The Black and Gold are BACK!!

Last night was one of the happiest days of the year for Your Humble Scribe. For hockey returned to the Boston Garden when the Bruins, fresh off their 3-2 road trip, finally had their home opener. Besides the second period, when they went nappy time for a while, it was a decent enough effort, with plenty of grit and scoring, and it culminated in a 4-1 win over the Tampa Bay Lightning.

I was originally to have gone with Smitty but he decided instead that he'd rather have a kidney stone. No accounting for some people's taste. Me, I'd have rather gone to the game, but tomato/to-mah-to, I guess. Taking his place was DB, aka Mrs. Smitty, for whom this would be only her second hockey game.

It was, perhaps surprisingly, a good time, despite me having to explain to her, yet again, how offsides worked, and enduring conversations like these:

DB: They're just fighting?? Why don't they stop it?
CS: And how do you presume they do that?
DB: Um...blow the whistle?

She was at least attentive to the game itself and we both had a really good time. I thought when Smitty's kidney stone kicked in, my evening was blown. And though going to a game with a neophyte can sometimes suck, it didn't in this case. I'm glad she came. And I never thought I'd end up saying that!

Channelling my inner 7 year old

Everyone has strengths. Can we agree on that? Because if we do, that makes the realization that we all have weaknesses that much easier to bear.

For example: I have strengths. No crossword puzzle is safe from me. I can quote MacBeth in a pinch. I'm a decent poker player. I play the guitar. I have strengths, is what I'm saying.

Apparently, I also have weaknesses, as illustrated by an exchange between Toots and me just this past evening.

You should know that it makes me crazy when she speaks to me like I was a child. It's one of only a small handful of things that can generate a guns blazing, full tilt boogie screaming match. I'm old, for chrissake. I don't need to be told what to do step by step like a child.

Or so I thought.

After dinner, as is my wont, I trundled downstairs to watch the Red Sox cough up yet another eighth inning lead. On my way down, Toots asked me if I wouldn't be a love and take the sheets that had just finished washing and put them in the dryer, which I did with great aplomb.

About an hour later, I hear her voice tumbling downstairs.

"Gary?"

"Yes hon."

"Did you put the sheets in the dryer?"

A perfectly valid question. I forget things. I forget things ALL THE TIME. I've been told I'm the archetype absent-minded professor. I forget by whom.

"Yes, hon."

"Did you actually turn the dryer on?"

Now was this question completely necessary? Well, as it turns out, yes. Because there have been plenty of times where I've put clothes in the dryer and not actually turned the beast on. So that's one reason why I took this question in stride.

The other reason was, for the life of me, I couldn't remember if I did or didn't.

"That's...that's an open question, dear," I said as cavalierly as I could, getting up from the couch.

My job was now clear. I had to go to the laundry room and confirm that I had, in fact, turned the dryer on. The problem was, I had no idea at all if I had or not.

I stared at the dryer. It stared unblinkingly back at me.

The laundry room smelled faintly like laundry, so maybe I did.

I reached out a tentative hand to the top of the dryer. Cold. Hmm. Maybe I didn't.

There was only one thing left to do. Open the dryer and reach my hand in, and consult the "was the dryer on" manual, which states:

Clothes cold and wet: dryer not turned on.
Clothes warm and dry: dryer turned on.

I opened the door with a hand that shook ever so slightly. I placed my shaking hand on a bedsheet.

Dry. Blissfully dry and still a little bit toasty. Whew! I had performed a task that any seven year old child could have done without thinking. I was so proud.

"It's all set," I yelled upstairs. "What do you think I am, a child?"

An Open Letter to O.J. Simpson

You are a fucking idiot.

My Conversation with God

Maybe it was a blob of mustard, an undigested bit of cheese. Maybe there was more of gravy than of grave with the Lord, but either way, He manifested Himself before me.

I will say this: He looked serene. He was dressed in a cotton oxford shirt, impeccably tailored, and a pair of blue jeans that were perfectly worn to the shape and contour of The Holy One, Blessed Be His legs without looking at all ratty. In His hand was might and power, and the keys to a BMW 7 series. On His brow was wisdom, and a pair of Ray-Bans that, it hardly need be said, fit him perfectly.

"Hello, my son," he said, and His very voice was musical, lyrical, and melodious. "We need to chat, you and I."

"Hey, can this wait?" I asked in my impertinence. "I have to, er, do a thing, see a guy about a thing about another thing..."

"Sorry, no," saith The Lord. "You're stuck with Me for the next little while."

"Well, ok," I said, agreeably enough. "What can I do for you?"

"You're a sinner, a horrible sinner, and I need to discuss your sins with you."

"That's a little harsh, isn't it? Sure, letter of the law and everything, I suppose I'm a sinner, but I'm not that bad. Like how many of the ten commandments have I broken?"

"Nine."

"Oh my...er...goodness," I sputtered. "Are you sure?"

"Shall we go down the list?"

"OK," I said. What are you gonna do, say no to God?

"All right," he said, winding up. "One. I am the Lord thy God."

"I'm an atheist."

"My son, I stand here before you."

"I'll deal with that later."

"Two," He said, moving forward. "Thou shalt have no other gods before Me, nor make any idol."

"OK, well, I do like money, I gotta give you that one too."

"Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain."

"Guilty," I said, not even bothering to try to protest.

"Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy."

"A-ha!" I said. "I keep the Sabbath holy!"

"Son," He said with infinite patience, "Sitting on your hinder and refusing to clean out the litter box does not constitute keeping the Sabbath."

I was left precious little time to reflect on the fact that God used the word "hinder" when He continued.

"Five," the Lord plunged forward. "Honor thy Mother and Father." Before I could utter any word of protest or defense He looked down His graceful, aquiline nose at me. "All the time."

I sighed.

"Six," He said. "Thou shalt not Murder. This one, you're clean."

"Thank G..." I started, before remembering Commandment Three. "Thanks."

"Seven," smirked The Lord. "Thou shalt not commit adultery."

"Listen, don't mean to contradict you here, but I haven't."

"Lust in your heart counts, My son," He intoned.

"Oh shit," I said. "Then I've broken that one tens of thousands of times, haven't I?"

"Two hundred forty three thousand, seven hundred nineteen," said God. "I compliment your imagination."

"Thanks - I mean, sorry," I said. I was starting to feel pretty miserable.

"Eight: Thou shalt not steal. Need I remind you of the Cinnamon Gum Incident of 1973?"

It was only too true. When I was four I took a pack of gum off the shelf, not realizing that my Mother would start to wonder where I was getting all this cinnamon gum. She hauled my ass back to the grocery store and made me apologize to the manager. Very humiliating.

The Lord took my silence as an invitation to continue.

"Nine - thou shalt not bear false witness."

"One time," I said. Sheesh. I was ready to testify that my very drunk buddy wasn't the one driving the car he got stopped in. That's what friends do, right? And anyway, I never actually had to do it; they threw the case out before it even came up.

"Ten," quoth the Lord. "This is a three parter. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house..."

"Clean," says I.

"...or thy neighbor's wife..."

"Wow," I said, stung. "So lust in your heart breaks TWO commandments and murder only breaks one??"

"...or thy neighbor's ass."

"Well, if you mean, thy neighbor's wife's ass, then sure."

He paused for a while, observing me with a slow yet deep look up and down.

"My Son," He said, "These are some serious transgressions. What have you got to say for yourself?"

Seemingly without anything else to say, I said the only thing I could say.

"Sorry?"

He smiled. Even for a non-believer like me that felt pretty good.

"Can't say fairer than that," He said. "My blessings go with you, even though you're an atheist."

"Well, you're probably just indigestion," I smiled. "But it was good talking to you."

10th player award

As baseball season rounds the final turn, let's turn our thoughts to who on the Red Sox is worthy of the 10th player award.

Remember, the criteria is not who is the best player on the team, or its most valuable player; this award goes to the player that has most exceeded expectations of him this year. Forthwith then my four candidates and my pick:

Candidate 1: Julian Tavarez Projected: C- Actual Performance: B+
Out of nowhere, Tavarez has come up big and delivered everything you could want from a fifth starter: Usually good for 6 innings, he keeps the score low when he's on and keeps things close even when he's not. Relegated to the bullpen and ignored for weeks, he's come up big in two recent spot starts. Put the ball in his hand and your team has a fighting chance to win a game, and you can't say that about every team's fifth starter.

Candidate 2: Tim Wakefield Projected: B/B- Actual Performance: A
Quickly, who is tied for most wins in all of baseball with Josh Beckett? Yes, that's right, the stalwart Wakefield. Wake and his maddening, fluttering knuckler have stymied the opposition to the tune of a 16-10 record this year. He's riding a 22-inning scoreless streak. He's added a decent curve ball to his good-for-shock-value-only fastball to keep batters on their toes. He's played himself into the playoff rotation should the boys get there this year. A normal season for Wake is, say, 12-12 with a 4.8 ERA, decent enough numbers, especially for what we're paying him. But this year he's been nothing short of spectacular.

Candidate 3: Hideki Okajima Projected: C/C+ Actual Performance: A+
I confess: I thought Okajima was going to have little impact on the roster. Like most of the Nation, I thought he was brought in to cushion Matsuzaka's landing here on our fair shores. But no. He's turned into the most solid 8th-inning guy since Mariano Rivera set up John Wetteland. He's taken innings (therefore strain) off Papelbon's shoulder and with the emergence of Delcarmen, the acquisition of Gagné, and the resurgence of Timlin, if you're not in the lead by the 6th inning, might as well just mail in the last nine outs and hit the buffet.

Candidate 4: Dustin Pedroia Projected: C+/B- Actual Performance: A+
Nobody had too high hopes for the rookie 2nd baseman - except me, that is. I saw him a lot in Pawtucket and he showed the exact same pattern when he came up to Triple-A: His first two or three weeks he looked completely lost at the plate. Then for a couple or three weeks he started knocking the ball around really good but just right at people. Then it all came together for him and he started spraying the ball all over the place. Sound familiar? I knew that once he locked in that he'd contribute in a meaningful way, and to his credit, Tito Francona saw the same thing. Having said that, I pegged him as a .280/.290 guy. I had no clue that he'd rip up the league and, by the looks of things, position himself to run away with Rookie of the Year. Good for you, Petey.

Winner: No contest, my 10th player for the 2007 Red Sox is Okajima, with the silver medal going to Pedroia.

As always, differing opinions welcome.

My Refuse-Based Existential Crisis

How does one throw away a garbage can?

This isn't one of those stupid hypothetical questions like "why isn't there another word for 'synonym,'" or "why is the word 'abbreviation' so long;" this is the real thing. I have a garbage can that is so decrepit that it cannot stand right side up, and have had it at the curb for three weeks now. And nothing will work to get the garbage collector to collect it.

Think about it: Can't put the word "trash" on it (or "basura" or "lixo"); that would just be an exercise in self-reference - a modern and somewhat baser version of Magritte's painting captioned ceci n'est pas un pipe, except in reverse (and instead of a pipe, it's raw chicken and well-used kitty litter).

Compounding my crisis is the fact that my garbage man is worldly and philosophical, and was more than willing to engage me in what I'm sure he perceived to be a battle of wits.

"Good morning, Johannes," I said to him early one Monday morning recently. His parents had eight children and named each of them for Romantic-era composers.

"Mr. Jacobs, a pleasant good morning to you as well."

"Johannes, I need to discuss this garbage can with you. I'd like you to take it."

"Thank you most kindly, Mr. Jacobs, but I have no need for a garbage can at this time."

"No, you misunderstand. I'd like you to take this and put it in the back of your truck."

"Well," he mused, "were I to do that, of course, it would disappear forever-treated like garbage itself."

"That's precisely what my wishes are along these lines, Johannes." I always felt a little intellectually intimidated by Johannes, and unconsciously chose my words with great care when speaking with him.

"But Mr. Jacobs," he said, easily parrying my first thrust, "the vessel is not the medium. In fact, can not and can never be the medium. It's not garbage. It's a means for transporting garbage from hither to yon with a fair amount of efficiency."

"Yes, certainly," I said, quick to appear in agreement with my sophist adversary. "But this particular vessel has outlived its life. It no longer performs adequately at its only jobs, which are to transport garbage and allow me to bring it to the curb with a modicum of comfort. See, there are large holes in the bottom, so it doesn't hold garbage to any great degree, and look here: both handles have worn off, so it's a chore to drag it to the sidewalk. It's a garbage can in name only, Johannes, and I'd really like it if you would treat it as garbage and put it on your

(goddamn son of a bitching)

truck."

He looked at me for a long moment, carefully considering my argument, weighing each logic point to a nicety in his head. Finally he spoke.

"There's a bigger issue at stake here," said Johannes. "President Lincoln once asked, 'if you consider a tail to be a leg, how many legs does a dog have?'" He paused, clearly expecting me to answer him.

"Five," I said, trying to sound decisive.

"No, sir, that's not the case," he said slowly. "Because considering a tail to be a leg doesn't really make it one. I can't take a garbage can and treat it like garbage itself. I hope, in the fullness of time, you'll come to see my point of view, and perhaps even agree with it. Until then, we must agree to disagree - and I should also remind you that there's a forty pound weight limit on trash cans. Good day, Mr. Jacobs."

"Lookit," I said, losing the last shreds of patience I possessed. "Take this. I want to throw it away. It's trash. It's worse than trash, it's apparently trash that not even the smartest fucking trash man in the world will take. Take the trash can or so help me god I'll report you to the city."

He smiled, a soft smile, more of pity and understanding than humor. He put a gloved hand on my shoulder.

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Mr. Jacobs. You should consider the fact that what truly troubles you lies deeper than this garbage can. Good day."

And with that, he left, leaving me to ponder both his last words and the dawning realization that the last thing his gloved hand touched before my shoulder was apparently a dirty diaper filled with Indian food that had been sitting in the sun for three days.

Until next week, Johannes.

Don't Get Me Wrong...

...I know my last post smacked of over-indulgent self-pity. But I don't want to give my readers, of whom I've grown very fond, the impression that my life is anything but good. Of course, life can be complicated. Really complicated sometimes. But let's get all the cards on the table: Life is really, REALLY good.

Thanks for asking.