You're welcome

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

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

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