Strap In

This one could get ugly.

To those writers who believe in the perfection of their words, the loftiness of their craft, the calling that is theirs, please, may I have a moment of your valuable time?

Thank you.

Go fuck yourself.

Wait, that’s too on the point. Let me back up a smidgen, if you’ll allow.

Let me start by saying I have the utmost respect for anyone who tries to cobble together a coherent line or two; fusses over syntax; ponders a new paragraph.
Many friends write in many different disciplines. I do so look forward to their latest creations and the glee it brings them. I can sit for hours listening
to them wax poetic, if you’ll pardon the hackneyed cliche, over their reason for a poignant plot choice. I have commiserated over cups of disconsolation
while they’ve mourned their latest rejection notice.

It’s not a life for the thin-skinned.

Let’s try an analogy, shall we?  I truly enjoy them analogies. The late, great Mickey Mantle (so as not to get bogged down in discussion, we can all agree he was great and is currently, and for the foreseeable future, late) was enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY with a batting average of .298. That means he failed seven out of ten times when he attempted to ply his trade.

Then what makes you think every word, or even every third word, you write is a fucking gem? It’s not. It’s not for lack of trying, The Mick tried every time
(even when he went up there drunk), but it’s the law of averages. Sometimes you’re going to get a vicious curve that drops off the plate and makes you look
like a total doofus.

It’s the same with writing. Sometimes you’re going to write a line that moves your soul to a better place. Your soul. To other souls? You cracked an egg open
on the paper, locked it in your car, let it sit in the parking lot of the biggest mall in Arizona in August guarded by a lactose intolerant dachshund with dysentery.

And do you know who’s right?

That’s right!

Both of you. It’s all due to perspective. That’s why there are so many books out there. You like that one, I like this one, and that idiot over there, who we both find plebeian, just loves that hack. See? There’s no accounting for taste.

The bottom line is no one is wrong. Writing is all about communicating. Getting a point across. Did you notice I didn’t say your point. Although it is your
point, to a point, it’s conveyed through a character and their voice.

So you’ve got to make that point feel alive in that moment for that character.
Sometimes you’ve got to finesse it. Sometimes it flows. Other times you may have to leave your comfort zone. A phrase that’s perfect for one character changes drastically from the lips of another.

” Yippee ki yay, motherfucker.” Sounds perfect in the voice of John McClane. A rallying cry. But in Hans Gruber’s mouth it’s a garbled and gnarled joke. Yet
they both work for that character in that moment.

And that’s why you self-absorbed dweebs had better stop thinking every word that slips out of your holding tank is sacred. If they were there would be no positions in the world such as proofreader or editor.

Words are tools. Nothing more. Words are used to create something where there is a need. A shopping list, a poem about a dusty road, The Preamble to the United States Constitution. And they all started with a single word: Eggs, Rustic, We. And they are all mere tools to communicate a specific thought: Eating, Driving, Liberty.

But none of those things are perfect. What’s this ‘soy milk’? To quote Lewis Black, there’s no such thing as soy milk ’cause there’s no soy titty. Did he
actually try to rhyme ‘rustic’ with ‘busted’? And the granddaddy of all imperfecting, ah, imperfection, ‘. . .in order to form a more perfect union. . .’
It’s sounds like a schoolyard taunt.

“Nah, nah, nah nah, nah. I’m more perfect than youoou!”

So even in something that gets the point across, perfection is a difficult and slippery slope. So use the tools you have or those you can borrow from a
neighbors dictionary. But don’t get your panties in a bunch because people don’t ‘get it’ because if they don’t ‘get it’ the fault is plainly ‘yours.’ In
your pursuit of more perfection you wandered off Get The Fucking Point Across Avenue.

So dig in and get ‘r done. Don’t try to explain why someone is wrong about your work because it’s futile. If you put a door in my house and it doesn’t close
properly you can give me all kindsa reasons it should but if it doesn’t fucking close you. . .fucked. . .up. Don’t try to distract me with the louver windows
which work just fine.

A slight breeze blows the door open so who needs a fucking window?

Words are tools, like a hammer or ladle. Don’t tell me you have be so fustian because words piss diamond and shit gold ingots because that’s bullshit. They
want to be used and abused. They want to get a happy thought across just as well as a vile.

And they don’t care who uses them. Words are the whores of the
tool shed. A hammer cares if it’s used to bash in someone’s skull because it’s going to live out the rest of it’s days in the police evidence locker. But
words? Nig. . .I think we’ll save that one for another time.

I have friends who write lovely and touching prose. Some of them try to persuade me to come to the bright side and ply my trade in a bed of roses. I have
plenty of thorns in my side right now, thank you very much.

I like using words to hammer someone until their skin sags in horror. It’s in my
wheelhouse. I’m the Mickey Mantle of telling you to go fuck yourself. Which means three out of ten of my quips find purchase in the filthiest of soil.

I like ladling gallons of spew down the gaping maw of those who find insipidness in my method of communication. If you give me nothing else, you’re very
seldom unsure of what I am trying to communicate. Although I don’t take pleasure in it, I’m not bothered when the blood drains from someone’s face when I use a word they find offensive.

What ever happened to ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me’? Have we devolved so far it’s become ‘sticks and stones can break my bones but words can leave invisible scars that will stay with me for life and be the cause of all my future failures and woes’?

Don’t get me wrong, even I can find words offensive. But, although I’ve tried, I just can’t seem to get anyone to stop using that motherfucking word? You
know what that word is?

Cancer.

So please, all I’m saying is words aren’t special and you don’t have magical powers because you can type them. Feel free to use them. Shit, you can even
revel using them. I sure as hell love writing Heineken on the shopping list.

But don’t coddle them. Let ‘em out to communicate. Don’t try to impress with
your inspissate that and belomancy this until there’s grandiloquism up the wazoo. Get the words out, get the thought out and stop being a poopiehead.

If you disagree, if you feel every word which floats from that tar pit brain of yours is a gem to be savored and honored, you are delusional and little more
than a lusus naturae.

Oh yeah, and go fuck yourself.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Here’s a little ditty for mother’s and those who love them.

 

This Time It’s Differences

Would you believe it! I just remembered what I wanted to talk about last time. You remember, that important subject. You remember, don’t you? The differences between man and woman? That’s right! You remember. Yes, I did go a little off topic last time but this time, trust me, eye of the liger. I’ll be sticking to this topic like a booger on a beggars finger.

The main difference between man and woman is tasks. That’s it. For the most part the rest of it is the same. I know women who laugh at the most disgusting things and men who cringe at the mere hint of a testicle smashing joke. I know men with stellar fashion sense and women who are mechanics.

It’s when we go from A to B is where the difference is most visible. When a man needs to go from A to B he starts at A and goes to B as swiftly as possible. When a woman has a task that needs to go from A to B she begins at A then goes to A1 where she thinks about B’s feelings then to A2 where she wonders if she is dressed properly for B then to A3 where she worries about the environmental impact of traveling from A to B then and then and then. It can go on endlessly and it may never come to a satisfactory conclusion.

I can best prove this by going back in time. Back to a time when I (sometimes) wore a tie to work. It was in a big building with many different companies. The weird thing about working in a building is you run into the same people every day. You don’t speak to them, maybe you’ll nod, but they seem like the usual background players in the sitcom of your life.

The day after I broke up with is girl I went to work bummed. No, that’s not true. I was relieved. I would have broken it off a few months before but it was wedding and communion and bat mitzvah season. Every weekend during that time there was something. I’d already committed to it all so was just waiting until that last damn wedding to break it off.

See? I am a nice guy.

That day I saw this woman I’d see every day. We’d had some pleasant conversations over the time. She was funny and smart and cute. We’re in the elevator doing the small talk thing when it dawns on me that I can ask her out. She’s about to exit the elevator when I say,

“Hey, you leave at five, right?” She nods. “If you can, don’t leave without seeing me, okay?” She said she’d try and we go our separate ways.

Now here is when the differences between men and women clearly erupt. I’m telling you this as a public service. The next time the gender you are not does these things you can now relax in the knowledge that it’s just them doing what comes naturally and there’s nothing you (or they) can do about it. They’re not doing it to piss you off. They’re not doing it ‘to’ you. They just are and you can’t change it. It’d be like trying to teach a manatee to juggle. Sure, it’d be fun but, in the end, you’d be frustrated and the manatee would develop a searing sense of low self-esteem.

Later she told me about my asking her out and how she processed it. She said she spent the day thinking about it. She convinced herself that I was, indeed, asking her out. Then, just as surely, that I wasn’t. Then she figured I was just seeing if she wanted to get an after work drink. Nothing weird about that. Most people in the office hit one of the bars to kill time before getting the train. Then she figured I was looking for a new job so was just going to ask her if there were any openings. She went as far as going to human resources to get a job listing sheet. All day long these scenarios flopped back and forth in her head. She said she got next to nothing done all day because of the distractions.

As five drew near that’s when she kicked it into high gear. She made sure her clothes were presentable. Spray a little eau de stink nice on her. Put on a fresh face. One last check to make sure she’s ready. Then another one just to be sure. One last go round in her head. Then she was ready. Unsure but sort of ready.

She was standing near the front door when I got off the elevator I saw her and thought,

“Oh yeah. I’d forgotten I’d asked her to meet me.”

And that is the exact and only difference between men and woman.

Once he puts the ball in motion he doesn’t think about it until it’s back on his side of the court. Because he knows once the ball is in flight it’s out of his control.

Whereas a woman believes once the ball is in play she can change it’s course through will or desire. And the whole time the ball is in the air she feels that with one more adjustment she can bend it to her will.

I’m not saying men are better or even less thoughtful or women care more about things. It’s just the way of the wiring. And, let me tell you guys, you’re lucky it goes that way. Because if women didn’t think it through and take so much time to make a decision, if they went straight from A to B, not one woman in the world would say yes to any of your stupid invitations.

Think about it, men. Do you know what a leap of faith it is to say yes to some random guy, who probably has a visible stain she’s seen but has decided to ignore, who walks up and asks her out? And do you think you’re the first? Not even today, Sport. So what’s she’s done is distill years of ham-handed pick-up lines into an intricate flow chart that she works out to see if you fall into the yes or no category.

So, men, relax when your woman takes forever to make up her mind. After all, she chose you, right? So give her all the time she needs. Maybe next time she’ll make the right decision.

I know we’ve all. . .

. . .seen drivers do dangerous things in traffic. Yes, that’s true.

But, how many of us has it inspired to write a song? Or at least a parody song.

With apologies to The Doors, I bring you

Crazy Driver (sung to the tune L.A. Woman)

Well, traffics going nowhere since ’bout an hour ago
Took a look around, see why it’s a no go
But I couldn’t see a thing so I made little my horn blow

Then I saw a crazy driver who was flying down right
Like a bat right out of hell. . .passing on right
Passing on right, passing on right, passing on right, whoa! BEEP!

Crazy driver, crazy driver
Crazy driver makin’ his car zoom
Crazy driver makin’ his car zoom
Crazy driver makin’ his car zoom

Turn with no signal
Into my lane, into my lane, yeah
Into my lane lane lane
Into my lane, ohhhhhhhhhhh, no

I see your car is flyin’
Quickly spinning tires
I’ve really got to watch you
Hey buddy where’s the fire?

Drivin’ down your freeways
Exhaust belching out
Stopping cars, not getting’ far
Never saw a driver
So insane, so insane
So insane, so insane

No tell honey
Motor madness
He’s changin’ lanes
So bad a real mess

Mr. Crazy Driver, Mr. Crazy Driver
Mr. Crazy Driver, Mr. Crazy Driver
He’s a drivin’ hazard

Mr. Crazy Driver, Mr. Crazy Driver
Crazy Driver, got a Crazy Driver
He’s a Crazy Driver, he’s just a Crazy Driver

Gotta keep on drivin’
Drivin’ drivin’
He’s drivin’ drivin’
He’s drivin’ drivin’
Mr. Crazy Driver, gotta keep on drivin’
Drivin’ drivin’

Just passin’ passin’
He’s lane changin’ changin’
He’s close to crashin’ crashin’
Well, crashin’ crashin’
I gotta gooo yeah crashin’
Woah, ohh yeah

Well, traffics going nowhere since ’bout an hour ago
Took a look around, see why it’s a no go
But I couldn’t see a thing so I made little my horn blow

Then I saw a crazy driver who was flying down right
Like a bat right out of hell. . .passing on right
Passing on right, passing on right, passing on right, whoa! BEEP!

Crazy driver, crazy driver
Crazy driver hazardous driver
Just a crazy driver, crazy driver
Cra-zy driver, crazy driver fuck off

Differences

I am here to fully explain the differences between men and women. Years of human suffering have gone unabated because we just can’t seem to figure out those differences.

Until now.

You’re welcome.

Sorry it took me so long to get to it.

I’ve been busy.

That’s no excuse.

But it has been a jam packed series of decades.

Now where was I?

Was it the stupid spree I went on? That must be it. What could be more important than the stupid spree I went on? Nothing I can think of right now.
I didn’t say it was a mean spree. I went out of my way to be stupid to others because I had a day where I dealt with a gaggle of dead eyed trolls who’d botch their own masturbation.

It came to a head when I was dealing with this producer who wanted some scripts written. Simple work. I basically look at footage, think of something, type it, give it to them, they hand me money. What could go wrong?

The guy, who I’ve known for years but never worked with, is a little full of himself. In the manner that Augustus Gloop was a little full. But it ‘s not the first pompous dork I’ve dealt with. But he took it to a new level by trying to sell me his resume as a reason I should, how should I say? Temper my desire for money by being bathed in that which is his gleam.

Fuck that shit.

I told him although I appreciated his resume (I lied) I appreciate eating more. That seemed to make him unhappy. So he started to tell me how easy it would be, how prestigious it would be, how if I worked for him my words would be enjoyed by the multitude.

Seeing I was unmoved by his generous offer to volunteer he pulled out his stopper, his ace in the hole, his holy grail.

“I had a show on the Christian Science Monitor Network.” Swayed as I wasn’t, I said,

“I walk past that building all the time and don’t care. What chance does a defunct network I never watched have to sway me?”

A day later I was still bugged by this. So, walking through a downtown area, I knew I needed to blow off a little steam. I didn’t want to fuck up anyone’s day but give them something memorable to bring home for their daily ‘you won’t believe what some idiot did today’ moment.

I rushed into a big drug/anything else their wholesaler will sell them store looking around frantically. I’ve seen that work in the past so thought I’d give it a shot. And damned if it didn’t work.

A managerial looking guy with that twice divorced, six weeks behind on child support to the wrong ex-wife look strode up and asked if he could help me.

“Yes!” I bleated breathlessly. “Do you have blue scissors?” I stared at him expectantly as he attempted to process that.

“Ah, blue scissors?”

“Yes!” I asserted uncertainly. I had no idea where I was going with this or how or why I said blue scissors. But I’ve come to the point in my life where I don’t question myself. I find that safest.

“Ah, why blue?”

“Because they cut the best!” I snapped disgustedly before turning away and walking out the door. “Everyone knows that!”

Most people would have stopped there. Taken that little moment of Zen and let that carry them thought their day. But most people aren’t me. And most people didn’t see a grocery store a few hundreds yards away. As a buddy of mine is wont to say, in for a dime, in for a dollop.

I didn’t say he was a bright buddy.

I walked through the store picking up anything that looked disgusting. A few random pickled and broiled and freeze dried items. Not a lot. I’m an idiot but very lazy about it. I carried my little basket to the cash register adding one more item along the way.

I stand in the line patiently waiting my turn. Smiling, politely, when anyone made eye contact. A carefree man with nothing but time to spare. As I stood there one prank I did years ago popped into my head.

I was taking old files from one computer to another. There was this folder filled with sounds. I listened to a few then opened up with one and laughed.

It was message an old girlfriend left. I laughed and, a second before trashing it, had a thought. I’d leave it on my current answering machine so when my current girlfriend heard it she’d have a nutty until I explained my hilarious prank. I called the house, left the message then promptly forgot about it.

A while later my girlfriend called. Very freaked out. Oh, oh. But I didn’t panic. I’d see where this went. Turns out she’d changed her plans and didn’t go out with friends. She stayed home. After puttering around she decided she’d lay down and rub one out. In the middle the phone rang, she fought to get her attention back then the answering machine kicked in and she heard a woman’s voice say,

“I want you.”

Now she’s freaked out thinking someone can see her. She slides off the bed and shuts the shades. She sat in the corner for a while until she found the strength to crawl to the phone to call me. She was totally freaked that someone was watching her. I listened and told her everything was okay. But that wasn’t enough. She went on and on and on. Finally she calmed down but talked about it for days.

I never told her what I did.

A smile on my face remembering that story I take my items out of the basket. When it’s my turn I stop the cashier before she swiped the first item.

“How long have you worked here?” Disinterested, she answers.

“Three years.”

“Good!” I say with sunshine beaming from the O’s. “Then maybe you can answer this.” I pause for a moment making sure she gets into the correct slumping position for answering customers questions. “Do you think this is enough toilet paper for this amount of food?”

She furrowed her brow and, without even looking at my goods, said, “I don’t know.”

I scoff at her and say, “Well, you’ll never make manager.” And walk out of the store.

But I’m sure that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I was supposed to be discussing an important topic. Not my randomly fucking with people. Oh well, maybe I’ll remember it next time.

The Doctor Is In!

And he will see you now!

http://laffirmations.wordpress.com/

Requiescat in pace.

One of the greats.

http://www.jonathanwinters.com/

Give a listen to him on Mark Maron’s WTF:

http://wtfpod.libsyn.com/episode-173-jonathan-winters

You asked!

People come up to me, concerned, that I’ll make fun of them. Or worse. A concern I run into is they’ll end up being typed about. There’s a very simple way to avoid even that slightest of possibilities (trust me, with the number of people I see in a day, the chance you’ll get singled out is slim) and here it is: Don’t.

That’s it. Don’t. If you’re thinking of something as simple as coming to see me, don’t. That way you’ll avoid stress and I’ll avoid having to pretend to care. But, for whatever reason, you decided you have a pressing need to avoid the simplest of don’ts the next best way not to run afoul is don’t try. Don’t try to be funny; don’t try to be charming; don’t try to be clever; don’t try to be anything you’re not. If you happen, naturally, to be funny or charming or clever, we won’t have a problem. You’re just being you, I’m just being me and we’ll make the best of it.

But I guess the main thing to avoid when stalking the tactless Zell is asking for my opinion or help. That’s not exactly right. Don’t ask for my opinion then hate it. I guess that’s it. First rule to avoid ridicule, don’t; second rule, don’t try; third rule don’t ask my opinion then dislike it.

There. Those things will pretty much keep you from being viciously mocked and held up as an example to future people who believe the rules don’t apply to them.

I guess it’s a shame this guy didn’t follow any of those rules.

A guy comes to see me (there goes rule one), we start talking, he tries to be funny (strike two), but finally he gets to the point. He wants to ask how I’d handle a situation (you’re out!).

It turns out his son has a predilection for dressing in women’s clothing. The father found out through the keeper of all secrets, Facebook. He saw a post on his sons page from a friend who referred to the son in the feminine and said she put on a great show the night before.

The father, as any good Facebookian would do, stalked that name like a 45 year old guy on his seventh grade crush. It didn’t take long for the father to find the son in drag. He didn’t think my question,

“Well? Was she hot?”

Was in good taste.

He said his son, who lives out of state, was coming for a visit. He knew he was going to have to mention what he found. I could tell it was gnawing at him. But how do you broach something like that? The father was snooping. It’s like you were rummaging around your mother’s belongings looking for money and found her dildo. How are you going to get that into the conversation? It’s minefield, let me tell you.

He asked what I’d say. I told him I’d tell my son I knew and ask him to dress for me. If he did I’d stand in front of him, look him straight in the eye and say,

“No son of mine is going to wear a dress that short! Your taint’ll catch it’s death! What’s wrong with you? Who wears neon after Easter? You look like a candy coated Kardashian! In my day transvestites had class! They’d wear gowns! Throw balls. And hold them!”

Why do people ask my advice if they’re not going to stick around for the answer?

Church Of Baseball

Last Tuesday was the first eighty degree day of the year. Sun blazing. Air filled with the first shudder of summer. As if the atmosphere was shaking off the frost and hibernation.

And I had the day off!

So you know what I did?

That’s right!

Helped someone move into a three-story, walk-up in Boston on a narrow street with resident parking only which didn’t mean a damn because there was no parking to be had.

But this isn’t about that endeavor. Ghastly as it was. It’s a big part of my skill set to forget the refrigerators of the past, hoisted into my chest, dripping something quite a bit more viscous than water into my crotch and sock with a flight and a half to go.

Some say I can forget these minor interruptions because I’ve been hit in the head more frequently than the AMA deems reasonable. But I think it’s because I like to focus on what’s ahead. Forget the shit and keep looking for the pudding.

And that’s just what we did. As I’m changing my shirt (I didn’t have the foresight to bring pants. Or socks) we’re discussing what our next adventure is. Being in Boston our thoughts turn toward some places we hadn’t visited forever, if at all, but also some of our favorite boites (if you’ll excuse the term used for places with pest strip sticky floors).

“How about The Bleacher Bar?” I offer knowing it’s a winning suggestion. Not that we’ll go there, just that I won’t be looked at as if I’d just called places with pest strip sticky floors ‘boites’.

Knowing it’s hours before the game I have a good feeling we can get on street parking. Which we do. Right under something, less viscous than what is stuck to my pants but still unnerving, dripping from the over a century old Fenway Park. I don’t know about you, but, I’m leery of things dripping on me from anything one hundred years old.

“Whatever that is better not take the paint off my truck,” my better half says semi-undeterred.

We enter The Bleacher Bar and it’s fairly empty. A few workers milling about waiting for the inevitable pre-game rush. There’s a lone man sitting in the area in front of the grate that offers a priceless view of Boston.

Dead centerfield to home plate at Fenway Park.

Oh sure, for the previously mentioned hundred years, that view was available. From a minimum of seventeen feet in the air.

This is a ground level, unobstructed, three hundred and ninety foot view to home plate and the rest of the ‘lyric little bandbox’ John Updike so perfectly described.

This is a view a select few like Ellis Burks, Fred Lynn, Reggie Smith, Coco Crisp, Tris Speaker, Dom DiMaggio, Dave Roberts, Jacoby Ellsbury, Jimmy Piersall, Tommy Harper, Tony Armas and, yes, even Johnny Damon, among few others have enjoyed.

We’ve been to The Bleacher Bar many times and almost every time I’ve seen someone walk away from the grate with tears in their eyes. I’ve seen people gasp. I’ve seen people transfixed, unable to move until tased.

If baseball is a religion in Boston, this bar is our vatican.

Sort of fitting for Boston, wouldn’t you agree?

We walk through the vast bar to our seats at the trinity of tables at our alter. The guy sitting in the middle table, alone, barely registers our arrival. It wasn’t until we order our beverages (“The blood of Tris”) and snacks (“The body of Lynn”) that he pulled himself away.

“I didn’t even know this place existed.”

He was a Bostonian by right but moved away as an adult. He was here with his wife who was taking some classes a long throw from us. He was surprised none of his friends, who’d never left Boston, didn’t tell him about it.

“Guess it’s time for new friends.” I offered. He didn’t disagree.

Emboldened by Cape Codders, he approached the grate, swiftly crouched and, unseen by any authority, stuck a finger through the grate to gather a pinch of warning track clay. Coming back with less than is kicked off a cleat, he is satisfied and not too bloodied.

“My Father would kill me if I didn’t get him some.”

I’m sure wills have been altered for lesser transgressions.

Soon after the day went from light and larcenous to a place many people, myself included, didn’t think existed anymore.

A couple arrived so, in respect, we sat quietly allowing them to worship as they saw fit. You could tell they were tourists. But that didn’t stop them, the guy more so, from allowing the experience to envelop him.

For awhile the five of us sat there, yes, transfixed, left alone to our own thoughts and memories. The breeze that blew in from home plate buzzed me like high heat during a pennant race. There was a flavor. Sweet yet melancholy (we ARE Red Sox fans, after all) that reminded me of the reasons I love this game.

It contained every ball I every caught, threw, got hit by. Every ball I hit square and those I chipped in disappointment. Every time I stepped on the field, no matter what went happened last game, there was an opportunity for perfection.

Short lived most of the time, but hey, how many people can say they threw a three pitch inning AND had an unassisted triple play? Not in the same game (I’d STILL be bragging about that) or decade, but, damnit, I did it!

And it could only have happened in baseball.

And that’s why we became fans. That why we began following our team. That’s why we root. Because, as silly as it is, we can still see ourselves, in our mottled and dirt strewn third generation uniforms, making those plays.

After a respectful amount of time we traded greetings. But, being Boston and him being in a Miami (Heat not Marlins – not that it matters) shirt, there had to be a ration of ribs fed. He took it in stride and, in lackluster defense, said he wasn’t even a Heat fan.

He was a Lebron fan.

As if THAT made it any better.

But, because of where he was, he was forgiven his transgressions.

It turns out he and his photographer, oh, I mean wife had been on the road visiting ballparks. It’s their goal (yes, not just his. We confirmed this. She’s a fan. And photographer but someone has to take the pictures!) to visit every major league ballpark.

This was their last day on the road but, arms laden with goodies (he didn’t want to leave it back at the hotel with his bags. Priorities, you see. You can always get new underwear but a Dave Winfield signed lithograph? Not as easy), he had to visit The Bleacher Bar once more.

“This is the best ballpark I’ve ever seen.”

Oh sure, suck up now, James lover!

But it was true. It was in his eyes. You could feel it move throughout his body. He was, as Annie Savoy so aptly stated in Bull Durham, in the church of baseball.

He regaled us with this trip, their others, they were talked into making a pilgrimage to spring training parks, he showed us game used balls, autographs, pictures (many, many pictures. Some of which he was asked who the person was only to be told, “I’ll tell you later!”), stories about who he’d seen on the street (the dog whisperer! Amazingly, walking dogs), in a bar (who, if his performance the next day was any indication, maybe shouldn’t have been there so late), one about having to pay $40 to walk into a similar bar at Yankee Stadium (“That included nothing!” He said. “The least they could have done,” I replied. “Was smack you in the head and say, ‘Welcome to New York, sucker!’”) and many other warm and fuzzy stories.

That’s when it hit me. All these yahoos in their $300 ‘official’ jerseys and Yankees Suck chants at bar mitzvah could never understand this man. Just a guy from Los Angeles, in a Heat t-shirt, with his bags full of memories waiting for their spots in his rec room. Oh, and they have them! He described his rec room in intense detail.

Maybe they were never transfixed, lost in that forever moment between the time the ball leaves the bat until it reaches that final destination. That’s the moment, when joy and despair are conjoined twins, fans like him are made.

After a long while he seemed to be in the bottom of the ninth in a tight August contest. He slowed down to absorb the last few moments here. His departure was imminent and it hung heavy.

He watched a couple players from The Angels, his home team, jog past. One of them, a guy he said is a guaranteed superstar, recognized him and told him not to get too drunk tonight. That simple exchange caused roars of laughter and a camaraderie he’ll always keep close.

All because of his love for baseball.

Moments before he had to drag himself away, melancholy filled the air. It wasn’t sadness as much as the inevitable. Just like a baseball game, it will always come to an end. Happy for some, sad for others.

We shook hands, closer than we’d been mere hours before. I told him I was glad he visited Boston and we were fortunate to have him. And with that, they were gone to be replaced by another group. Sad for some, happy for others. I started to engage but they didn’t have it. The panache. The passion. The love for the game. So I let them be.

Shortly after, as is the rule, they put down the overhead door putting a barrier between people and the grounds. Too many yahoos and not enough fans, I guess.

And with that, it became just another bar with a great address. So that’s when the believers filed out.

Later that night, watching the game from the friendly confines of my living room, I felt sad. Until the Angel who reminded the guy not to get hammered came to bat. He’d told me he was sure this player was going to hit a home run tonight. I said I’d think of him if it happened. It didn’t.

But it didn’t stop me from thinking about him, high over the skies of middle America, with his bag full of smiles and heart full of excitement. And it won’t stop me from thinking about him again.

Because of meeting him, hopefully, I’m going to be a fan.

For all the right reasons.

To bad for her. . .

. . .LOL isn’t a valid legal defense.

http://metro.co.uk/2013/04/03/woman-jokes-shes-killed-husband-as-april-fools-day-prank-but-police-dont-see-the-funny-side-3580718/