I Don’t See Dead People—I Dream of Outs, Outs, Outs; a Freaking Ocean of Outs!

Even though I sprung for the full 2009 Baseball Package, I still might have to cut back on my Sox-watching. Last night I tossed and turned badly as, in my tortured dreams, in one nine-inning game wherein the Sox were shut out, the following happened: J.D. Drew grounded out to second nine times; Pap popped out to shortstop eight times; Jason Bay struck out seven times; Tek fouled out to the catcher six times; and Youk flied out to shallow center five times.

And Pedey watched twelve first pitch lollipops float by, and then swung at thirteen pitches that were at least a foot outside.

Eck Speak

I missed last night's game, but the night before, and reading between the lines and applying ‘poetic license,’ the irrepressible Eck basically said, “Boy, does this poor Eveland suck—and the Red Sox offense isn’t much better.” (I hate poetry, but I sure do love poetic license.) Same rules, Sox hitting coach Dave Magadan basically said, “Youk, Ped, and JB are solid pros—but they are generally not gonna be MVP candidates; last year and the beginning of this year notwithstanding.” I sure hope Theo and co are thinking beyond Lowell, Pap, Tek, and Nick, because this team isn’t gonna beat the Yanks over the next couple of years.

Cultural insight: Unfortunately, I’m afraid internet porn is only gonna get more popular—because your computer won’t (can’t) shoot you while you’re sleeping. So, my advice to the young ladies: don’t shoot your boyfriends, because the computer was already gaining on you.

What My Friends and I Are Doing to Honor Michael on This Sad, Bittersweet, Historic Day

Some of us could arrange to be in LA and some of us couldn’t, and we agreed we just had to all be together, so we are shuttering businesses, taking vacation days, traveling great distances in some cases, and meeting at a friend’s mansion in Acton, Mass, wherein he has a huge, state-of-the-art home theater, since he is very, very rich; virtually to the point of obscenity.

And his incredible mansion is absolutely chockfull of gorgeous Michael memorabilia—his ‘most cherished treasures,’ as he lovingly calls them. So, the perfect venue to revel in the proceedings together—and of course, we will be taping them, so we can watch over and over and over and over, for the next several days; and then at this time every year from now on.

For the past week, we have all been tenderly crafting our personal remembrances of how Michael touched and enriched our lives in so, so many countless ways—and polishing, polishing, polishing. (Personally, I’m counting on getting to deliver mine at least three times. And I’d just better, or there will be some serious pouting and indignant foot-stamping!!! I might even jump up and down while holding my breath!!!)

We’ve all agreed not to let any phony ‘machismo’ get in the way of plenty of hand-holding, hugging, wailing, speaking from overflowing hearts—and the inevitable unburdening, comforting virtual river of shared tears.

Not being able to be at the LA memorial all together (and with literally millions of fellow mourners—and the slightly inconvenient logistics totally inconsequential given the magnitude of the moment) certainly seemed tragic at first, but we now agree that our own personal (and surely very well documented indeed, as we just love to take pictures of each other) ‘Acton Memorial Service’ will not only bring us all closer together, but will also furnish us with indelible, bittersweet but cherished memories we can savor together for the rest of our lives!

And then we can say another bleeping prayer—for what’s left of the *#%*##%* Red Sox Offense!!!

The Powerful New Lexicon

I know where the ubiquitous, “Don’t blame me, I’m still trying to get over Michael,” and “Stop being so suspicious, I was just out hiking the Appalachian Trail” come from…but now, for some reason, in my circles, anytime anyone dares to say anything even remotely dumb, mundane, or trivial, he’s immediately greeted by a chorus of deep, powerful voices bellowing, “That would make one Sweeeeeet Tweeeeeet, Bro!!!!”

The Red Sox and the WWF

Those last two games against the lowly Orioles didn’t even seem real, like they were scripted by Vince McMahon: “You beat the crap out of that steroidal monster with this chair for a while, and then you smash this burly fool into oblivion with that even bigger chair.”

Pap, Matzaka!!!, and now the sudden abject futility of fan favorite Jason Bay…why can’t Sox players just have normal slumps like guys on other teams do? Perhaps, given the love fans have for underdogs and comebacks, more WWF influence?

(John Henry made his fortune in hedge funds, so he is certainly no stranger to smoke and mirrors.)

I’m Not Sure Even The Gifted Bernie Can Pull This Off

People Magazine reports that, to fit in and avoid being ‘punk’d out’ in prison, Bernie Madoff has shaved his head, covered himself in tattoos proclaiming his loyalty to the Aryan Brotherhood, and taken to loudly boasting that he’s in the joint for ‘beating up a whole bunch of great big mean guys in my latest barroom brawl.’

It’s Hard to Hit the Corners When Pitching with a Broken Heart

Through Ed, Farrah, and Michael, somehow the Red Sox bullpen bravely soldiered on—but I guess Billy Mays was just more than they could bear.