Wow… aren’t you amped? I mean, Opening Day for the greatest sport in the world: baseball. I am so fuckin’ psyched!
Wait a sec. Whatcha say? Last night was the All Star Game. C’mon. Yer just funnin’ me. Except that when I consult my calendar, I see that you aren’t.
Fuck! Did I nod off on Opening Day? What am I, Rip van Winkle? Or is this some sort of selective memory loss—was Opening Day so bad that I’ve blotted it out?
Could be. I am, after all, a Cubs fan. But no, no. Gotta have more faith than that. Besides, it is only rational thought, logic and clothing that distinguish us from our animal slaves. So we must scientifically reconstruct what happened here. I am, after all, a professional detective. Sooooooooooo…. Let’s re-create the crime!
First, lemmee put on my Sherlock Holmes hat and take a quick sniff o’ blow, just like the Great Detective did. I’d break out my violin and start playing the sorta atonal free jazz that gave Doc Watson the runs, bit I don’t have a violin. OK. How do they usually start these investigations? I went to film school. I seen a lotta film noir. Why do ya think I got into this biz?
Where do the guys in those movies usually start w/ these amnesia things? I know! What’s the last thing I remember that happened on or around Opening Day? Less’ee… I was anticipating Opening Day, and then it was here. Five minutes ago. Except apparently it happened once before that—it really happened—when all of this started…
On Opening Day, I pulled down my filthy window shades just like I always do. Don’t want no sunlight breakin’ my concentration or depressing me. (Except for the virtual sunlight on TV, I mean.) Then I plunked three freezer burnt Ball Park™ franks in the toaster oven and pushed down the little slider. Then I rolled in my mini cooler, filled to the rim w/ cans of Old Style™ beer and cracked one open. I checked and made sure my pint of Seagram’s™ was within reach, in case things went bad by the seventh inning stretch and we were losing by more than 10 runs, or if things went really bad and Bernie Mack was singing “Take Me out to the Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch. I turned off my phone because I didn’t want anyone pulling my attention away from something so special, and I know some assholes who are actually so crass that they might try to do so, like my mother. We rarely speak, and if we do, you can bet your ass it’s Opening Day or Elizabeth Elmore night on the local independent music channel. She’s always ruining something.
But filial affection aside, just what the fuck did happen on Opening Day anyway? We’re losing track here, and that’s no way to run an investigation. Remember, ol’ No Shit Sherlock hizself said that when you’ve eliminated every possibility, (thus the No Shit part, I guess,) then what’s left, however improbable, has gotta be the real deal It. So no more sleeping at the switch. As that other great detective, Joe Friday enthused over saying, Just the facts.
Ho-K. Shades: down. Beer: in hand. Seagrams™: just in case. Weenies: charred. Ah well. I have walked the dog. I have turned off the phone. Nothing can distract me—except for trips to the restroom.
Click on the TV. No problems there, still working, ‘tho you have to sit through about 5 minutes of static before you get comprehensible sound, but, like, who cares? Mostly I’m just watchin’ jigglin’ packages or boobs, and they don’t talk. Only their owners can, and really good, artful TV makes it so you don’t have to know who those are, let alone listen to their inane and depressing speech. And I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout porn here. I’m talkin’ ‘bout every well made commercial, sitcom, cartoon, or infomercial there is.
But god damn it. We’re off track again. Opening Day. I’m beginning to have some suspicions as to how I might have lost all memory of it, being as I can’t even stay focused on an attempt to remember it. I’m developing a theory here along these lines, but I’m not gonna reveal it to ya yet, because altho’ they’re all about having an open mind and shit, great detectives like Holmes and Columbo always obviously have a theory early on, but they won’t tell anybody, ‘cuz that wouldn’t let ‘em be smug assholes, and since that’s the tradition of detectivery, (or whatever,) I’m gonna have pride in my profession and uphold it’s sacred precepts like this one about being a smug asshole.
Now. What happened next? Oh yes! I know…There were a lotta commercials! Can’t believe I forgot that one. There are always way, way too many commercials when you’re watching a ballgame. Makes you feel kinda dirty, doesn’t it? Or maybe not. Well there are even more of them when it’s a special ball game, like Opening Day, the All-Star Game, a playoff game, or when some baseball legend, like, say, Ronnie Belliard, nobly achieves a heroic statistical accomplishment, like, say, being the first player ever to noisily break wind while turning a double play for the 5th time in his career. (My condolences to all the sports journalists following Ronnie around for the 37th game in a row, just waiting for him to rip one off. Thought waiting on Glavine or Bonds or Maddux was bad? Sit down and enjoy a cup of this.)
Come to think of it—and zoinks! This may be a clue—I was beginning to find myself nodding off in front of all these commercials, dreaming of that first pitch that was gonna be thrown out by Ethel Merman. (Isn’t she dead? Shit. This is getting kinda creepy.) But then one of the commercials got even loud than all the other commercials that were already 20-or-so times as deafening as the actual ballgames—and I’m always too dimwitted to look for the mute button till the commercials are mostly over. See, now there’s yr. clue. TV. Sleep. Maybe some aliens or the government or some terrorists or, gulp, Bernie Mack had conceived of a sleep ray that hit you whenever you started watching TV. (Just like Lex Luthor or Grodd the Gorilla or Cheetah.) Then the nefarious asshole(s) would sneak down and steal alla yr. toilet paper so you might run out at just the wrong moment: when yer makin’ Hamburger Helper for Two, over candlelight, in hopes of impressing yer latest paramour, ‘cuz fuck are you getting’ old and you just wanna make sure you don’t die alone and toothless. But this here… this is gonna really ruin yer chance of getting lucky tonight, isn’t it?
But wait. That isn’t a clue. That’s a theory. And if you’re a really good sleuth, you don’t mix up the 2…
Herm. Gotta think harder. And harder. Oh! I know! Back to that whole recreate the crime smegma…
Well, here it was. The first pitch. And boy, were my brains mushed up, ‘cuz that ain’t Ethel Merman. It’s Murray Ethel, affectionately known as Moray Eel, local Chicago broadcast legend, who for years has been calling high school girls soccer games throughout the greater Chicagoland area till he got busted for having naughty photos in his possession. Really disturbing degrading photos. Broke up his marriage. Got his name dragged through the refuse. All for some stupid photos of guys screwing llamas. Damn Michael Jackson and the influence he’s had on our culture!
“Moray” flings it—overhand and everything! —and the floppy waddles that line his upper arms jiggle about like the head of one of those toy birds w/ a spring for a neck. Ball goes about 3 feet, and backup catcher Henry Blanco is obliged to stand, knees crackin’, and trundle over toward the mound. National Anthem. Play Ball. Is that the order everything goes in? Don’t know. Feelin’ spacey.
A leprechaun. His lil’ pointy red beard juts at me. His corncob pipe pulses, then releases. Pulses, then releases.
We’re standing in this big, cartoon-green grass field, lined w/ flowers and butterflies. Off in the distance are shadowy, sinister mountains.
Lep gives me a naughty smile and lets his jacket drop to the ground. He undoes his vest, dancin’ a lil’ jig as he goes. Still starin’ straight into my eyes, he unbuttons his ruffled shirt. It falls to the ground, revealing pale flesh, lined w/ spotty red hair.
Fuck. He’s got these big luscious pointy nipples. They look just like raw carrot sticks, fresh dug from the ground.
‘Twouldst thou like to pinch my nipples?
Boy, ‘twould I ever! Lemme at ‘em! Look I’m a lobster! Pinch! Pinch!
Ow! Not so rough! Thou art hurtin’ me!
Oh yeah? Well thou art spurtin’ me! C’mere!
Woopf! Crack!
Ronnie that’s strike 2, as Dempster swings at a pitch in the dirt…
Y’know Pat, it’s kinda weird that Dempster’s at the plate, being as he’s not pitching for, like, 3 days…
You’re right, Ronnie. It is weird. Maybe because Steve Forcemen, P.I. is still dreaming. This is just like one of those false wakings like they do on bad TV shows when the writing staff is creatively bankrupt. Or like Nightmare on Elm Street, wherein the heroin, I mean heroine of the film—man she was a cute lil’ vixen, not that I, Pat in my gay-ass sweater care about chicks, no matter how many kids I’ve fathered. I mean, listen to me. Look at me. See me. Feel me. But then you’re one of those old-timey color commentators, so yer prob. a virulent homophobe, so let’s just pretend I did think that chick was hot. I mean, it’s not that much of a stretch. After all, she had very little in the way of curves in that body. All hard angles, as I recall, and here, sadly, I mean “hard” only in the literal sense. But she did have that weird little intriguing mouth. It sorta looked like she was sneering, and she had those big moist lips, all sloppy n’ shit. Boy that franchise went downhill pretty fast. The first one was kewl, but then they all sucked after that, and there were approx. 67 of ‘em (not even 69, which woulda been sorta redeeming in a lame kinda way). Anyhow, at the end she keeps waking up, and that was cool, ‘cuz it really fucked w/ yr. head, but when they do it on TV, it’s always obvious (and lame) that the person is dreaming. Hate that. And I think that’s just what’s happening w/ this blog entry here: a dream-w/in-a-dream, cuz, like, how else would I know this was a blog entry? Or a dream? Or a dream within a blog entry? (Within an enigma?) Or whatever?
Pat, you’re getting’ a lil’ overexcited w/ alla this cogitation Look atcha…you’re salivating like a rabid dog! (My dog… why doesn’t my dog like me? I give it treats n’ walks n’ Salisbury steak n’ stuff…)
C’mere, sweet meat.
Pat, let go of that intern!
Ouch! Mr. Hughes, that hurts!
Take it, bitch! Strike 3 called…
Y’know, Pat, I think you’re gettin’ into somethin’ like sexual harassment here!
Ronnie, did you know that if you scramble the letters in the term “sexual harassment,” you can get “ah net mans ass rr?”
Cheh heh har har har! Wait a second… no you don’t! That’s too many esses, Pat.
Astute as ever, Ronnie. Now tell us about the opposing pitcher, Babe Ruth…
Well, Babe’s got a wicked changeup, esp. when he’s dead and inhabiting someone’s dream. He can work both sides of the plate. Throws about 3000 mph, but he’s also got a sinker, or maybe it’s a split finger pitch or a fork ball or maybe a screwball or maybe a blue ball or maybe a lollygagger or an echinoderm or a pachyderm or a chiaroscuro or…”
So I was like Rip van Winkle! I slept through Opening Day… I’m so ashamed. I mean, in my defense there was that rain delay. 41 minutes? I mean, c’mon, cut me some slack. Except, but wait! You have to cut me some slack. I remember some of the game! Really! It’s coming back to me! Hmmm… Ah! I know! Carlos Zambrano struck out to open the third inning, and then… wait… This can’t be right… Another rain delay! 49 minutes!
I wasn’t happy about this at the outset. I decided to play an old drinking game that I roll out when I’m alone: I started calling people I’ve had sex w/ before parting on bad terms. Call ‘em up, say, “you’re pathetic,” laugh insanely for approximately 12 minutes and/or/maybe until they hang up, and then hang up on them. It’s hilarious!
Except for that the rise of caller ID has made the whole thing less fun. Now a lotta of um can tell who you are. Ya just can’t get yr. name listed as Dipstik Shittoes on the old Caller ID Database, wherever and whatever that may be. So yr. party knows it’s you. And they can rehash and magnify certain moments of weakness from yer past during which you couldn’t stiffen, open, part, pant, whatever you couldn’t do, and that gets a little depressing, which is counter-productive, as what you were tryin’ to do was uplift yer mood by depressing the other person.
So instead I opened up a copy of Blow Hunks and considered whackin’ off to all the moist n’ perky beef I found therein, but the mood just didn’t seem right, so I put on a Barry White record and started mumbling at the magazine, trying to get it in the mood, but it seemed all distant and cold still, so I turned to some EC Comics reprints. I was readin’ this one about a guy who gets revenge on the owner of this orchard who tried to kill him by dropping him down an elevator shaft that he had lined with acid—in advance, of course. The wounded party, who’s all scarred and has flesh falling offa him like Star Jones, peels all the skin offa his would-be murderer’s head, candies it, then bakes it into this gigantic pie, which in the last panel, he stretches toward you and sez, “Want it ala mode?”
And I said, “Good lord! Choke!” realizing that alla this pie shit had made me hungry, and not for apple nor even hair pie, but for mincemeat pie, and I went to the freezer, where I usually keep things like mincemeat pie, when I have them around, which is never, and couldn’t find any mincemeat pie but after I dug through the ice for approximately 3 hours, what I did find was an almost entirely crystallized tub of strawberry ice cream. I was left to wonder just what the fuck it was doing there, as I fuckin’ hate strawberry ice cream, but mayhap I’d been stickin’ my dick in it and then tryin’ to get some house guest or other to blow me. I do stuff like that when I’m really drunk some times. I plan it in advance just like that dude in that EC, and I prob. got the ice cream in advance, selecting the most loathsome kind, on accounta that making the whole thing seem dirtier, but then whoever it was prob. wouldn’t blow me, ‘cuz they never do, and the ice cream got left sitting there ever since, cuz like no fuckin’ way wuz I gonna eat strawberry ice cream, except for that now I was cuz I was bored and hungry and couldn’t go out the door to get anything cuz I hate it out there, and besides it was Opening Day, and I didn’t want to miss one minute more, and plus I couldn’t have anything delivered, cuz I was a lil’ broke, so I hadda eat this shitty ice cream, and sure enough, it had a big, deep dick print in it. (OK you got me—not too big, and not too deep.)
So tub n’ spoon in hand, I did return to the ol’ sofa. I slurped on the foul, freezer burned crusty stuff and further studied the foul otherwise burned crusty stuff in Blow Hunks. It wasn’t very satisfying. I was suckin’ on that spoon mmm mmm. But my mood was still shitty. I threw the tub of ice cream on the coffee table, hoping my cat would go at it, ‘cuz I just couldn’t motivate myself to put it away.
On TV, Wrigley sat soggily. How long could this fuckin’ thing go on? I began counting sheep, but kept getting’ distracted, so instead I counted Brian Eno’s. After all, he kinda looks like a fat, balding little sheep. There he went in a fleecy little suit. He flew over a little wooden fence, pad of paper in hand, writing ambient little electronic melodies to help you sleep.
In retrospect, it seems clear that combining jumpin’ sheep imagery w/ peaceful Brian Eno toonz was not a good idea—not if I wanted to stay awake for the game anyway. Pretty soon, I was out like George Takei…
But I did see a little more of the game, ‘cuz at some point, I was awakened by a very, very loud thunk. Turned out that Kerry Wood had just hit the first batter in the top of the ninth, which, through some chain of events that I very much would not be able to grasp later, they decided to walk Prince Fielder (along w/ his monolithic head, which might just as easily have represented another batter,) gave up a single to Ryan Braun, and then served up a double to Cory Hart. (Guess you really shouldn’t mess around w/ the guy in shades, eh?) And now it was 3-0 Milwaukee. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I guess, I missed alla that drama—after the plunking, I mean—‘cuz the shotta gin I took knocked me right back out. But at least I was wearing a small smile after seeing the plunking, as I drifted of to the Land of Nod.
Ronnie, I think I just wet myself.
Y’know, Pat, every time a Cub player hits a triple, the Dependz Co. will donate $75 to the Adult Incontinence Institute of Rhode Island. (Formerly known as the Rhode Island School of Design.) We thank ya for it Dependz.
I’ll say. Gotta towel? Damn, sticky already.
Pat, yer soundin’ kinda out of character…
Piss off, Ronnie. Woops! Ha! I just did! Hahaha!
No. Really. You don’t sound like yerself at all.
Sheeeeet beeyatch… You be trippin’ fooo… Ar. Matey. Ahm gittin’ thuh vapors, kind suh. Do carry me off to mah bed. (‘Tho I’m not a woman of low charactah.)
Shit. Can we get me a new partner? Pat’s losin’ it here!
Arf! Arf! Chirp!
Maybe somethin’ inna Winona Ryder. (Hubba hubba!)
They’re comin’ to take me away haha…Heehee…Haha…
Mmff… Wait. What? Now it’s the 10th inning. Please tell me I’m still dreaming. I fuckin’ hate extra innings. I don’t think I can sit through (well… sleep through…) any more. Oh wait. It was the 10th inning. It just ended. Thank god. Dodged that bullet at least. Butt, like, who won?
And wow, look, I seem to've nodded off again. It’s July 16th. Last night was the All Star Game. And, lessee... The American League won? The hell you say!
OK, OK. So I did miss Opening Day, not to mention half the regular season. Not a very good fan, am I? Well then, I’ve admitted it, and now that I have, howza ‘bout you update me on what else has been going on in the baseball world… In Cubdom, Soriano’s on the DL. Predictable. Anyway, that’s OK—look over there, across the division: Aaron Harang’s choking. That’ll help us. Something else must be helping us—we’re in first place. Ryan Dempster’s 10-3??? OK, come on now. Dempster gives up long balls n’ walks like they’re nuts n’ berries, and the opposing teams are Yogi n’ BooBoo. (One of TV’s very first openly gay couples.) He can’t be the only thing carrying us. Jim Edmonds signed w/ us??? And he’s hitting well??? OK, c’mon… yer just fucking w/ me now…
Let’s move away from the Cubs, ‘cuz this is just getting too silly. What’s happening in what is theoretically the most dominating division in MLB: the AL East. OK, so the Yankees are buried in the middle somewhere? Well, I guess you could see that one coming, though it’s hard to believe that the end to this long ride has come. OK so as Lou Costello might say, who’s in first? Mmmf… yeah right. Dude, that’s so blatantly facetious. You’re just doing that inversion thing—picking the possibility that is the farthest from the truth for the sake of humor, and let’s face it—that’s never convincing and rarely funny. Y’know, like saying China’s the least populous country in the world.
OK. Now I’ve got the standings right in front of me and… Tampa Bay??? You were telling the truth! However could I have doubted you?
Shit, I really did sleep through a lot. Really. A lot. God damn it. I’m lucky we didn’t make contact w/ alien life, (who would immediately capture the NL West. It’s almost always wide open). Or that Bea Arthur didn’t take her shirt off on House Hunters. Or maybe, more appropriately, Ghost Hunters.
But there’s nothing to be done for it now. I’ll just have to enjoy whatever excitement the rest of the baseball season has in store for us. No matter how boring it is.
And next year ‘tho, I will not fall asleep on Opening Day. No matter how boring it is.
