Tag Archives: red sox

Shit For Brains

She drops memories like tiny
shits behind her where she
walks, a trail of small,
hard excess condensed into
pellets and buried beneath
her bedding at dusk. And
when she wakes, aroused
by tunes, or the crinkled
sound of sunburnt prunes,
the rest of her remembers
in its actions — thumbless
hands supporting chins,
the precious cuddling of
dust upon her pelt, the
endless fights for sustenance
against her sibling rival.
But still there’s something
missing in her muscles
when she sleeps, the only
thing remembering the warmth
her mind won’t keep.

My First Bar Friend

Sometimes I see him on the street, and our eyes will meet briefly before darting away, the way you look at that girl you hooked up with that one time and it was totally weird and you never talked to her again. “Do I say something? Do I wave?” you wonder. “Does he even remember me? Does he know my name?”

I think of all times we spent on barstools at the local pub. He was always there when I was, and one day, we just struck up a conversation. I think he asked about the book that was I reading, then he bought me a round, and we started talking about girls and bands and everything else that guys talk about once they’ve had a couple beers. It’s not all that unusual, at a bar like that. His name was Paul, and at the time, he had just recently moved to the neighborhood. A former Navy SEAL, he was going back to UMass Boston to finish his degree in Anthropology. Said he was part of the team that took down those Somali pirates. I told him I was impressed with the shot they made over alternating waves; he said the shot was easy, anyone could have done it, and he was a little irked that he was on the shift before the one got the shot, because those guys got all the glory.

I don’t know why I remember that. I don’t even know if he was telling me the truth. I’m not even sure what I might have told him about myself, or what he remembers of it. Other times, we’d both be at the bar with our friends. We’d shout “Hey!” and high five, introduced our friends to one another in hopes of triggering the other one to remind of his name: “Hey, this is my buddy Chris” “How’s it goin’, I’m Paul” and so on. We’d get excited every time the blonde behind the bar would put on London Calling — as if it was such a rare coincidence that we both liked The Clash — then we’d turn and watch the Sox game in silence, only turning to each other to say obligatory things like, “Youk was in a funk, but man, he’s got it back,” or “Beckett’s gotta sit for a few more games, they should pull him out and get Papelbon back out there,” and of course, “Let’s go, Papi!” If the game went well, then he might buy a round of PBRs for my friends as well as his. We’d shoot the shit some more, then say good night like we’d been bros for the longest time.

I don’t even think we’re Facebook friends.

But in those hazy, drunken moments in the low, musty lighting of the bar, you’d swear we were the best of friends, and at the time, perhaps we were. So when I see him now, I can’t help but feel some strange sense of camaraderie, fueled by nostalgia for nights that I hardly can remember.

The Warmest Gun

I can still recall the swell of emotions that rippled through my veins when I fell in love for the first time. I was so elated, so overwhelmed by happiness, that I roundhouse kicked my love right in the fucking jaw and stuffed her, still screaming, into a trash can that I then proceeded to throw down a hill. Like a licked finger stuck into an electrical socket on a dare at Brian’s stepmom’s house in third game, the thrill was just so exhilarating, like nothing I’d ever experienced or even fathomed, that my impulse took over and found a way to release that brand new energy as safely and expediently as possible.

Later, on the day my first son was born, I simply could not contain my excitement at the sight of the fresh, new life that I had myself created (along with some help from my Fifth Love). I lit my own shit on fire and smeared the flaming excrement all over our fantastic doctor before smashing window open with my forehead and throwing him into the parking lot as a way of saying “Thank You.” Then I went over to my son and lifted him from the crib so I could look directly into the beautiful, crying, bloodshot eyes that I had given him. I was so engulfed with bliss and merriment that I ate the little infant right up. I was so consumed with life that the only thing I could do was consume some more!

And then came the day of America’s greatest victory: the Red Sox finally won four World Series in a row. I didn’t know how else to express my undying affection for the greatest American sports team, so I did what any devoted would do. I hijacked a plane from Logan Airport armed with a nuclear device and dropped the bomb right on Fenway park. I wanted the world to know that this team, and that I had never so proud to be a part of something in my entire life. The only way I could conceive of expressing this sentiment was by lighting up the oldest baseball field in the country for the entire world to see, so that they could truly understand my appreciation for these ball-playing dynamos.

“Happiness is a warm gun,” I heard once, in one of those old songs. Looking back, I’m not sure how I ever lived before I understood how true it really is. In those rare moments when you feel your entirety being consumed by that euphoric joy — sometimes you just have to let yourself pull that trigger, if that’s what you’ve got to do.

The Morning Commute

Two strange things I saw on the way to work on the morning of Tuesday, July 6, 2011:

  1. An older Asian man, not unlike a Cart Lady, riding a bicycle, only his bulging trash bags, overstuffed with recyclable bottles and cans looted from curbsides, werre strapped down by bungee cords to the rack above his rear wheel, rather than tossed in a stolen shopping cart. I was waiting at a busy intersection (on the Southwest Corridor Bike Path at Whittier/Ruggles Street, for those keeping track), either for a break in the traffic, or for a walk signal so I could make my way across. Another bicyclist waited there with me (She was there first, and had clearly never heard of pressing the “Walk” button, but that’s beside the point). The older Asian man, on his salvaged Mad Max-esque warcycle of five-cent deposits, was heading towards me in the opposite direction. Rather than wait for a break in traffic — and it’s not like he was going very fast with all that weight on his back, so braking shouldn’t have been a problem — the man continued pedaling (slowly) across the street, with a mad smile. Perhaps he reveled in the thrill of near-death; or, maybe he was deranged and suicidal. There seemed to be more cars in the road at that particular moment than there had previously been.

    Even through the cacophony of revved-up engines and the mad blaring horns of morning commuters, I could still make out the strangest sound from the bicyclist. As one car swerved to avoid him, the man, unphased, cried out, “Bwang-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG.” I’m attempting to spell this phonetically, of course — I’m not very well versed in foreign languages — but it sounded like the stereotypical sound of a Gong from a movie. Literally like the kind of magic Gong that cues the entrance of some kind of ancient mystic or fabled warrior. When the man finally reached my side of the street, he was laughing wildly to himself, and seemed to be completely oblivious to the presence of myself and the other bicyclist, plowing between us and nearly knocking us both over without a moment of hesitation.

    After that, the road was clear of all sign of cars, and we were finally free to cross.

  2. Riding down Massachusetts Avenue — a fairly major road through Boston/Cambridge, for those of you not from the area, and especially busy during commuter hours — I was preparing to turn left and pull into work when I saw a handicapped man in a motorized wheelchair. A man in a motorized wheelchair crawling along with the rest of the traffic in the middle of the road. Cars in front of him, cars behind him; he was fully situated in a lane of traffic.

    But no one seemed to notice or mind. Probably because he had decked his electric wheelchair out with banners and signs celebrating David “Big Papi” Ortiz’s win in the 2010 Homerun Derby the night before. It’s amazing the kind of things that people get away with in this city under the auspices of the Red Sox. They’re like the universal alibi.

So that was my morning. I guess what they say is true — “Tuesday’s coming; did you bring your coat?”

Requiem for a Chinchilla

Dustbath “Pedey” Pedroia was discovered at the bottom of her cage at approximately 7:00pm on Thursday, June 24. While the average domestic chinchilla lives for up to 15 years, Pedey died at the tender age of 3ish from apparent health complications incurred by a sudden heatstroke. While it is true that chinchillas are indigenous to South America, their natural habitat tends to be amongst the rocks and caves of the Andes mountains, where their lack of sweat glands and their incredibly dense fur protect them from the other elements — great for a Boston winter, but not for a Boston summer such as this one.

Prior to the heatstroke, Pedey was in just as good of health as any other household chinchilla. She lived with her younger sister, Yubnub, who survives her today and is decidedly less fat and black. In life, Pedey enjoyed raisins, pooping a lot, and sleeping. Despite her negative attitude towards her owners and occasional incestuous lesbian tendencies, Pedey was much loved in her home, where she could often be found watching LOST while trying to chew her way through her cage. Yubnub fondly recalls every time that a famished Pedey would sit in the food bowl for hours on end, eating and defecating simultaneously, and rarely differentiating between her food pellets and her feces. (Like any good sister, Yubnub would patiently wait her turn and let her older sister gorge on Timothy Hay and Alfalfa, often being rewarded with an extra raisin as a result) When not hogging the food, or attempting to bite the hands of her owners, Pedey could often be found cuddling with Yubnub in the corner, and generally looking cute and silly like chinchillas are wont to do.

She will especially be remember for her her little T-rex-like chinchilla hands. Pedey enjoyed standing up straight and placing her hands on the bars of her cage, much like a human prison inmate. It was quite precious.

A small graveside service was held in the backyard on the afternoon of June 25. Pedey was laid to rest in the garden of the home where she once lived, and hopefully, her spirit will nourish the plantlife that grows there. Just to be sure, she was buried with a package of her favorite craisins as incentive.

In her honor, Dustin Pedroia, second baseman for the Boston Red Sox and Pedey’s namesake, hit 3 homeruns on the night of her death, leading the Red Sox to a 13-11 victory over the Colorado Rockies.

Raisins to raisins, dustbath to dustbath. Rest in peace, Pedey.

Please send grievances in the form of raisins.