"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring."
-- Rogers Hornsby
(111 days till pitchers and catchers report.)
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
All I Ever Needed To Know In Life I Learned From 3 White Boys From Brooklyn
"You've Got To Fight For Your Right To Parrrrrrrtaaaay....."
"Now Here's A Little Story I've Got To Tell...."
"It's Sabotage..."
Everyone has their favorite. "License to Ill" and "Paul's Boutique" changed my life. In a retro-move, in attendance at a Beastie Boys concert last year, Mike D said something I took as truly prophetic (or as prophetic as one can seem when running around a stage as a 40 year old man yet still going by the moniker of "Boy"):
LIFE IS NOT A PARTY, IT'S A FUCKING PAGEANT.
I am not entirely sure what this actually means, but I like the sound of it. Apart from my fondness for the gratuitous use of the ever-ultra-utilitarian word "fuck," I like the idea of the fun, control, amusement, and a certain devil-may-care whimsical philosophy it implicitly ascribed to life. Or maybe I just like the idea of quoting Mike D, who when I had last seen the 'Boys in concert ten years prior had been far too busy lighting a bong on stage to spout proverbial wisdom, as my life guru. Beats citing Dr. Phil I s'pose.
In any event, I like the statement/anthem/mantra that is: LIFE IS NOT A PARTY, IT'S A FUCKING PAGEANT.
And in an attempt to pull myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and not let too much more in life pass me by, I am going to attempt to adopt it. It's my pageant, I get to wear the crown. Nothing like a bling filled tiara to make a girl feel better.
Anyway, no promises about overnight improvement. Right now these are just nice, well ordered words that I have arranged in a convenient pattern hopefully approximating a positive personal roadmap to point myself in the direction of "better." But I am going to try. Harder.
So till I think of more original things to write about, I think I may take on the oft-done, cyber-space cliche, but sometimes interesting if done right concept of 100 THINGS ABOUT ME (likely broken out into a number of segments). Let's see if I have enough information to actually say 100 different things about myself:
(100) I had wanted to be a lawyer since I was in the fourth grade when I first saw an episode of L.A. Law. My lawyerly life has in no way resembled L.A. Law - as my life has involved a lot less sex, a lot less time in the court room, and a lot more paper. This (well, except for the sex part - which we do not discuss for fear, actually, rather for certainty, that one of us would assuredly burst into flames) has long disappointed my mother to no end.
(99) I have wanted to stop being a lawyer for the last 4 years.
(98) I have been a lawyer for a total 4 years.
(97) My mother says that I may go on to do other things in life, but regardless, I will always be a lawyer.
(96) I hate it when she says that.
(95) She is right. (I hate that too.)
(94) I should stop listening to my mother, as this is the woman who, when I came home from college at the tender age of 19, sat me down and very quietly and very sweetly told me it would be okay if I used a sperm bank when I decided to have kids. This was the beginning of an on-going semi-schizoprenic no-confidence vote/"by any means necessary" campaign for grandchildren directed solely at me.
(93) The irony of the fact that my mom has openly discussed and encouraged me becoming an sBanker, when we cannot openly discuss the act of having sex for any reason is not lost on me. Indecent acts with a turkey baster she is apparently okay with, but ravaging by an actual man not so much.
(92) Additional irony: Throughout the BAMN Campaign with (against?) me, my mom has on varying occasions handed my siblings condoms.
(91) I am knowledgeable about most every sport (except hockey), and enjoy nearly all of them (though I still don't buy NASCAR is a real sport, see #90 below, as I have lived in CA and sat in traffic far too long in my life to tolerate watching cars drive around in a circle for hours) but (as is obvious to anyone who speaks with me for more than 2 minutes) I love baseball. Love, nothing less. Love, like I love my family and my friends. Love, like rockets and daisies and blue birds singing love. Fall down, carzy, truly madly deeply love. Baseball breaks my heart and always, always makes me happy.
(90) I believe that what separates "sport" from "hobby" and/or "gentleman's endeavor" is one thing: Sweat. So using this highly technical criteria, baseball, football, basketball, hockey, these are all sports. Bowling, fishing, NASCAR not so much. Now, there are a lot of grey area leisure activities (most of which are featured on ESPN2): Woodchopping, World's Strongest Man (which I can never seem to turn away from - I love it when they pull the RR cars etc), and Golf. Yes, the last one will be controversial. I know. Bring it. I'm ready.
(89) I lived across the hall from a major league assistant GM in college. Well, he wasn't an assistant GM then, but he was very nice nonetheless. I was not an assistant GM, either then or now, though I am now just as old as the youngest GM.
(89) As much as I love sports generally, I have never participated in a team sport. Well, I had one ill-fated JV season of cross-country, but that's not really a team sport per se.
(88) No team sports because no coordination. During said season of cross country, fell repeatedly - bleeding, scarring. My knees are still a fright. Walking down the street last year, fell once - bleeding, scarring. The scar under my chin from the stitches is still a fright.
(89) Things I did when I was a kid that I have long forgotten: I was a girl scout (but always so bad at selling cookies, though very good at eating them); I used to take riding lessons (couldn't walk down the street without falling on my face, but wrangling a 2000 lb animal over an obstacle course of jumps, apparently not a problem); I was on Romper Room twice (even at the tender age of 4 my genius was evident: Miss Nancy asked us to balance baskets on our heads, we all managed it - but I was really good, bobbing and weaving and running around without it falling off - of couse, it might have been more challenging had I not been wearing the bowl open-side down on my head. Fantastic!); I gave up hot dogs in the 4th grade (in an unfortunate confluence of events made the day that we studied the Donner Party the same day I found a seed in my hot dog on Hot Dog day); I was in chorus/drama for years (it took me that long to discover that loud does not necessarily mean in-tune, and "drama queen" isn't quite the same thing as gifted thespian.)
(88) I have been on The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Jenny Jones Show, and The Jerry Springer Show - as an audience member, asking a question, not as a guest. Really.
(87) I tried out for a reality show a couple years ago. 3 guesses as to which one. Okay: Dream Job on ESPN. Didn't make it, but it was fun. Worth the 3 hours of waiting around, just to say I did it. My regret: I missed the Pedro/Zim throw down because of it though.
(86) I love nearly every vegetable - even the beleaguered brussel sprout - but I just can't tolerate beets. Can't even look at them. Ick.
(85) The only thing worse than beets? Mayonnaise. The most vile food product on the face of the earth.
(84) I was in love with my boy-best friend - he of the one blue and one brown eye, both with those long, long lashes - from the day I met him when I was the tender age of 10 till I was 21. Sweet, pure, devoted and unrequited love. I still love him to this day, and, surprising as it may be, he loves me too. But neither of us loves the other "that way." And it is lovely. And it is better. Though sometimes, in the quiet moments, I do miss loving him that way - I was so much more innocent then.
(83) Ultimately a graduate of the Naval Academy, he may be the reason for my military, er, pattern. (You say "fetish", I say "doing my part for the war effort"...)
(82) My favorite book: 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
(81) I started Don Quixote (by Cervantes) in the 5th grade. I still haven't finished it. And I don't even have the excuse of having tried to read it in spanish.
(80) Officially, I am bilingual. At least that is how it translates to paper. In real life, my mother speaks to me in spanish and I respond in english. I can respond in spanish, but it is slow and halting and I hate the way my accent sounds. I can't get past having to think my thoughts and english and then needing to translate them into spanish, thus slowing the whole process down. My vocabulary in english is also, just a bit, larger. So yes, I guess when I say my mother and I don't speak the same language, it's true. We actually don't. Though to be fair, that has never been the issue though. It wasn't till I was 16 that I even realized she did it. Her accent gets thicker when my friends are around. I could never figure out why, and then when I was 16 it dawned on me: It is because she speaks in english when they are around so that they don't feel left out of the conversation. Hence the thicker accent. Ah ha...
(79) My dad doesn't speak a word of spanish - even after nearly 30 years of marriage to my mother. She is unconcerned about speaking in spanish around him. And he is apparently unconcerned about trying to understand. He claims to be proficient in his own kind of pidgin' spanish - he simply adds "-ito" and "-ita" to every word. "Can you hand me the remote cotnrol-ito?" "Did you shut off the light-ita?" And so on and so forth...
(78) I love men who can speak spanish, or french, or some other foreign language; however, not so attracted to european men (as seems to be a preference of a lot of my college girlfriends who are all dating or married to Brits). Not sure why. Maybe I just don't identify with Madonna and Gwyneth due to my inherent non-blondness?
(77) I am a nervous flier. But I fly all the time. Or I used to. Take-offs are the hardest; landings not such a big deal. Turbulence: The worst. Ever. [Eerily, this seems to be my general approach to life as well]
(76) I grew up in CA, so I grew up thinking that "So how's the weather?" was code for boring conversation. My 7 year stint on the East Coast and in the Midwest, taught me how wrong I was. One can legitimately have an engrossing 45 minute conversation on the weather. The best job in the world is weather person in CA. Weather-people in CA get the weather report wrong half the time (that is being generous) and no one cares. No one pays attention. Everyone expects them to be wrong. Were that to happen on the East Coast or in Chicago, that person would be out of a job. There would be riots in the street. It is a life and death matter. Here, it's just an "eh, I guess I should have worn a cardigan, oh well" thing. My seven years ruined me though, I still compulsively watch (and believe) the weather report. Damnit.
(75) I miss the Fall. And when I say that to people out here, no one knows what I am talking about.
Okay... 25 is enough for today - for all involved. Am toddling off to bed. More another day.
"Now Here's A Little Story I've Got To Tell...."
"It's Sabotage..."
Everyone has their favorite. "License to Ill" and "Paul's Boutique" changed my life. In a retro-move, in attendance at a Beastie Boys concert last year, Mike D said something I took as truly prophetic (or as prophetic as one can seem when running around a stage as a 40 year old man yet still going by the moniker of "Boy"):
LIFE IS NOT A PARTY, IT'S A FUCKING PAGEANT.
I am not entirely sure what this actually means, but I like the sound of it. Apart from my fondness for the gratuitous use of the ever-ultra-utilitarian word "fuck," I like the idea of the fun, control, amusement, and a certain devil-may-care whimsical philosophy it implicitly ascribed to life. Or maybe I just like the idea of quoting Mike D, who when I had last seen the 'Boys in concert ten years prior had been far too busy lighting a bong on stage to spout proverbial wisdom, as my life guru. Beats citing Dr. Phil I s'pose.
In any event, I like the statement/anthem/mantra that is: LIFE IS NOT A PARTY, IT'S A FUCKING PAGEANT.
And in an attempt to pull myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and not let too much more in life pass me by, I am going to attempt to adopt it. It's my pageant, I get to wear the crown. Nothing like a bling filled tiara to make a girl feel better.
Anyway, no promises about overnight improvement. Right now these are just nice, well ordered words that I have arranged in a convenient pattern hopefully approximating a positive personal roadmap to point myself in the direction of "better." But I am going to try. Harder.
So till I think of more original things to write about, I think I may take on the oft-done, cyber-space cliche, but sometimes interesting if done right concept of 100 THINGS ABOUT ME (likely broken out into a number of segments). Let's see if I have enough information to actually say 100 different things about myself:
(100) I had wanted to be a lawyer since I was in the fourth grade when I first saw an episode of L.A. Law. My lawyerly life has in no way resembled L.A. Law - as my life has involved a lot less sex, a lot less time in the court room, and a lot more paper. This (well, except for the sex part - which we do not discuss for fear, actually, rather for certainty, that one of us would assuredly burst into flames) has long disappointed my mother to no end.
(99) I have wanted to stop being a lawyer for the last 4 years.
(98) I have been a lawyer for a total 4 years.
(97) My mother says that I may go on to do other things in life, but regardless, I will always be a lawyer.
(96) I hate it when she says that.
(95) She is right. (I hate that too.)
(94) I should stop listening to my mother, as this is the woman who, when I came home from college at the tender age of 19, sat me down and very quietly and very sweetly told me it would be okay if I used a sperm bank when I decided to have kids. This was the beginning of an on-going semi-schizoprenic no-confidence vote/"by any means necessary" campaign for grandchildren directed solely at me.
(93) The irony of the fact that my mom has openly discussed and encouraged me becoming an sBanker, when we cannot openly discuss the act of having sex for any reason is not lost on me. Indecent acts with a turkey baster she is apparently okay with, but ravaging by an actual man not so much.
(92) Additional irony: Throughout the BAMN Campaign with (against?) me, my mom has on varying occasions handed my siblings condoms.
(91) I am knowledgeable about most every sport (except hockey), and enjoy nearly all of them (though I still don't buy NASCAR is a real sport, see #90 below, as I have lived in CA and sat in traffic far too long in my life to tolerate watching cars drive around in a circle for hours) but (as is obvious to anyone who speaks with me for more than 2 minutes) I love baseball. Love, nothing less. Love, like I love my family and my friends. Love, like rockets and daisies and blue birds singing love. Fall down, carzy, truly madly deeply love. Baseball breaks my heart and always, always makes me happy.
(90) I believe that what separates "sport" from "hobby" and/or "gentleman's endeavor" is one thing: Sweat. So using this highly technical criteria, baseball, football, basketball, hockey, these are all sports. Bowling, fishing, NASCAR not so much. Now, there are a lot of grey area leisure activities (most of which are featured on ESPN2): Woodchopping, World's Strongest Man (which I can never seem to turn away from - I love it when they pull the RR cars etc), and Golf. Yes, the last one will be controversial. I know. Bring it. I'm ready.
(89) I lived across the hall from a major league assistant GM in college. Well, he wasn't an assistant GM then, but he was very nice nonetheless. I was not an assistant GM, either then or now, though I am now just as old as the youngest GM.
(89) As much as I love sports generally, I have never participated in a team sport. Well, I had one ill-fated JV season of cross-country, but that's not really a team sport per se.
(88) No team sports because no coordination. During said season of cross country, fell repeatedly - bleeding, scarring. My knees are still a fright. Walking down the street last year, fell once - bleeding, scarring. The scar under my chin from the stitches is still a fright.
(89) Things I did when I was a kid that I have long forgotten: I was a girl scout (but always so bad at selling cookies, though very good at eating them); I used to take riding lessons (couldn't walk down the street without falling on my face, but wrangling a 2000 lb animal over an obstacle course of jumps, apparently not a problem); I was on Romper Room twice (even at the tender age of 4 my genius was evident: Miss Nancy asked us to balance baskets on our heads, we all managed it - but I was really good, bobbing and weaving and running around without it falling off - of couse, it might have been more challenging had I not been wearing the bowl open-side down on my head. Fantastic!); I gave up hot dogs in the 4th grade (in an unfortunate confluence of events made the day that we studied the Donner Party the same day I found a seed in my hot dog on Hot Dog day); I was in chorus/drama for years (it took me that long to discover that loud does not necessarily mean in-tune, and "drama queen" isn't quite the same thing as gifted thespian.)
(88) I have been on The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Jenny Jones Show, and The Jerry Springer Show - as an audience member, asking a question, not as a guest. Really.
(87) I tried out for a reality show a couple years ago. 3 guesses as to which one. Okay: Dream Job on ESPN. Didn't make it, but it was fun. Worth the 3 hours of waiting around, just to say I did it. My regret: I missed the Pedro/Zim throw down because of it though.
(86) I love nearly every vegetable - even the beleaguered brussel sprout - but I just can't tolerate beets. Can't even look at them. Ick.
(85) The only thing worse than beets? Mayonnaise. The most vile food product on the face of the earth.
(84) I was in love with my boy-best friend - he of the one blue and one brown eye, both with those long, long lashes - from the day I met him when I was the tender age of 10 till I was 21. Sweet, pure, devoted and unrequited love. I still love him to this day, and, surprising as it may be, he loves me too. But neither of us loves the other "that way." And it is lovely. And it is better. Though sometimes, in the quiet moments, I do miss loving him that way - I was so much more innocent then.
(83) Ultimately a graduate of the Naval Academy, he may be the reason for my military, er, pattern. (You say "fetish", I say "doing my part for the war effort"...)
(82) My favorite book: 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
(81) I started Don Quixote (by Cervantes) in the 5th grade. I still haven't finished it. And I don't even have the excuse of having tried to read it in spanish.
(80) Officially, I am bilingual. At least that is how it translates to paper. In real life, my mother speaks to me in spanish and I respond in english. I can respond in spanish, but it is slow and halting and I hate the way my accent sounds. I can't get past having to think my thoughts and english and then needing to translate them into spanish, thus slowing the whole process down. My vocabulary in english is also, just a bit, larger. So yes, I guess when I say my mother and I don't speak the same language, it's true. We actually don't. Though to be fair, that has never been the issue though. It wasn't till I was 16 that I even realized she did it. Her accent gets thicker when my friends are around. I could never figure out why, and then when I was 16 it dawned on me: It is because she speaks in english when they are around so that they don't feel left out of the conversation. Hence the thicker accent. Ah ha...
(79) My dad doesn't speak a word of spanish - even after nearly 30 years of marriage to my mother. She is unconcerned about speaking in spanish around him. And he is apparently unconcerned about trying to understand. He claims to be proficient in his own kind of pidgin' spanish - he simply adds "-ito" and "-ita" to every word. "Can you hand me the remote cotnrol-ito?" "Did you shut off the light-ita?" And so on and so forth...
(78) I love men who can speak spanish, or french, or some other foreign language; however, not so attracted to european men (as seems to be a preference of a lot of my college girlfriends who are all dating or married to Brits). Not sure why. Maybe I just don't identify with Madonna and Gwyneth due to my inherent non-blondness?
(77) I am a nervous flier. But I fly all the time. Or I used to. Take-offs are the hardest; landings not such a big deal. Turbulence: The worst. Ever. [Eerily, this seems to be my general approach to life as well]
(76) I grew up in CA, so I grew up thinking that "So how's the weather?" was code for boring conversation. My 7 year stint on the East Coast and in the Midwest, taught me how wrong I was. One can legitimately have an engrossing 45 minute conversation on the weather. The best job in the world is weather person in CA. Weather-people in CA get the weather report wrong half the time (that is being generous) and no one cares. No one pays attention. Everyone expects them to be wrong. Were that to happen on the East Coast or in Chicago, that person would be out of a job. There would be riots in the street. It is a life and death matter. Here, it's just an "eh, I guess I should have worn a cardigan, oh well" thing. My seven years ruined me though, I still compulsively watch (and believe) the weather report. Damnit.
(75) I miss the Fall. And when I say that to people out here, no one knows what I am talking about.
Okay... 25 is enough for today - for all involved. Am toddling off to bed. More another day.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Odds, Even More Odds & Ends
I have been a neglectful (is that a word?) correspondent as of late. I have no adequate excuse, and I am not sure that this post will even begin to make up for my having been so remiss as of late.
Some random thoughts:
* The Rally Monkey is Dead, Long Live The Ralley Monkey: M. Scioscia has cried his last crocodile tear; F. Rod (as I refuse to call him K. Rod, as that is not his name) has made his last monkey face and ridiculous gesticulation at the sky, Chone Figgins has had his last situation this year where announcers acknowledged his sadly misspelled name as "Shawn" as opposed to "Chone" as it is spelled; the L.A. Times will go back to acknowledging the true L.A. team (the Dodgers, NL West member as they may be).... Congrats White Sox! Though, I think I may have to root NL, if the Astros manage to follow through. I am not sure why. Maybe it is b/c each member of the team has enough facial hair that they all look alike and I feel I must root along with the most fraternal bond. Maybe it is because they have never been to the biggest dance of all. Maybe it is just the "Field of Dreams" factor (as apparently R. Clemens' mom uttered "Shoeless Joe Jackson" 3 separate times on her deathbed... it is destiny, what can I say?). Or maybe it is because I have such a twisted obsession w/ Brad Lidge. Dunno, not sure. Will have to reassess, reconvene and reassert after the season, I think. Till then, just doing my best to revel in the buoyancy of Oct baseball, even when I have no real emotional stake in the participants at this point.
* AJ Pyrzienski: What a fantastic hero/villain - it couldn't have been scripted any better! (NOTE: He looks very much like a doughy Bill Murray, yes?)
* TomKat: I have been silent as to the TomKitten, and for this I profusely apologize. In my absence however, Mallory of Media Gadfly has captured the moment better than I ever could, check it out. One note, not funny and/or amusing, just true - I have now entirely forgotten when I thought Tom Cruise was hot. This belief rounded out the foundation of most of my adolescence and yet, I can't even imagine even vaguely believeing it to be true. At least not now. My how things change. Hope that sperm donor of KH's was short, or else there will be lots of 'splaining to do to the general public once the baby is (silently! ha!) birthed.
* Orlando Bloom: He looks like a woman - he is not sexy! 'Nuff said.
* Huston Street: Love him. Just had my attention turned to his "Hot 10" pic in ESPN,mag. OMG. Desperately wishing I was 6 years younger. Yummy....
* Non-Baseball Fans To Whom Many of The Above References Mean Nothing: You are missing out on a fulfilling sport, poetry in motion, action that bespeaks the intractable beliefs of the soul. Or if nothing else, a whole lot of eye candy. Either way, there is a hole in your consciousness you are unaware of. If you want a tutorial on America's Pastime, I am more than happy to help...
* While There May Be No Crying In Bsaeball, There Is Crying In Law Firms: There has been much made as of late in number of major publications about women crying in the workplace: some say good (a revolution of the new millenium); some say bad (it betrays instability, weakness, and a general air of being pathetic). My take: Fuck'em. I have cried in my office more times than I can count. I have teared up, welled up, silently sobbed in front of the powers that be in my life, more than I care to mention. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. Was a fact of life. And so, much like the unavoidable spring rains, the tears came, And they went. And I am still here. And I would do it again. The job sucks. It is stressful. It is distressing. It is tiring. I had to cry. Apparently, they haven't, even in the face of a discharge of saltwater, seen fit to fire me yet. And so it goes. I do not know of any other woman who is working who had *not* cried in the workplace. It is just the way it is. And I resent any article that tries to make any of these fine women feel less than for feeling the way they feel or acting the way they must act.
* And the other stuff: I have had a hard time writing lately because I have been in a position where I am not feeling a lot one way or the other. Not in a pleasantly numb way, but rather in a "I can't muster the energy to get fired up about this one way or another" way. Inside of me somewhere, I am hopeful that a smart, funny, interesting, not painful to be around person lurks, but for the past year, that person has not readily made themselves available. And as such, in the quiet moments, I begin to doubt that she exists, and thus all that is left is a bundle of nerves and a disconcertingly negative outlook on life. Nothing anyone of decent values wants to be around. And I worry that I will never be normal, that I will never approximate normal, and that the rest of my life will me marked by the pain that it is to be broken, irrevocably. How does this person contribute to a life where it is of the utmost importance to be sensitive and to be on one's best behavior? The answer: She doesn't. The favor she does is to be as low profile and unobtrusive as possible.
Some random thoughts:
* The Rally Monkey is Dead, Long Live The Ralley Monkey: M. Scioscia has cried his last crocodile tear; F. Rod (as I refuse to call him K. Rod, as that is not his name) has made his last monkey face and ridiculous gesticulation at the sky, Chone Figgins has had his last situation this year where announcers acknowledged his sadly misspelled name as "Shawn" as opposed to "Chone" as it is spelled; the L.A. Times will go back to acknowledging the true L.A. team (the Dodgers, NL West member as they may be).... Congrats White Sox! Though, I think I may have to root NL, if the Astros manage to follow through. I am not sure why. Maybe it is b/c each member of the team has enough facial hair that they all look alike and I feel I must root along with the most fraternal bond. Maybe it is because they have never been to the biggest dance of all. Maybe it is just the "Field of Dreams" factor (as apparently R. Clemens' mom uttered "Shoeless Joe Jackson" 3 separate times on her deathbed... it is destiny, what can I say?). Or maybe it is because I have such a twisted obsession w/ Brad Lidge. Dunno, not sure. Will have to reassess, reconvene and reassert after the season, I think. Till then, just doing my best to revel in the buoyancy of Oct baseball, even when I have no real emotional stake in the participants at this point.
* AJ Pyrzienski: What a fantastic hero/villain - it couldn't have been scripted any better! (NOTE: He looks very much like a doughy Bill Murray, yes?)
* TomKat: I have been silent as to the TomKitten, and for this I profusely apologize. In my absence however, Mallory of Media Gadfly has captured the moment better than I ever could, check it out. One note, not funny and/or amusing, just true - I have now entirely forgotten when I thought Tom Cruise was hot. This belief rounded out the foundation of most of my adolescence and yet, I can't even imagine even vaguely believeing it to be true. At least not now. My how things change. Hope that sperm donor of KH's was short, or else there will be lots of 'splaining to do to the general public once the baby is (silently! ha!) birthed.
* Orlando Bloom: He looks like a woman - he is not sexy! 'Nuff said.
* Huston Street: Love him. Just had my attention turned to his "Hot 10" pic in ESPN,mag. OMG. Desperately wishing I was 6 years younger. Yummy....
* Non-Baseball Fans To Whom Many of The Above References Mean Nothing: You are missing out on a fulfilling sport, poetry in motion, action that bespeaks the intractable beliefs of the soul. Or if nothing else, a whole lot of eye candy. Either way, there is a hole in your consciousness you are unaware of. If you want a tutorial on America's Pastime, I am more than happy to help...
* While There May Be No Crying In Bsaeball, There Is Crying In Law Firms: There has been much made as of late in number of major publications about women crying in the workplace: some say good (a revolution of the new millenium); some say bad (it betrays instability, weakness, and a general air of being pathetic). My take: Fuck'em. I have cried in my office more times than I can count. I have teared up, welled up, silently sobbed in front of the powers that be in my life, more than I care to mention. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. Was a fact of life. And so, much like the unavoidable spring rains, the tears came, And they went. And I am still here. And I would do it again. The job sucks. It is stressful. It is distressing. It is tiring. I had to cry. Apparently, they haven't, even in the face of a discharge of saltwater, seen fit to fire me yet. And so it goes. I do not know of any other woman who is working who had *not* cried in the workplace. It is just the way it is. And I resent any article that tries to make any of these fine women feel less than for feeling the way they feel or acting the way they must act.
* And the other stuff: I have had a hard time writing lately because I have been in a position where I am not feeling a lot one way or the other. Not in a pleasantly numb way, but rather in a "I can't muster the energy to get fired up about this one way or another" way. Inside of me somewhere, I am hopeful that a smart, funny, interesting, not painful to be around person lurks, but for the past year, that person has not readily made themselves available. And as such, in the quiet moments, I begin to doubt that she exists, and thus all that is left is a bundle of nerves and a disconcertingly negative outlook on life. Nothing anyone of decent values wants to be around. And I worry that I will never be normal, that I will never approximate normal, and that the rest of my life will me marked by the pain that it is to be broken, irrevocably. How does this person contribute to a life where it is of the utmost importance to be sensitive and to be on one's best behavior? The answer: She doesn't. The favor she does is to be as low profile and unobtrusive as possible.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Excuse Me, Do I Know You?
I sent an e-mail to friend - my roommate from college actually - recently, trying to explain myself. Needless to say it was a lengthy missive; sprawling, rambling and disjointed (much like the author herself). At best a middling effort as Sysephian-task.
It did however engender a very sweet response, which I won't post here (as I don't have the permission of the author and it is so full of personalized references it wouldn't be of much interest to anyone outside of our circle of two anyway). This thoughtful reply was punctuated with a quote, as has been, over the last decade that I have known her, the way of the reply's author. She is always collecting quotes and including them in her communications on an "as necessary" basis. This situation was both no exception and apparently "as necessary."
The quote is, as follows:
"Your worth and mine lie within ourselves. It is infinite and it is reliable. It is the only thing in this world that is truly so...Wherever you are, whenever you need me, I will be there to remind you to look toward the light; not mine, but your own. You have more power, strength, character, integrity and beauty both inside and out than you realize."
Not too terrible. It is the kind of modern-day-self-actualizing-reworking of Eleanor Rooseveltian sensibilities-type of quote that was appropos to the situation and which the reply's author favors.
But what struck me more was the reality of the line of the reply which followed:
"You wrote that to me seven years ago on August 29, 1998."
And the more sage advice which followed that:
"READ IT OUT LOUD."
Did I ever really believe such things? I must have. I never would have written it otherwise. I certainly would not have included myself in the mix without some purpose. My worth is within? It is infinite? It is reliable? Well, it is definitely cheesy. The ramblings of mad-twenty year old, a fresh faced novice to the world.
But still, I am left wondering. Did I actually believe at one time that I actually had worth? And that it was the most valuable possession I had? Really?
It just seems so inconceivable. But there seems to be so much certainty, so much conviction in those words.
If it was true, could it be so again?
Could it ever be said out loud?
It did however engender a very sweet response, which I won't post here (as I don't have the permission of the author and it is so full of personalized references it wouldn't be of much interest to anyone outside of our circle of two anyway). This thoughtful reply was punctuated with a quote, as has been, over the last decade that I have known her, the way of the reply's author. She is always collecting quotes and including them in her communications on an "as necessary" basis. This situation was both no exception and apparently "as necessary."
The quote is, as follows:
"Your worth and mine lie within ourselves. It is infinite and it is reliable. It is the only thing in this world that is truly so...Wherever you are, whenever you need me, I will be there to remind you to look toward the light; not mine, but your own. You have more power, strength, character, integrity and beauty both inside and out than you realize."
Not too terrible. It is the kind of modern-day-self-actualizing-reworking of Eleanor Rooseveltian sensibilities-type of quote that was appropos to the situation and which the reply's author favors.
But what struck me more was the reality of the line of the reply which followed:
"You wrote that to me seven years ago on August 29, 1998."
And the more sage advice which followed that:
"READ IT OUT LOUD."
Did I ever really believe such things? I must have. I never would have written it otherwise. I certainly would not have included myself in the mix without some purpose. My worth is within? It is infinite? It is reliable? Well, it is definitely cheesy. The ramblings of mad-twenty year old, a fresh faced novice to the world.
But still, I am left wondering. Did I actually believe at one time that I actually had worth? And that it was the most valuable possession I had? Really?
It just seems so inconceivable. But there seems to be so much certainty, so much conviction in those words.
If it was true, could it be so again?
Could it ever be said out loud?
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Red Alert
We interrupt this spiral of angst, self pity, and general kvetching about my Thursday to bring you the following late breaking (only because I missed it by about 40 days... oh and did you know that we now know who Deep Throat is?) update:
Has anyone seen this man?
Or more importantly has anyone seen this woman?
I don't know how I possibly missed it, but she is ba-a-ack…. Yes, indeed, I am talking about MissAlyssa (if you say it three times fast, it sounds like a bad skin condition. "This summer heat is really making my MissAlyssa act up…" And apparently it is...) has emerged like clockwork for her yearly feeding upon soft, squishy, defenseless late-20's major league prey. Almost a year to the day when she ensnared her last helpless prey -- Barry Zito, and left him not-quite right till after the All-Star break this year -- and nearly 2 years since she devoured her first victim -- Carl Pavano, who was so debilitated (they say it was shoulder tendinitis, be we know the truth)he has retreated to DL perchance never to return again -- she has struck again.
Her latest victim, er, boyfriend: Brad Penny, pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers, whom she has apparently been feeding upon, er, dating, since August 26, 2005.
My god, hasn't there been enough carnage?
Can't something be done?
Someone has got to stop the madness.
But how? The danger is so great; her powers are so strong.
I am left shaking my head, partially in bewilderment; but mostly in fear. When she has had her fill with the hapless Mr. Penny and moved on to fresher meat, who might be next? My beloved Huston Street? The utterly lickable Mark Mulder?
It is hair-raising.
And so, as a means of comfort, more than anything else, I embark on the only defensive measure I can muster: Deductive reasoning. Maybe if we can ascribe a method to her madness we can save her next victim from certain disaster.
Where to start?
The obvious:
She likes pitchers: Pavano, Zito and Penny all falling in this category. Particularly favored dexterity is not an issue: Pavano and Penny being righties, Barry being a southpaw. But can we be sure that she is only limiting herself to number 1 on the field of play? Is she perhaps a closet fan of battery mates? Do we need to warn Brian McCann to travel under an assumed name and wear the catcher's mask after hours as well, simply as means of protection? Hmmm, interesting.... but perhaps not...
Further, it appears she targets those who are just old enough to remember the tail end of original run Who's the Boss when she was at the height of her "Kiss of the Spiderwoman" like powers, and who are yet old enough to avoid her having to explain herself to the authorities. So it seems the 26 to 28 year old age group are what she considers "ripe for the pickin.'" So it appears that both the aforementioned Mr. McCann, as well as the beloved Huston, and (at the opposite end of the spectrum, the never mentioned, aged and always mullet-evocative) Randy Johnson are quite safe. For now.
She also likes them tall: 6'4" or above (at least as listed on ESPN, so that makes them at least 6"0'): Pavano (6'5"); Zito (6'4"); Penny (6'4"). So we can cross Huddy off of the list it seems.
Likewise, I have determined that with this latest addition of Mr. Penny to her list of conquests, Mulder is safe, if only because filthy-on diamond-nails-lights out-gutsy pitching performance (for her to foil with her evil feminine wiles) is apparently not a prerequisite for attracting her attentions. Prior to meeting MissAlyssa, Mr. Pavano, had moments of brilliance and a good enough season to warrant a fat Yankees contract (though given the signing of Jaret Wright at the same time, that may not be saying much). Likewise, Mr. Zito, though plagued by troubles in the couple of years following (some of which are attributable to his sensitive nature and his thinking too much, but most of the fault which lies with his being subject to the Curse of Milano), is a former Cy Young winner (though this may not be saying much either if Sideshow Bartolo wins the trophy this year). Mr. Penny, on the other hand, is a .500 pitcher whose career can most generously be said to be characterized by reliably middling performances sometimes punctuated by flashes of mediocrity.
The less obvious:
While one may have posited at one point that maybe she had a thing for Italian pitchers (Srs. Pavano and Zito), Mr. Penny, a poster child for, well, all things not european, of Broken Arrow, OK origins, appears to break this pattern. Perhaps, she is moving on to people who hale from the same hometown as ANTM runner's ups? Maybe this is MissAlyssa's desperate bid to get some face time with Kahlen, runner up to ANTM 4 so she can find out what Tyra is "really like."
Another theory may be that perhaps Zito was an anomaly, and that in fact she just has a thing for Marlins pitchers - present and/or former (Pavano and Penny). Do we need to get the word out to the D-Train to be on the look out? Not quite so fast.
Maybe it is an even subtler, more insidious connection: A six degrees of Paul DePodesta link. Zito was signed by the A's when DePodesta was the Assistant GM there, largely on the strength of DePosdesta's recommendation. Penny, was similarly brought over from the Marlins and last year signed to an extension by whom, Paul DePodesta (now GM for the Dodgers). Ah, but once again, it is a theory that leaves one mugging victim unaccounted for.
Maybe quirkiness is the answer. Zito is well characterized as a "flake," or rather "a sensitive soul who is continually hurt by his characterization as a 'flake' in the media." I love Barry, don't get me wrong, but I have never actually seen him described as a flake, I have only seen that latter more lengthy and flattering usage/description of the term in connection with him. Ah Barry and the media: You say media whore, I say friendly and accessible. Either way, he also openly describes himself as an avid yoga and meditation enthusiast, and a big fan of Jon Mayer's (whom he apparently invokes quite frequently in his performances with his sister's band The Sally Zito Project). Not that there is anything wrong with any of these things, there isn't. It is simply, unusual, to find such characteristics in a big league pitcher. (Then again, I was surprised to find out that Dontrelle Willis watches Troy before every start he makes. I don't know if I was more shocked to learn that anyone has seen that movie multiple times, or that anyone has seen it at all). Penny, of course, quirky claim to fame is having dared (read: coerced) a Florida Marlins batboy into drinking a whole gallon of milk at one sitting, which resulted in the batboy throwing up and the Marlins suspending him. Worked out okay: He got to make a Letterman appearance. No word on if Penny ever paid up on the $500 he owed the kid. Well, I am not sure if that whole incident qualifies as quirky, but it is definitely classy, with a capital "C". Pavano, however, appears to be the missing link here too. No word on any quirks or unusual habits from the Pavano camp. Then again, if George Steinbrenner were my boss, then I guess low-profile would be my modus operandi as well.
The Shallow:
So maybe she is just into hot MLB pitchers. Other than what spending time in her "good graces" does to their pitching performance, I can't fault her for that. However, this theory doesn't fly either. Say what you will about Pavano and Zito - they can both tend to be very Monet, and Zito himself will cop early and often, on national TV no less, to having "child bearing hips" - but they are at least decent looking guys and on good days, they can be head turning. Penny is ... well, it can be put one of three ways: The kinder way - That picture appended to the beginning of this post was, in fact, the best picture I could find of Penny; The less kind way: He is a dead ringer for Abraham Benrubi ("Jerry" from ER); The "Oooh, CLC is such a bitch" way: Damn, he is uuuug-leee!!
Eureka, I've got it!!!
Given all of the above, perhaps we can interest her in a position player of indeterminate species upon whom she may feel free to unleash her curse? He digs curses.
Has anyone seen this man?
Or more importantly has anyone seen this woman?
I don't know how I possibly missed it, but she is ba-a-ack…. Yes, indeed, I am talking about MissAlyssa (if you say it three times fast, it sounds like a bad skin condition. "This summer heat is really making my MissAlyssa act up…" And apparently it is...) has emerged like clockwork for her yearly feeding upon soft, squishy, defenseless late-20's major league prey. Almost a year to the day when she ensnared her last helpless prey -- Barry Zito, and left him not-quite right till after the All-Star break this year -- and nearly 2 years since she devoured her first victim -- Carl Pavano, who was so debilitated (they say it was shoulder tendinitis, be we know the truth)he has retreated to DL perchance never to return again -- she has struck again.
Her latest victim, er, boyfriend: Brad Penny, pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers, whom she has apparently been feeding upon, er, dating, since August 26, 2005.
My god, hasn't there been enough carnage?
Can't something be done?
Someone has got to stop the madness.
But how? The danger is so great; her powers are so strong.
I am left shaking my head, partially in bewilderment; but mostly in fear. When she has had her fill with the hapless Mr. Penny and moved on to fresher meat, who might be next? My beloved Huston Street? The utterly lickable Mark Mulder?
It is hair-raising.
And so, as a means of comfort, more than anything else, I embark on the only defensive measure I can muster: Deductive reasoning. Maybe if we can ascribe a method to her madness we can save her next victim from certain disaster.
Where to start?
The obvious:
She likes pitchers: Pavano, Zito and Penny all falling in this category. Particularly favored dexterity is not an issue: Pavano and Penny being righties, Barry being a southpaw. But can we be sure that she is only limiting herself to number 1 on the field of play? Is she perhaps a closet fan of battery mates? Do we need to warn Brian McCann to travel under an assumed name and wear the catcher's mask after hours as well, simply as means of protection? Hmmm, interesting.... but perhaps not...
Further, it appears she targets those who are just old enough to remember the tail end of original run Who's the Boss when she was at the height of her "Kiss of the Spiderwoman" like powers, and who are yet old enough to avoid her having to explain herself to the authorities. So it seems the 26 to 28 year old age group are what she considers "ripe for the pickin.'" So it appears that both the aforementioned Mr. McCann, as well as the beloved Huston, and (at the opposite end of the spectrum, the never mentioned, aged and always mullet-evocative) Randy Johnson are quite safe. For now.
She also likes them tall: 6'4" or above (at least as listed on ESPN, so that makes them at least 6"0'): Pavano (6'5"); Zito (6'4"); Penny (6'4"). So we can cross Huddy off of the list it seems.
Likewise, I have determined that with this latest addition of Mr. Penny to her list of conquests, Mulder is safe, if only because filthy-on diamond-nails-lights out-gutsy pitching performance (for her to foil with her evil feminine wiles) is apparently not a prerequisite for attracting her attentions. Prior to meeting MissAlyssa, Mr. Pavano, had moments of brilliance and a good enough season to warrant a fat Yankees contract (though given the signing of Jaret Wright at the same time, that may not be saying much). Likewise, Mr. Zito, though plagued by troubles in the couple of years following (some of which are attributable to his sensitive nature and his thinking too much, but most of the fault which lies with his being subject to the Curse of Milano), is a former Cy Young winner (though this may not be saying much either if Sideshow Bartolo wins the trophy this year). Mr. Penny, on the other hand, is a .500 pitcher whose career can most generously be said to be characterized by reliably middling performances sometimes punctuated by flashes of mediocrity.
The less obvious:
While one may have posited at one point that maybe she had a thing for Italian pitchers (Srs. Pavano and Zito), Mr. Penny, a poster child for, well, all things not european, of Broken Arrow, OK origins, appears to break this pattern. Perhaps, she is moving on to people who hale from the same hometown as ANTM runner's ups? Maybe this is MissAlyssa's desperate bid to get some face time with Kahlen, runner up to ANTM 4 so she can find out what Tyra is "really like."
Another theory may be that perhaps Zito was an anomaly, and that in fact she just has a thing for Marlins pitchers - present and/or former (Pavano and Penny). Do we need to get the word out to the D-Train to be on the look out? Not quite so fast.
Maybe it is an even subtler, more insidious connection: A six degrees of Paul DePodesta link. Zito was signed by the A's when DePodesta was the Assistant GM there, largely on the strength of DePosdesta's recommendation. Penny, was similarly brought over from the Marlins and last year signed to an extension by whom, Paul DePodesta (now GM for the Dodgers). Ah, but once again, it is a theory that leaves one mugging victim unaccounted for.
Maybe quirkiness is the answer. Zito is well characterized as a "flake," or rather "a sensitive soul who is continually hurt by his characterization as a 'flake' in the media." I love Barry, don't get me wrong, but I have never actually seen him described as a flake, I have only seen that latter more lengthy and flattering usage/description of the term in connection with him. Ah Barry and the media: You say media whore, I say friendly and accessible. Either way, he also openly describes himself as an avid yoga and meditation enthusiast, and a big fan of Jon Mayer's (whom he apparently invokes quite frequently in his performances with his sister's band The Sally Zito Project). Not that there is anything wrong with any of these things, there isn't. It is simply, unusual, to find such characteristics in a big league pitcher. (Then again, I was surprised to find out that Dontrelle Willis watches Troy before every start he makes. I don't know if I was more shocked to learn that anyone has seen that movie multiple times, or that anyone has seen it at all). Penny, of course, quirky claim to fame is having dared (read: coerced) a Florida Marlins batboy into drinking a whole gallon of milk at one sitting, which resulted in the batboy throwing up and the Marlins suspending him. Worked out okay: He got to make a Letterman appearance. No word on if Penny ever paid up on the $500 he owed the kid. Well, I am not sure if that whole incident qualifies as quirky, but it is definitely classy, with a capital "C". Pavano, however, appears to be the missing link here too. No word on any quirks or unusual habits from the Pavano camp. Then again, if George Steinbrenner were my boss, then I guess low-profile would be my modus operandi as well.
The Shallow:
So maybe she is just into hot MLB pitchers. Other than what spending time in her "good graces" does to their pitching performance, I can't fault her for that. However, this theory doesn't fly either. Say what you will about Pavano and Zito - they can both tend to be very Monet, and Zito himself will cop early and often, on national TV no less, to having "child bearing hips" - but they are at least decent looking guys and on good days, they can be head turning. Penny is ... well, it can be put one of three ways: The kinder way - That picture appended to the beginning of this post was, in fact, the best picture I could find of Penny; The less kind way: He is a dead ringer for Abraham Benrubi ("Jerry" from ER); The "Oooh, CLC is such a bitch" way: Damn, he is uuuug-leee!!
Eureka, I've got it!!!
Given all of the above, perhaps we can interest her in a position player of indeterminate species upon whom she may feel free to unleash her curse? He digs curses.
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