Dear Tastemakers at NESN:
Red here. For once, I’ve got no shows to pitch you (although Carlton Fisk, Small Town OB-GYN is a winner, if you ask me). No Hazel Mae autographed photos to request. No pantsless Julian Tavarez sightings that you or the authorities need to be alerted to.
I’m writing because I have something of a complaint.
First things first, I’m loving Ms. Heidi Watney. There are whispers that the Remdawg ain’t too happy with her, but I’m totally down. And you know damn well that my admiration for Ms. Amalie Benjamin runs deep. Where she goes, I follow–although a good twenty feet behind, per the restraining order.
But when you put these two women together, combining their unstopabble awesomeness during the pre-game show? That’s when the trouble starts for me. Because the vision of these two microphone-weilding vixens sets off an inner turmoil that has recently started compromising my ability to polish off a six of PBRs before first pitch. And we just can’t have that.
Just focus at Heidi, my inner voice tells me. The same inner voice that tempts me to drive without my seatbelt and “accidentally” brush up against that sweet MILF during Sunday mass. And I can’t resist. All that blonde hair and blue eyes and red lips and the ultra-perky way she pretends to know what’s really on Kevin Youkilis’ mind (when we know it’s just booze, porno and hand-carved gazebos). She’s the classic bad girl, tempting me to help her polish off a jug of whiskey, mug some orphans, hop in her car, crank the Iron Maiden and barrel down Boylston at a hundred per. She’s like your girlfriend’s saucy roommate who tells you, “Rachael’s not home, but why don’t you come in and wait for her,” then proceeds to show off some new yoga moves she’s learning. Or like the psychotic ex who keeps coming over to your place to knock over the fish tank, tear up the carpets and burn your collection of Reid Nichols autographed balls, all because she thought she saw you checking out her best friend’s ass (not that I’ve ever been there; no, no). I know she’s bad for me like candy, milkshakes and plutonium, but every time I see that smile, my heart does the flippy-flop.
My brain, meanwhile, is all tangled up in Benjamin. So cool, so smooth, so knowledgeable. Like every hot librarian chick I’ve ever fantasized about while I fumbled through volumes of Proust. She knows her shit, writes magnificently about the hometown team, and comes from the Tina Fey school of women who look even sexier with their glasses on. But she also seems like such the good girl. The type who reminds you to cut your meat, call your mother once in a while and really think about wearing that striped tie with the striped shirt. The sort of girl who you just know dances saucily around her apartment to Carrie Underwood when no one’s looking and tears up a bit when reading stories about injured puppies and diseases affecting rare coastal birds. She’s the one who’s right for you, my brain tells me, even though I’m convinced she’s got to have some sort of torrid, animalistic side to her than only comes out under the influence of alcohol or the Juno soundtrack.
If you only you made it as easy for the menfolk as you do for the ladies. Because for the fairer sex, there’s only one choice when Eck and Caron are on air together, and that’s Eck. Are you shitting me? That moustache, that hair, that hey-I-know-Bob-Welch aloofness. Even though I’m certain he’s the kind of guy who checks his own reflection while he “goes to town” and asks you if your sister’s seeing anyone, women will almost always choose the Eck over Caron. Unless they’re looking for someone to do their taxes post-snogging. Then, I’d guess, it’s Caron.
Still, for all the internal combustion and carpal tunnel syndrome you’re causing me, I’ve got to give you props. Just as Remy found his perfect life partner when Don Orsillo came to town, the combination of Heidi and Amalie is proving to be one of the single greatest pairings in television history. Not to knock Tina Cervasio and Amalie, because that was a pretty good showing as well. But Heidi and Amalie together, however fleeting their pre-game pairings may be, is clearly the reason God invented eyes. Maybe it’s because they look like a couple sorority sisters who might try to drink you and your buddies under the table at the Rattlesnake. Or because they both seem to grow on me with every appearance. Or because the minute I hear their voices and see their faces, I’m instantly teleported to a fantasy world in which the two of them, in pirate garb, tie me to a pole and use various instruments of torture (whips, latex gloves, some old “Foreigner” records) to beat a confession out of me.
So carry on, Good Peeps at NESN. Carry on.
Oh, and please keep an eye out for my proposal for The Mike Timlin Neighborhood Youth Brigade Happy Hour, which features puppets, claymation and animal skinnings.
