him anyway. It would be tight, but I probably could. But it's the principle of it. How can the Red Sox organization, in good conscience---yes, grumpy pants, I realize it's a business, but allow me to be slightly sentimental here---do this to their fans, the people who pay their salaries?

The answer is: they don't give a fuck. They're rich and getting richer. If The Crypt Keeper Henry is reading this right now and would like to send me two free tickets, I'll recant, but that's highly improbable.

So next year, the Sox are playing for second-place in the AL East. Here's the upside: maybe The Pink Hats, having grown so used to watching winners, will grow bored, stop going to the games, and soon, you'll have the real fans back in the park, giving hell to everyone who deserves it.

"Honeymoon" for the holidays

2009-12-03T15:29:00.000-05:00

Here is a digital story of one of my most confessional and candid poems, "Cracker and Me." I've gotten a lot of mileage out of this piece. It originally appeared as a broadside by Hemispherical Press in 2003. Then it appeared again, in a slightly different form, in my 2005 chapbook Honey, I'm Home, which was published by sunnyoutside. Most recently, it appears, sans the Part VI, which I put back in for this movie, in my book After the Honeymoon.

Speaking of After the Honeymoon, if you're looking for a thoughtful gift for any newlyweds in your life, may I be so bold as to recommend it. In fact, if you buy a copy and can somehow get it to me before Christmas, I'll sign it whomever you'd like and do my best send it back to you. Just give me a heads up.

You can purchase the book from Amazon.com: here

Or directly from the publisher, sunnyoutside: here

Enough shameless self-promotion. I hope you enjoy the piece, and a special thanks to my good friend Dan Cray for allowing me to use his stellar tune "Every Bar."

MFA musings

2009-12-01T12:20:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow night I will read from a novel I've been tinkering with, off and on, for the past five years. This novel, titled When We Were Locusts, will also serve as my thesis for my MFA in fiction writing at The University of New Hampshire. The event is open to the public, so if you have an interest in hearing a woman named Shannon O'Neill, a nonfiction student, read from her memoir and me read from my novel, please come join us.

Seeing tomorrow night is, for all intents and purposes, the completion of my program, I figured I'd muse a little about MFA programs and share some of my opinions and experiences with anyone who might be interested in pursuing an MFA, possess an MFA, or hates MFA programs with every fiber of their literary being and believes the programs are elitist shams that produce cookie-cutter writing.

Let me start by admitting that, at one time, I belonged to the latter persuasion. When I first started publishing in the small presses, I was 23 years old, had just finished my undergraduate degree, and was beginning my career as a high school teacher. Quickly, I became immersed in a tiny pocket of the small press scene and started publishing my own zine called The Brown Bottle. At this point in my life, I figured that MFA programs were for people who either couldn't figure out how to write on their own, or had nothing to write about because they'd been living in that bombproof cocoon called "academia" their whole lives. Where's Kerouac's MFA? Or Hemingway's? Or Bukowski's? I'd smugly postulate. Of course, Kerouac and Hemingway were part of some of the earliest MFA programs, although they weren't called "MFA programs" at the time; they were called "writers' circles." And Bukowski? While many will argue that he never could write, I don't buy it, and I think he's a good example for why you don't need an MFA to be a writer.

Now, close to twelve years later, I'm finishing an MFA program. Did I need this program to become a writer? Absolutely not. Did it help me become a better writer? Absolutely.

I'd should preface this by saying my situation at UNH is a little unique. While most full-residency programs don't, to my knowledge, off many part-time slots, I was grandfathered into the program. I started at UNH, part-time, when it was still an MA. The next year, the English department switched the degree over to an MFA, and I was offered the option to changing programs and taking 16 more credits to get the terminal degree, so I did it. I mention this because one of the reasons many people believe MFA programs are for the privileged few is that it is simply impractical for someone with a family and financial responsibilities, especially in this economy, to quit their job and enter a writing program for three years. And it's equally absurd to assume that the minute you finish the program there will be a cushy college position waiting for you. Ask people who are currently in the market for those college teaching positions how competitive it is. They'll tell you.

However, there are many low-residency alternative MFA programs for people who simply can't drop everything and go to school full-time. Do candidates with their MFA's from full-residency programs have a competitive edge over people with diplomas from low-residency programs when it comes to hiring for college positions? I have no idea. Listen, if you write and publish an award-winning book, you'll going to have the competitive edge anywhere you go.

Currently, I'm not in the market for a teaching job---I teach in a high school, thank you very much---and, really, a discussion of MFA programs should center around writing. And as I said before, if you want to be writer, you don't need to get an MFA, but I do believe a program, if you choose a program that fits with you and your writing style, will serve you well in your endeavors and cut a lot of time off the learning curve.

At the very least, an MFA program will force you to finish, or push you in the direction of finishing a longer body of writing. And if you want to write books, this is invaluable practice. Also, you have the benefit of being around people who are just as passionate about writing as you fancy yourself to be, and you'll work with writers who are better than you, on both sides of the desk. This lesson in humility is also invaluable when it comes to publication and submitting your work for publication.

But what about the finances? How can you afford a program that doesn't guarantee you anything--- economically speaking--- when you finish? I don't have that answer. Many full-time programs have fellowships and tuition wavers for MFA students, but it still might leave you scrambling to live. I was fortunate that the high school where I teach will pay for one class per-semester for faculty. In other words, they want their teachers to be more educated and models of life-long learners: that makes sense to me. But I know a lot of districts can't afford it. I just don't have any answers. For some reason, I keep thinking back to Bob Dylan's line in "Like a Rolling Stone" that goes: "When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose." It goes a long way in explaining the quandary---of life.

If you're still reading this, congratulations. You have a hell of an attention-span. In short, the MFA program at UNH was well-worth it for me. I got to work with some incredible writers---Alex Parsons and Tom Paine and Ann Joslin Williams in the fiction department---and I've seen some of my classmates go on to publish books, like Tim Horvath and Jason Tandon.

Ultimately, and always, the important thing is the writing and getting the writing done; and as far as that's concerned, no one gives fuck how you do it. So stop reading this, and get it done.

Hipsters and Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T10:01:00.000-05:00

Before some hipster starts bemoaning the fact that this "is so cliched," let me acknowledge that "Alice's Restaurant" on Thanksgiving is cliched and un-hip and predictable, unless it's being played ironically (this is not being played ironically). Because hipsters, as you know, thrive on listening to bands that no one has ever heard, except, of course, other hipsters who really get irony. For example, The Hipster might see that I posted Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant," roll his eyes, and say, "Der Furz, the German death-metal band, does a better cover of this song. Ever heard it?" Which is, naturally, a rhetorical question, because no one--including 90-percent of the band members' families---has heard of the band, much less their cover of "Alice's Restaurant." But The Hipster has. In fact, he's been listening to Der Furz since their first album, Widerlich, which he'll tell you was by far their best. In fact, The Hipster might even have the CD in his car or a Der Furz bumper sticker on a filing cabinet or an electric guitar case (he doesn't play, but he's friends with a guy in an indie band who gave it to him).

So, yes, hipsters, I understand my transgression in posting this. I'm lame. But it's Thanksgiving and, like most Americans who don't get irony, I want to stuff myself like a true hedonist, watch some football, nap, and listen to this song.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Reading tonight at PSU

2009-11-18T13:50:00.000-05:00

I will be reading tonight at Plymouth State University, the fine academic establishment which, after admitting me as an undergrad in 1993, really turned things around. Anyway, it's always a lot of fun to go back to my old stomping grounds. Those five years as an undergraduate were some of the finest of my life. Oh, the memories, and the lack of memories, and the shit I've made up that never happened, like the time I bungey-jumped off the English building as thousands of my fellow students cheered me, or that sorority who once abducted me and kept me as their house slave for a week (they nicknamed me "Mr. Biggie"). Ah yes.

So I will be returning tonight, which is the last reading this year from After the Honeymoon. I will be reading from my novel on Dec. 2 as I complete my MFA at The University of New Hampshire next month, and I will be reading with a host of other New Hampshire poets at Gibson's Bookstore in Concord as part of a holiday celebration of poetry on Dec. 12. But this is it for my book tour this year. More information to come on those readings. I also have a handful of venues set up for 2010, but that's a year away---oh no, I'm officially that tool who says "See you next year" on Dec. 31.

But tonight I ride at The Frost Commons at 7 p.m. My friend and former-professor Paul Rogalus will be riding with me. We ride. Hope to see you there.

Friends

2009-11-15T15:25:00.000-05:00

Above is a picture of me with Dan Crocker. Dan is my best friend. Seeing I write poetry, which automatically places me high on the "allegedly-gay" scale in this society (as if homosexuality is a character-flaw), I have no problem saying that Dan is my best friend in the world. In fact, I'm honored to say it.

Friends. Most of us, myself included, take them for granted: X is my friend, which is, I suppose, better than an enemy. But friends, I've noticed, are also something we like to quantify. Think about Facebook, for example. Does anyone really have 329 friends? Really?

"Friends" seems to be the wrong word, but I suppose it saves space on the webpage because if you were to label it accurately, it would read: "People I know, most of whom I either met once; or knew in high school and had completely forgotten existed, and there's probably a good reason for that; or people I know, call a friend, but don't trust them as far as I can spit; or don't know at all, but call my friend because of a need to be loved, which may or not be result of not getting enough attention from my mother." That might look pretty cumbersome on the side of the screen. Then, of course, you'd need a second list for your real friends, which would most likely include three or four people and, if you're lucky, your spouse.

But here's the thing: as far as I'm concerned, friends can't be quantified, in any respect. I've only known Dan for seven or eight years, and we've never lived less than 1500 miles from each other. Numbers. We see each other once a year, maybe, and maintain our friendship mostly via emails and talking on the telephone like two old widows. However, few people in this world understand me like Dan, and when you think about it, that is one of our core human desires: to feel less alone in this universe. Friends, like good art, will do that.

Like myself, Dan Crocker is a writer, a damn fine writer. But I don't care if my friends are artists or big names or people who can do something for me. I could care less if Dan ever penned another word. When we're talking to each other, we have a tacit understanding that we will not talk about writing. Why? We know what one another does. There's no need to discuss it. Friends shouldn't give a fuck what you do. The important thing, as I understand it, is who you are.

Look closely at this picture. Dan and I have always wanted an iconic photo, like the one of Kerouac and Neal Cassady used on covers of On the Road. This is ours. Look again. In this picture, you'll see two grown men, best friends, deep into their 30s, with wives and children and lives that, geographically speaking, exist far from one another. But you'll also see two men pleased to be in each other's company.

This is me and Dan Crocker in November of 2009. And he's my best friend.

Rockin' the 'stache

2009-11-05T16:24:00.000-05:00

A couple of quick things before I take off for the weekend to read with some of my dearest friends, Becky and Cracker. Right now, Dan Crocker (those of you who own After the Honeymoon, you'd know him as "Cracker") is staying with me, and we're solving the world's problems.

1. There's a review of After the Honeymoon in the Hippo Press today. What do you think, folks? Nate Graziano as Manchester's official city poet? Rockin'. I'm going to put up a link to write Mayor-elect Ted Gatsas and a template to copy-and-paste to him. The official city poet should have a mustache. No?

2. I'm now rockin' the 70s porn star mustache (see above). Yup.

3. To anyone who comes out to see me read this weekend in Cambridge or Kingston: If you buy a book from any of the readers, you will receive a free copy of the chapbook Men of Letters, the final installment of the Idiot Trilogy I wrote with Cracker.

4. Tonight will be the world premiere of the one-act play "Pack O' Smokes." One of the characters in the play rocks a mustache.

I hope to see some of you this weekend. The world looks different when viewing it from behind a mustache.

Show me the money!

2009-11-05T07:24:00.000-05:00

Listen, I'm going to try to be diplomatic here, as diplomatic as my Red Sox blood will allow. I avoided the knee-jerk acerbic post last night and waded through six hours of restive slumber to write this. I'm trying, folks.

First, the Yankees deserve congratulations: They won the World Series. And regardless of the money you spend in assembling an All-Star team, the said team needs to perform in order to be champions. Since the All-Star Break, the Yankees have been one of the most dominant teams in MLB history. They deserve props. Definitely.

But, really, is any of this shocking? Has there been any drama leading up to this? Seriously, who didn't expect them to win after they went on their $423.5 million dollar spending last off-season?

I have no interest in getting Nietzschean here, but in order to be successful, you can argue, you do whatever it takes, whatever is in your means, to be successful; otherwise, you need to embrace failure. The world's biggest creep, John Henry showed us this lesson when he failed to pull the trigger on Texiera, failing to pony up what turned out to be a nominal bucket of cash in respect to overall spending. And while the Sox cut their payroll, ticket prices continued to sky-rocket in one of the worst economies since The Great Depression. One of the few past times that can relieve Boston diehards from their dire financial woes is now unaffordable. Talk about a kick in the nuts.

Shame on you, Red Sox.

But the real disturbing thing about the Yankees winning the World Series is the message it affirms: money does, in the end, will prevail. We can tell our kids tales about prodigal sons and Robin Hood's and Jesus, but in the end, the person with the most cash wins. This is what we learn from the New York Yankees. And that's not meant to be bitter or dramatic; it's a fact.

While I'm sure I'm not the only one flashing these stats today, take a gander at the team salaries for 2009:

1. Yankees: $201,449, 189
2. Mets: $149,373, 987
3. Cubs: $134,809,000
4. Red Sox: $121,745,999

Now, Yankees fans will argue: The Mets and The Cubs didn't make the playoffs, and the Sox were eliminated in the first round. Very true. See the second paragraph of this blog. But here's the thing: the disparity between the Yankees and the Mets is over $50 million bucks! This is more than the Padres, Pirates, and Marlins pay out for their entire team! And Yankee fans will say: If the Sox spent the cash and won The World Series, you wouldn't be complaining. This is all sour grapes.

I don't know. Something about this disturbs me on an ethical level. And, listen, I'm by no means a man of unshakable ethics, but this just feels wrong. Maybe this is knee-jerk Sox fan indignation. Maybe it is sour grapes. But there's more to it than that. This is what's wrong with the bullshit we feed our kids. We tell them that money can't buy happiness. Really? Money looked pretty fucking happy on the pitcher's mound last night. And will the Sox go out and spend a butt-load in the off-season to keep up with Jones' and keep the affluent population of Boston paying $300 a ticket for box seats at a Yankee game in Fenway? You bet your ass they will. Because in the end, it's all about the bottom line. Don't kid yourself. It is.

Maybe that's what we should be teaching our kids: it's all about the bottom line. There are no Jerry Maguire endings in the real world, kids. It doesn't happen. So congratulations, New York. You bought this fair and square.

Breaking news...

2009-10-25T19:23:00.001-04:00

My FFS is out of control. Today, while following up on an email sent to me by my publisher in which the link to the offending photo was attached, I discovered this picture taken at my reading at Buffalo State. Take a guess which one.

Holy fucking shit.

Not only is my FFS epidemic, but the over-sized shirt makes me look pregnant. Seriously. I look like a pregnant woman, sans the beautiful glow that only a woman carrying a child can exude. On top of that, I used to think vertical stripes were slimming. Wrong.

My only consolation will come in an Anaheim victory tonight. Mind you, I hate the Angels, but if the Yankees were playing the Third Reich, I'd be conflicted as to whom to root for. If the Spankees win...well, with my FFS and a Yankees World Championship this year, you might find me fist-fighting a mall Santa.

Do you have any bail money?

P.S. If you're a fellow sufferer of FFS and willing to come forward with it, please feel free to contact me. I understand. I'm here. We shall not suffer alone.

Fat Face Nate

2009-10-22T15:47:00.000-04:00

One of the worst things one human being can ask another human being is: Did you gain weight?

Think about the subtext buried in this question for a second; in fact, it really isn’t a question at all. With few obvious exceptions, the person is not asking you if you gained weight because they’re genuinely interested in you or your body, or they think you look good with weight on you. The question, obviously, is rhetorical, and what it implies is pretty clear.

Here is what the other person is saying to you: Wow, you were once fit and attractive, but obviously, you’ve been sitting on your fat ass and munching out on pizza and Cheese Puffs since I last saw you. Because now, quite frankly, you look like a fucking pig. It’s amazing anyone will still sleep with you, Porky. I bet you had to buy new pants. I bet those old pants, the ones you wore way back in those halcyon days when you were dignified and healthy, are in a second-hand store right now and someone attractive is buying them. God, I am so happy that I am NOT you right now, a tub of lard having to greet the world. You must be disgusted with yourself.

Or something like that.

Recently, my best friend Cracker pulled the question on me, knowing that I would freak out, stop eating, and not want to face the world again without a bag over my head. You see, some pictures from my recent book tour were posted on Facebook in which I looked, according to Cracker, like I “gained some weight.”

Now, for a person as insecure, self-conscious, and emotionally brittle as myself, Facebook presents a bit of paradox. While I want to have friends and pad my numbers and have people leave comments on my wall as an affirmation that I’m loved and popular, it also involves a certain amount of exposure that can be downright terrifying. In my case, I was tagged in the photos, and admittedly, in many of them, I have FFS.

About eight years ago I diagnosed myself with Fat Face Syndrome, or FFS. FFS is identified by the following symptoms: an unnatural width in the face from cheekbone to cheekbone, a lack of a definable profile due excessive flab under the jawbone, additional chins, and the appearance of what I call “the jellyroll”, or a thin roll of fat that circumnavigates the entire neck (see picture and video below; exhibits A and B). For close to ten years, I’ve being growing facial hair as a means of diverting the attention away from my FFS; however, each time I trim my goatee, the true horror of my fat face presents itself.

In 2004, after a shocking set of pictures from a wedding my wife had developed, in which I looked like someone stuck eyes and hair on a ball of pizza dough, I started exercising, thinking this might help to assuage my disorder. But no.

Next I bought a digital camera and started erasing photos where I had FFS, keeping only the pictures where I sucked in my cheeks and craned my neck to make my face look thin, therefore believing my own lies and illusions, believing that I had defeated the disorder. Wrong again. Now, again, it has reared its ugly head (literally) and it seems I have a terminable case.

“So, Nate,” Cracker asks, “did you gain some weight?”

I sigh and try to laugh, but it’s not funny. And I answer with the only response with which I can answer the horrible question, summoning my last shred of dignity. “I’m still not as fat as you,” I say.

Country music and the coolest pic on Earth

2009-10-20T00:11:00.000-04:00

This is the coolest picture on Earth, and not just because I'm in it. This picture, I believe, perfectly captures our book tour---Micah, Dave, and me. Dave is exasperated, wondering why the hell he published us. Micah is cool and collected, the backbone of the operation. And I'm being bad ass because, you know, I'm a bad ass. Meanwhile Micah's husband, Nate Jackson, snaps the scene in his lens, killing it in the background. Perfect.

So tonight I went to a Texas Roadhouse after the reading in Appleton. For two hours, I was assaulted by modern country music crazily cranked up in the restaurant. At first, I resisted, making snarky remarks about the lyrics, snickering at them, until I realized I may have been misdirecting my literary efforts for the past ten years. Here is a list of ten country music song titles that I believe will prove saleable (inspired by the line "I want to check you for ticks," no shit):

1. "I Want to Be Your Bra (Just to Give You Support)"
2. "If I Were the Teen Wolf, I'd Want To Stand on Your Van"
3. "I'm Only Drinking Beer to Get Over the Pot"
4. "If You Fart in the Truck, I'll Still Love You"
5. "Get Rid of the Restraining Order, and I'll Be Loving You Tonight"
6. "My Love Steams for You in Cleveland (Come with Me to Oxford)"
7. "Your Toes Taste Like Fried Chicken, so Let Me Lick 'Em"
8. "If You Were Your Sister, I Couldn't Help But Miss Her"
9. "Even with the Runs, I'd Still Hold You"
10. "Your Ex Is a Terrorist"

I'm going to start writing the songs soon, as soon as I finish this book tour. Look for me. I'll be writing my country music songs under the pseudonym Daniel Crocker.

Liz's birthday reading

2009-10-16T03:16:00.000-04:00

I read this in Indianapolis on Liz's birthday. This is the first part---it gets cut off during "Paper Ark". Once I get to Chicago, I'll post more. Enjoy.