There is no greater buzzkill than the rainout. But when the Yankees are in town? Man, that’s when you figure that the Yawkey Way Brain Trust has gotta come up with some sort of temporary solution. You’re telling me those clever kids across the way at MIT can’t devise a sort of “instant dome,” perhaps held in place by helicopters or incredibly gifted birds? People, we’re wasting our time pumping tax dollars into answering such questions as “Is there life on Mars?” Besides a couple guys with beards and lab coats at NASA, does anyone really give a damn? Why not focus on the much more urgent, “How the f–k do we play games at Fenway when it rains?”
Anyway, here’s a couple odds and ends that have been rattling across my brain of late.
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Hazel Mae becomes more spectacular in my eyes with each passing day, but the guy who’s really making the fashion statements at NESN these days is Tom Caron. First, he’s done something with his hair, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe he’s tinted it? A bit of re-seeding? But the real upgrade has been in his eyewear. With those new, far hipper shades he looks less like a geography teacher from the Wellesley Public School System and more like a geography teacher from the Wellesley Public School System who drives a Vespa to work and has something of a “dangerous” past that the children don’t dare speak of.
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Is it just me or does B.J. Ryan look exactly — and I mean exactly — like the hillbilly dude from those “Has that thing got a hemi?” commercials? Check it:
Eh, maybe it’s just me…
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Jon Papelbon has been one of the true bright lights in an otherwise dismal bullpen. Problem is, he’s only one guy. We need more of him. Like, ten. Are you telling me a guy like John Henry, who probably literally papers his birdcage with money, hasn’t looked into cloning or some other bizarre robotics thing? I say pony up the dough, John Boy, and give us an army of Papel-Bots.
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I found an old CD copy of The Kinks’ “State of Confusion” the other day. While some folks dismiss the band’s late ’80s output, a quick listen reacquainted me with “Heart of Gold,” which I consider one of Ray Davies’ best songs. This is a guy who’s written about picking up transvestites, kids mugging Santa and all types of beastly paranoid head cases, but this charming tune — about a girl feeling jealous about all the love her dad shows her baby sister — is a f–king gem.
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Only three months until the Welcome Back El Bencho standing ovation.
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Okay, they warned us of this back in the day. When he was signed, we were told that Alex Gonzalez doesn’t hit. That we were sacrificing offense for spectacular defense. Now the D has indeed been nice, but, man, they certainly weren’t f–king around when they said dude can’t hit. I mean, they said the same about Pokey and Bellhorn and Graffanino, but those guys would occasionally pull something out of their asses to surprise us. But A-Gon’s got nothing — nothing, I say. Holy god, it’s been so long since we’ve had such a glaring hole in the line-up that it’s actually becoming unsettling to me. Did we give up on Renteria too soon?
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Bronson Arroyo has a posse.
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My love for Katherine McPhee knows no boundaries. But I do fear for Eliot Yamin this evening.
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Some of these bits were shamelessly cribbed from our article in this week’s Barstool Sports. So sue us.
