I had the pleasure of flying JetBlue yesterday on my way back to Boston. So I had one of those fancy, individual viewscreens funneling porno-free DirectTV to me from take-off to touchdown. Convenient. And awesome. I got to watch most of the Dodgers-Diamondbacks game, and had another chance to stare at the oddity that is Manny Ramirez grabassing with players who aren’t David Ortiz and Alex Cora.
But later on in the flight, as I was watching a Seinfeld rerun (the one where George uncovers a prostitution ring being run out of a local parking lot and Kramer gets busted for pimping), the pilot cut in to announce that we were just passing over New York. Seconds later, as if in response, the station broadcasting Seinfeld cut to a special report, issuing a tornado warning–for the New York/New Jersey area. As the plane started to buck and dive, I quietly unplugged my headphones and started apologizing aloud for all those nasty Craig Grebeck remarks I’ve been making.
Thankfully, I made it back to terra firma relatively unscathed, unless you count the woman next to me who sat on my hand and almost broke it off at the wrist (long story). When I arrived back at my place and switched on the Sox — with my Remy withdrawal reaching the “I see tiny Orsillos with wings clawing off the wallpaper” stage — I really wasn’t bothered by the fact that we were getting a good ol’ fashioned rogering from the Texas Rangers. I was just glad to be home. Watching NESN. And, of course, free of pants.
Today it’s Byrd vs. McCarthy before the boys head home for the Ultimate Battle for First Place against the Tampa Bay Rays. Anyone who thought they’d ever be reading that sentence in September can join Mr. Wakefield in the woodshed out back. Right where the Rangers left him.
