Where's A-Roid?

Already, a week of baseball has passed and I missed my imaginary deadline as an imaginary sportswriter. I suppose I should hold off on the paperwork to get my name legally changed to Scoop. I'm failing already.

However, for both of you who have subscribed as readers of my blog---already my sports column is going the way of newspapers everywhere---here is a bullet-list (in the vein of The Providence Journal sportswriter Bill Reynolds) of my impressions, thoughts, and my intellectually vacuous and retarded commentary on Week One.

• Where's A-Roid? Has anyone seen A-Roid?
• I didn't think it would be possible to miss Julio Lugo, but given Lowrie's performance at the plate so far, I can't wait for the ugly bastard to get back.
• I've always said that only assholes and rednecks use their initials in place of their first name. I believe that puts $160 million dollar C.C. Sabathia in the latter column. What does C.C. stand for anyway? I'm pretty sure it's Cheeseburgers and Chicken Wings.
• R.I.P. Nick Adelhart.
• My Yankee rants my soon become archaic, seeing I'd bet the house on Tampa to win The AL East again. After watching them play that first series, they're the real deal. Stacked. Evan Longoria might be the best player in the game. No joke.
• Where's A-Roid? I haven't seen him around.
• As far as the greatest rock and roll song ever written, I'd agree with my friend Cracker: it's "Thunder Road."
• C.C.=Chili fries and Cheesecake.
• Yesterday, while listening to the color commentator Eric Karros on Fox's Saturday baseball, it became apparent that any monkey with a microphone could get that job. While he tried to get all philosophical and metaphysical about Nick Adelhart's death, I felt pangs of vicarious embarrassment. Settle down, Socrates. But then he followed it with some illuminating baseball insight, such as "pitchers don't want to walk the lead-off hitter." Wow. No shit.
• I love watching Jason Bay play the game. Since Manny the Moron left town, I haven't spent a minute missing him. Honest.
• I've had the same essential haircut my entire life. That doesn't mean it's working for me.
• Best Easter joke I heard this week: What did the egg say to the boiling water? I'm sorry, I can't get hard. I was just laid by a chick.
• A-Roid, oh A-roid, wherefore art thou A-Roid?
• It seems every year more and more douche bags become Sox fans. Where were these assholes in 1996? Actually, I know the answer: Not at Fenway.
• Look for me on Facebook, folks. I'm a total Facebook whore.
• Seriously, has anyone seen A-Roid?

EDIT: I had a picture of A-Roid, but it got taken down by Big Brother of The Blog World. Next week, I promise nude photos of MILF's and the men who love them.

The Sportswriter

No, I'm not trying rip off Richard Ford, and, in fact---and this may be an offense punishable by castration in certain MFA programs---the novel bored me to point where I found myself measuring my pubic hairs mid-paragraph. Not poorly written, just not my cup of NyQuil.

Unlike Frank Bascombe, who dreamed of being a successful novelist but found himself moored as a sportswriter, it's always been my dream to be sportswriter, more specifically, a beat writer for The Red Sox. Luckily for me, I'm not a successful novelist, nor poet, nor short fiction writer, nor sportswriter, so in words of Dr. Dylan, I ain't got nothin' to lose. Close your eyes.

Let's do an exercise in guided imagery. Bad cigars. Do you smell them? Beer breath with a whiskey bump. You still with me? A Taco Bell burrito in one hand as I try to slip my other hand up NESN's reporter Heidi Watney's (above) skirt, and she clubs me over the skull with her microphone and security cuffs me. Yeah. The sirens howling. Now we're cooking with gas.

Indulge me, friends. Allow me to believe, for the next six months, that I'm a real beat writer, feed my delusion. Be my co-dependent, bitch.

Starting tomorrow, I will begin my uncensored column titled "The Yankees Are the Reason So Many Red Sox fans have I.B.S." Join me tomorrow, friends, as I explain over the next 162 games, why Mark Texeira was always The Chosen One to complete the Ultimate Yankee Circle Jerk; and why Jason Giambi was WAY too straight for the likes of Jeter, Johnny "Bone Boy in Whirlpool" Damon, and Alex "I Cheat, Pop Roids and Throw My Family Under the Bus, Fuck Hookers AND Their Madams, and Still Find Time To Give My Boys in Pinstripes a Handjob" Rodriguez; and why any writer worth their lick should give a little bit of love to the game of baseball.

Help me, friends. Make me feel like a sportswriter.

Happy Steak and Blowjob Day!

One of my good friends, who consistently feeds me fodder for these blog posts, kindly called to my attention that tomorrow is Steak and Blowjob Day, a day in which the man in a relationship is celebrated, as opposed to Valentine's Day, which is exactly one month earlier.

Ladies, be sure to let the man in your life know that you love him by buying/making him a juicy steak and giving him a nice, slow blowjob on March 14.

Wow! Steak and Blowjob Day three days before St. Patty's Day*. Pinch me. I must be dreaming.

(Note on St. Patty's Day: Although it is undeniably another amateur hour for drinkers, along with New Year's Eve and Cinco De Mayo, there's something about having a Guinness or ten on St. Patty's Day that is, dare I say, sentimental.)

Just because.

I hear you, Jerry. Amen, brother.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-Roid!

Let me just say, I could not be HAPPIER with today's developments involving A-Roid and his cheating ways (no comment about his wife or Madonna). This ass-dolphin, who admittedly is the best statistical player in the game, has now proven himself a choker, a cheater, and a pussy---let's not forget his little bitch-slap at Bronson Arroyo while running down the first-base line in the 2004 ALCS. And to all of you who are about to say, "Well, the Sox wanted him pretty bad and would've had him if not for Bud Selig," fuck off. They didn't get him, or Madonna, and Tek smacked him around like a red-headed stepkid in the game that turned the season around for the Sox in '04.

So allow me to summarize the Spankees:

1. A-Rod: cheater/choker.

2. Andy Pettite: cheater

3. Roger Clemens: cheater/World's Biggest Asshole

4. Jeter: gay

5. Jason Giambi: cheater

6. The New York Yankees: MLB's biggest payroll since 2001; number of World Series titles: zippo, nada, the goose egg, zilch.

So may Mark Texiera come down with anal warts, may CC Sabathia gain so much weight munching on pizza slices that he can't maneuver without the help of a forklift, and may Cheater/A-Roid/Ass-Dolphin/Douche get everything he deserves and then some when he steps in Fenway for the first time in 2009. Amen.

Chinese Democracy

Let me preface this by saying that I am entirely unqualified to write critically abut music. Other than the very limited ability to string together a couple of chords and cough out "Smoke on the Water" on the guitar, I have no redeemable music intelligence or the acumen necessary to talk intelligently about music. However, in listening time as an adolescent alone, I feel like I can chime in with something that resembles a reasonable thought when it comes to Guns N' Roses. From the ages of 14-17, most of my free time was spent listening to G N' R and banging my forehead against the nearest solid object.

Plus, I'm not afraid to talk out my ass, which makes this job a helluva lot easier.

Like most people, I was skeptical about Chinese Democracy. I mean, we're talking about Axl Rose here, who is the ultimate variable. But I decided one night, while being sucked into the vortex which is the iTune Store (ninety-nine cents seems so cheap for music, until you realize you bought 178 songs), and I was feeling a little randy, so hell, I downloaded the CD.

Now, I shit you not, I think Chinese Democracy kicks ass. The first three tracks---the title song, "Shackler's Revenge," and, perhaps the best cut on the album, "Better"---rival Appetite and Use Your Illusion II for the kickoff to a G N' R album. Yes, I said it. "IRS" and "Prostitute" are exceptional "let-me-find-a-solid-object-and-bang-my-head-against at 33 years-old" tunes as well. On the whole, it's a good, solid album--lyrically and musically.

No, it's not your classic get wasted and drop the f-bomb at The Grammy's Guns N' Roses. This is far more produced than their earlier garage days, ripping songs a new ass. But it works. I guess that's the most articulate my dumb-ass can get. It works.

Kudos, Signor Rose. I'm sure my endorsement means a great deal to you. But seriously, dude, don't ever braid your hair in corn rows again. White people look like tools with corn rows, and you, Axl, are no exception.

Also, I have a new poem on the e-zine Gnome for anyone who might be interested. There's some really decent work on it. I was impressed.

Hair

Generally speaking, I regard the gratuitous posting of pictures of one's self on a blog as obnoxious---the natural extension for the person who once counted the number of pictures of their self that appeared in their high school yearbook. But since this is directly applicable to the content herein, I'm going to have break my rule.

Last night, my wife Liz and I decided that we'd make a New Year's resolution that was actually attainable. From this day forth, we are not going to cut our hair until 2010. If you're wondering, there is no real point to this, other than making a resolution that we stand a chance of keeping. Will we keep it? Who knows. But it seems more rational than saying, for example, I'm going to go to the gym every day or I'm quitting drugs.

So here, take a gander. Here are pictures of Liz and I, and our hair, on December, 31, 2008. Notice I'm scratching my chin. It must mean I'm thinking big literary thoughts because people who scratch their chins in pictures are always thinking big literary thoughts. And Liz has her head tossed back like a starlet because every woman who lives in Manchester, New Hampshire, is a starlet. Quite the handsome couple, eh?

Right now, caffeinated and brazen, I think we're going to actually do this. God speed, my friends. And God bless America.