Wednesday, May 18, 2005  

Rainy Days Make Me Hallucinate

Yet another grey and dismal day in New England, and somehow the thought that David Wells will be starting a baseball game in a few hours does nothing to improve my mood. It's perfect moping weather but good for nothing else. If I still wrote depressive poetry about unattainable women, I'd be in hog heaven. It's the sort of day that when I was younger would have called for drinking at 2:00 and making bad choices by 5:00. But I'm old and responsible now, so I have to swap coffee for whiskey and writing for fighting. This is, of course, subject to change if The Whiteboy starts throwing meatballs instead of binging on them. I'm always amazed there's no actual sauce on his jersey or a half-eaten sub hidden in his dugout cubby.

This is what I'm talking about. The weather makes me a hater. What do I care if DW's a chunkamunk? I should be rooting for him, sending him positive vibes Santa-Fe style. If anybody can muster love for a big bald drunk, it ought to be me. Go get 'em, Whiteboy! Put that inertia to work and get some K's at the expense of the fumbling, bumbling A's, who, I was suprised to see, are not actually managed by Walter Matthau.

You, the insomniacs, swingers, dropouts and misanthropes that make up my readership sent me reams of email about the last column. The consensus: I shouldn't be allowed to purchase, listen to, or write about music. I expected at least a little backup, but save for Brendan from Scamper, y'all mostly adopted a tough love policy. Fine. Me and Avril don't need you snobs, anyway. You'll be sorry. She's buying me skateboard lessons in exchange for helping her out with her kissing technique (too much nibbling, not enough flicking).

Good show tonight: 8:00, the Comedy Studio. Me, bodhisattva jesus DJ Hazard, and Pete Gustin from WEEI with news cameras in tow, plus a menagerie of promising newcomers and assorted riffraff. Please come out and laugh. Free admission if you say you're on the VIP list, which, as VIP list criteria go, is pretty easy. Usually there's a monetary, fame, or cup size criteria, but we're open-minded in Cambridge. So come on down with your poor, flat self, and get in on the fun.