Not so much quick hits today as meandering thoughts:
• Might be nice if the cops self-imposed a curfew on their "turn on the siren so we can run the red light"
schtick. Maybe some of us would get some sleep here on the
corner of Putnam and Western. And yes, commenters and
minutiae hounds, that's the third time I've posted a link to an intersection. See if you can name the other two without peeking at the archives.
• I've been taking Tums antacid tablets (yes, for the canker sores), and I'm convinced these chalky pastel-colored discs are just Necco Wafers marketed to adults. Or the Wafers are Tums for kids — I can't say which. What I'm getting at is that the products are structurally and chemically interchangeable. As to which came first, Necco and GlaxoSmithKline can sort that out, because Phutatorius has said his peace, and he's dropping the subject.
• Oprah's July 2004 issue marks an improbable
49th straight appearance on the cover of
O Magazine. Pull over, Lance Armstrong. Tip your cap, Joe DiMaggio. Anybody remember Journey's run with "Separate Ways" in MTV's Friday Night Video Fights? Well, step aside, Steve Perry. Ms. Winfrey here is the Queen of Streaks. I could have sworn Dr. Phil was going to knock her off this month, but Oprah wins again in a "photo finish." How does she do it?
• I encountered the word "Turbuhaler" yesterday, and I'm wishing I'd coined it myself. And no, it's not a band name . . .
• The only enduring Mr. Magoo cartoon will be the
Christmas Carol interpretation he did in 1962, which you're likely to catch on TNT sometime every December. And that's because he melded so well into the Scrooge role. Otherwise, you have to wonder what the animators were thinking trying to sell this guy to kids.
An old man with a cane who can't see? What fun!!
• I keep forgetting, but the
man appointed with
saving my life (God bless him) has a blog that resides
here. It'll knock you flat.
• And yes, the Bow Wow Wow concert was
brilliant, thanks for asking. Life-changing, would you say? Oh, definitely. The tracklist:
W-O-R-K (N.O. Nah No No My Daddy Don't)
Jungle Boy
Baby, Oh No!
Aphrodisiac
Do You Wanna Hold Me?
Mile High Club
[2 new songs that were surprisingly good]
Sinner! Sinner! Sinner!
Sex
Golly! Golly! Go Buddy!
I Want My Baby on Mars
Uomo Sex al Apache
Cowboy
Go Wild in the Country
I Want Candy
C30, C60, C90, Go!
What's the Time? (Hey Buddy!)
Come back and see us again soon,
Annabella. We love you so much, and we can't endure these fifteen- and six-year absences.
John Kerry and I haven't spoken since about December, when we last played our Friday night game of
whist, and the Wife and I beat the livin' tarnation out of him and Terry. It was something to watch that night, as the hands turned against him and his anger steadily increased. Then, finally, the eruption: he violently overturned the card table — "like Simon LeBon in
Hungry Like the Wolf," I remember telling the Wife — and stormed out of the apartment, leaving us to clean up the unraveling California rolls we'd bought fresh at the Star Market fish counter.
That last win capped an unbeaten streak of thirty weeks and pulled us into a 75-75 tie overall with the Heinz Kerrys. So you can see why he got upset: it was becoming increasingly clear that he and Teresa were
not the most formidable maritally-aligned whist partnership in the Bay State. The Wife and I were willing to forgive the tantrum, even though the spilled rice grains clogged the Dustbuster, and we had to buy a new one. Everyone has their blow-ups, and Terry sent us just the nicest note of apology on her personal stationery.
But then, when I phone him to settle time and place for the next week's game, the call gets routed to some phone operator in Delhi who tells me John and Terry can't work in a three-hour game due to the growing demands of his
Presidential candidacy. Oh, I see how it is, John: you can't win a card game, so you get all snotty. This after I sent my regrets to the
Scituate Chamber of Commerce because our weekly game conflicted with their awards ceremony. You were on a hot streak then, and I could have ditched you for a better gig, but I collected my 2002 Man of the Year Runner-Up honors
in absentia.
Earlier this week we got our VW Golf caught up in the Kerry motorcade on the way back from the theater (You wouldn't have heard of the show, but it was a musical comedy that incorporates hit singles by the disco band ABBA, and I predict it will be a big hit once they take it to Broadway.). I tried to flag the Senator down in his limo, but the policemen on their motorcycles motioned angrily at me to keep moving. I suppose this public snubbing means I can't count on him calling while he's in town —
at least, except for that damned impersonal recording I keep getting twice a week. Imagine my excitement when I read "JOHN KERRY FOR PRESIDENT" on my caller ID —
Honey, go get the cards. It's John! — only to pick up and hear that disembodied voice asking me for a campaign contribution.
How about this, John? How about I just forgive the ten bucks you owe me for the ordered-in sushi, and we call it even?
Foot Update — Day 19:
Last week was marked by the eruption of over a half-dozen canker sores in my mouth. What the
hell, you might ask, does
that have to do with your foot, Phutatorius?
Wait for the payoff.
Now my lips and tongue are as vulnerable to the occasional canker as anybody's. And when I'm attacking a beefsteak with enthusiasm I may gnaw inadvertently on the inside of my cheek, and after a day or so that chewed area might morph into a sore there as well. But never in my life have I suffered canker sores in such quantity. My tongue was beginning to resemble, topographically, the pock-marked surface of
that Saturnine moon in the news.
Again, Phutatorius, what do
Saturnine moons have to do with . . . ?
Sir, if you would just sit down and let me finish? Thank you. From here we rewind the tape two weeks, to when I first visited my doctor about my wrecked ankle and the surge of deep purple under my skin that was advancing, at breakneck pace, toward my toes. At this point I could scarcely find a shoe to contain my edematous right foot, and I had half a mind to call home and ask my mother to pull my old pair of moon boots out of storage.
The doctor prescribed
Naproxen, which he
claimed would help reduce the swelling. The riddling of my mouth with sores two weeks later — and very little of the promised foot shrinkage — prompted me to read up on the drug. Some questions:
Does it work at all? Could my cankers be "collateral damage" caused by the Naproxen? In the course of my research I Googled
"Naproxen side effects". And what do you suppose I learned?
Wait for it . . .
Wait for it . . .
Putting aside the rest of the Parade of Horribles I read about (which included "bloody vomit," "blurred vision," and "black, tarry stools"), one side effect of Naproxen is "swelling of feet." Read it yourself
here, and verify it
here.
There is only one obvious take-home from this:
my doctor is compromised. It is clear that the Latrine Man has got to him, and together they are determined to give an indefinite duration to my hobbling. It is also clear that these two are not working alone. Does the conspiracy go all the way up to the Instapundit? You better believe it.
In my case folder right now, then: on one side, a whack-job blogger who knows Phutatorius is just the man to provide the good kicking he deserves. On the other, two obviously related gestures of violence toward my right foot. All I need is hard evidence to make the connection.
And when I do, Instapundit, your reign of terror over the blogging community will end.
WHEN in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one
fan Base to dissolve the political bands which have connected
it with
the Bullpen of its home town Team, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle
it, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all
baseball Enthusiasts are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are
the rights to one's Sanity, one's coronary Health, and the pursuit of
a World Series title for the beloved home Team. — That to secure these rights,
Bullpens, inter alia, are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the
fan Base, — That whenever any
such aggregation of relief Pitchers becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the
fan Base to alter or to abolish it, and to institute
a new
Bullpen, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect
an occasional victory for the home Team when it takes a lead into the late Innings. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that
Setup Men and Closers long established
in their Craft should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that
Fans are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right
the Team by
demanding the outright Release of the
Bums to wh
om they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and
Conflagrations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under
the .500 Mark, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such
a Bullpen, and to provide new
relief Pitchers for their future security. — Such has been the patient sufferance of
the good People of Cleveland; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their
Team's roster of Players. The history of the present
Bullpen is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute
Collapse in the AL Central. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.
• The Bullpen has refused to afford the Fans the quiet Confidence that a late-inning Lead will ripen into a Win.
• It has blown 18 of 31 save Opportunities.
• It has lost a league-high 11 extra-Inning games.
• It has a combined earned run Average of 5.34.
• It lacks a situational Lefty.
The team Manager has given free rein to a
Bullpen of unparalleled and tragic Incompetence; rendering it wholly unaccountable:
• For Blowing gigantic Leads at least twice a week:
• For Depriving an above-Average pitching Rotation of many deserved Wins:
• For Causing the Team to lose nineteen games in which it was tied or held the Lead in the seventh Inning:
• For consistently Compromising the progress a young and ebullient Collection of Players continues to make, despite the Bullpen's efforts.
Some detail must be given to the particular Depredations of one Jose Jimenez —
• He has abdicated
his responsibilities both as principal Setup Man and Closer, compiling a 1-7 Record with an ERA of 9.46.
• He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
(Well, at least it seems that way.)
• He has, in a single Week, served up home-run balls in three extra-inning Games.
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated
Substitutions of one hapless closer for another. A
Bullpen whose character is thus marked by every
statistic which may define
the relief Corps of a Class-A affiliate, is unfit to be the
Repository of the hopes and Dreams of Clevelanders.
Nor have We been wanting in attentions to
our brethren
in the Front Office. We have warned them from time to time of their attempts to extend unwarrantable
appearances to the likes of Cliff Bartosh and Scott Stewart. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our
support for this star-crossed Organization. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our
enthusiasm for the Indian team. They too have been deaf to the voice of
reason. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity
of overruling the Front Office on this matter and hold
this Bullpen, as we hold the rest of
the Major Leagues, Enemies
during games,
on off-days Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the united
Supporters of the Cleveland Indians baseball Organization, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world
(and if He is not available, Bud Selig) for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of
northeastern Ohio, solemnly publish and declare, That
the 2004 Cleveland Indians, are and of Right ought to be Free and Independent
of this frightful bullpen; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to
their sad-sack relievers, and that all political connection between them and
Jose Jimenez, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as
a much-Improved Major League baseball Team, they have full Power to
get left-handed Hitters out, close out tight games, extend extra-inning contests, and to do all other Acts and Things which
teams free of their crap-ass drag-me-down bullpens may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.
