Thursday, May 19, 2005

Nothing to Fear (But Fear Itself)

Games 38 through 40 - Red Sox

A's 6, Red Sox 4
Red Sox 7, A's 5
A's 13, Red Sox 6
Record: 23-17

The title above refers to the great song by Oingo Boingo (one of the most underrated bands in the pantheon, for my very limited money), which happens to be playing on my iTunes Party Shuffle. Tangentially, if also refers to my current feelings about the Sox, but I'd frankly rather talk about Danny Elfman and the band that also recorded such Sox-appropriate classics as Who Do You Want to Be Today, Only Makes Me Laugh, and for Mark Bellhorn, We Close Our Eyes.

Can you tell that I don't really have much to say about my favorite 9?

One of the challenging things about blogging on the same topic for 2+ years is the difficulty in avoiding redundancy. Hell, I'm a master of it, but most of the time it's the intentional act of a creatively-challenged, time-starved would-be slacker. In that vein, I'd have loved to recreate this entry today in honor of the Sox' 4 of 6 capitulation to the just better than woeful Mariners and A's.

The assmonkey sobriquet would fit, too, but I look at the standings and see that despite relative underachievement the Sox are currently in playoff position, despite finding lots of different ways to blow games to Seattle and Oakland (Hi, Boomer! Glad you rushed back to collect that bonus for another start. Jeremi could've given up 7 ER in 1 and a third without costing the team $200k.) the Sox are still playing at a .575 clip. So I swallow my indignance and move on past the quarter pole.

Looking ahead, if only because looking behind makes me want to hurl, I'm looking forward to throwing Whit and his Metros a bit of a bone this week, as his arch-nemeses from the Dirty South roll into Fenway this week for a three-game set. Boston's "natural rivals" from Atlanta come to town in first place in the NL East. (Aside: how the hell can that be? 13 division championships in a row, and they're still winning games with Adam Laroche, Horacio Ramirez, and Johnny Estrada? Shame that the ATL is such a shit sports town, because that's one of the great achievements in franchise sports history.)

Wade Miller gets Tim Hudson on Friday night, and I'd like to say that I'm looking forward to a barn-burner, but my prognosticating acumen over the past week has been less sharp than the social skills of a Star Wars conventioneer. And ECA Mike thinks we're not paying attention to pop culture.

Our friends over at the Wheelhouse have a story adds a whole new dimension to the 'Bronson Arroyo as stud' meme. I mean, I knew that ballplayers get a lot of top quality, um, attention, but, well...see for yourself. Note to Bronson: a little strange is perhaps an accepted perk, but maybe you should duck when the camera-phone comes out. Y'know, 'cause of the wife, and all.

On that slightly Page 6 note, we'll close another incoherent ramble to the head-bobbing beat of Les Claypool's bass as the Primus front man pounds out Pudding Time. If nothing else, enjoy the musical stylings of this half of MLC, because the baseball stuff leaves a lot to be desired.

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