which, of course is what people from Massachusetts lovingly refer to themselves.

when i was doing the baseball blog, my favorite blog was “the bambino’s curse”, not just for the beautiful design and heartbreakingly true title, but because of the sharp writing and indepth daily coverage of home team, the red sox, who haven’t won a world series since it traded babe ruth nearly 100 years ago.

only my beloved Cubs have experienced a longer drought of futility.

regardless, i was thrilled to ever get recognized on such a classy blog and today i was honored once again with a mention. thanks, bro.

to close out the trilogy of posts about harry caray and bob costas, let me pull this recent comment posted by a reader of my blog which i present to you in it’s entirety. for the record, i love comments, not because they stroke my ego, but also for when they add to the discussion. like so:

Harry Caray, (born Carabina) actually was from the south side of STL, near the brewery. Used to take the streetcar to old sportsman’s park (pre Busch stadium) to watch the birds play. As I heard the story, one day he walked into the office of the KMOX radio GM and said he was a sportscaster and could announce the games better than the current guy, was hired on the spot, and the rest is history. KMOX was heard from the rockies to the Atlantic. He loved the game and didn’t mind ragging on the players when they were dogging it. I’ve heard stories of when Harry and Jack Buck [pictured] (who Harry trained) were doing the games, they would go into a tavern after the game, Harry would pour down the Budweisers and have a great time while Jack would sip a scotch and soda quietly.

The greatest interview I remember was the day after he got fired from doing the games he appeared on KSD (now KSDK) TV for an interview, obviously feeling no pain and holding in plain sight of the camera a can of Falstaff (then AB’s biggest competitor) . He later said he regretted that incident, but I loved it.

On the story of him boffing Auggie’s wife, he said “Me a fat balding middle aged man accused of sleeping with the beautiful young wife of a millionaire, I was flattered, but it didn’t happen.” Harry always was a gentleman, died while taking his wife out to eat on Valentine’s day.

Costas, on the other hand is a wannabe tool.

jim

we lost on the last out when the big fat thirdbaseman sent a ball so high and deep that even the eucalyptus behind the fence couldn’t stop it.

the fat guy always wins the softball game, i consoled my team.

ashley had driven up from newport to see me play and i didn’t get a hit but she didn’t care. i dove for a ball, i scored after getting on from a fielder’s choice, and i almost got kicked out of the game after a controversial 6-3 triple play where the batter was safe at first.

the tie at first does not go to the triple play, i whispered to the ump as i walked by him to go into the dugout.

what’s that? he snapped.

even on a crisp misty night playing softball on a field infested with moles, a triple play must be earned, blue.

it was bases loaded, hard shot to the shortstop who tagged the runner on second, stepped on second base and threw it to first. very close play at first. since i was coaching first i had a pretty good view. with the excitement, the ump called him out. triple play.

it’s hard to yell at a guy who is making $10 a game and is probably a social worker in the daytime. but for some of us it’s not that hard. and i didn’t yell.

the week before a guy in our league got thrown out of the game and then kicked out of the league after getting in the face of an ump, but for the most part our team is extremely civil. which might be why our record is 2-4. some argue it’s our spotty defense.

ashley took notes because when she’s bored she likes to critique people. she called a few of the people very rude, and funny names, describing them in unattractive ways. she didn’t like any of the women on the field, especially the opposing catcher who said that she liked my haircut.

i didn’t even know that girl even knew me.

what was she doing flirting with you during the game? ashley asked.

its all strategy in xbi softball, i told her. she was trying to get into my head, i explained.

ashley sneered. i thought it was cute. she was freezing on the metal grandstands and it was nice to look over and see that someone was rooting for me. especially when that person had a super short miniskirt, heels, and long hair tied up in a cute ponytail.

you, she said, were the cutest and skinniest guy on the field.

i told her it was my pinstriped baseball pants.

she said, no. you looked 21. no one would believe that you’re as old as you are.

the girl does know how to make a loser feel better. so afterwards, just like if it was a little league game, we went to mcdonalds and got a mcflurry.

and then went home and banged like newlyweds.

i felt a little bad for picking on costas the way i did. he’s never really hurt anyone. he’s just a man, just like me, trying to get a paycheck for his family, earn a living, do a job.

of course im jealous that he gets to do what any sports fan would love to do, which is meet all the greats and talk to them and get paid millions to be in cool places where we would do anything to get to be. and of course i don’t mean all the things that i say in the blog, for example im sure if costas had a candy store he wouldn’t just have one flavor of bubble gum filling the place, he’s not that dumb, he’d have his favorite kind too, sugarless.

but then i got home and there were flowers at my door there were “dancers” who wanted to give me a rub down, my email overflowed, i had more comments in my comments section than, hell, a week ago when i implied that the president was a jackass.

basically the public not only agreed with me, but they wanted to thank me and share their disgust for costas.

sweet approval, you proud yet elusive unicorn.

i got links from people who had never linked me, like the photo dude and ernie the attorney, i got daily pundit-ed, i even got a kiss on the cheek from the hottie in the halls who wears this D-12 tshirt and whispered that she likes my hair cut short.

who knew vitriol was an aphrodisiac?

of course i got some facts wrong. minor ones, like costas is from new york, not st. louis. whatever. and that harry didn’t get fired for schtupping the boss’s daughter but for getting caught with the boss’s wife. but these sorts of details can’t seriously be researched when a man like myself only has 15 minutes twice a day during work hours to write in his blog. if you don’t like what you see, either politely correct me in the comments or blame the government for not giving us longer smoke breaks.

at least i smoke during my breaks.

but i do love the comments that you people leave me. without you i would have never known that harry not only got fired for giving it to Mrs. Busch, but he got both of his legs broken as well as assorted other injuries in what was considered an auto accident.

and im no apologist of adultery, but look at harry, the boss’s wife must have wanted to send a message to her husband if out of all the men in st. louis, she chose romeo there.

i also appreciated the comment that someone left that mourned the loss of len dawson and nick bonnacontti from hbo’s once wonderful “inside the nfl.” why hbo thought it was a smart move to take costas off a failing show which he was the host, and dump him on “inside the nfl” which has done fine for 17 years despite itself, is beyond me. hbo makes very few bad moves. that one was ridiculous.

people have written that they wonder what costas ever did to me. he bored me. that’s what he did to me.

i once had an english professor who said the worst thing you could ever do to your audience is bore them.

i had the great honor of once seeing punk rock singer gg allin perform in my beloved isla vista while i attended school there. this man got on stage took off his clothes, urinated, defecated, yelled, cursed, attempted to kick anyone who got near the stage with his steel pointed cowboy boots, and then he threw his waste at the horrified crowd after he sliced his chest repeatedly with a broken beer bottle.

that, my friends, is how not to bore an audience.

do i want bob costas to take off his clothes before he gets on the mic and throw poop at the camera.

of course i do.

but i will settle for him to retire instead.

and if he wont do that, i would like it if he shuts the hell up and allows the real experts around him to get a word in from time to time. costas is no howard coselle. no one tuned in to listen to him talk. he never played the game, and he never will.

he is someone’s little brother who tagged along and somehow ended up in front of the camera. he should do as i would do if i got on the mic, i would let the pictures tell the thousand words. i would tell you things that you might not have remembered but they were sent into my earpeice. i would get out of the way. i would let the hall of famers have their say. i would drink my beer and be a fan. and when i talked i would sound like a man.

theres a rhythm and a song to vin scully’s voice. there was an excitement and a love in red barber’s. jon miller has the perfect blend of humor and reverence as he calls the game and you can hear him revert back to broadcasting 101 when he gives the pitch count, and paints the picture, and tells you the score.

costas makes it okay to be bland and sterile and polished and smooth. but its not okay. when i drink rum i want a little bite to it. when i kiss a girl i want to walk away with some of her glitter.

there’s movement to a well-thrown fastball that costas will never master since he pitches underhanded from the edge of the mound on a sunday in his cutoffs.

the era of costas needs to pass. i harp on him and nbc isn’t even doing the playoffs, but his staleness seeps into the sounds of the game and it appears to me, not that im any expert, that there are far more costas-influenced broadcasters than caray ones.

i know the Lord broke the mold when He made Harry, but still, i’ll take fifteen Ueckers over one costas.

my break is just about over so let me leave you with a little tale that Harry told Sports Illustrated in ’78 when Ron Fimrite did a feature on him.

Harry says:

“About seven years ago my car stalled outside the Chase-Park Plaza Hotel in St. Louis, where I used to spend a lot of time. I was sitting there about four in the morning, cursing my bad luck, when these two guys came up to me. Each of them stuck a gun in my ribs. Hoo boy! Then one of them said, ‘Hey, Harry. It’s you, isn’t it? What’re you doing out this late? Are you one of us?’ I’d been a broadcaster in St. Louis for 25 years, you know, so I was pretty well known there. Well, this guy put his gun away, and we just stood there jawing about baseball. They forgot they were mugging me, and I forgot I was being mugged. We were all just fans. I signed a couple of autographs, and they took off without taking a nickel.”

i do. i think i could sell anything in the world i wanted to on here. i dont see why that isnt true for anyone else.

if will wheaton and adam curry and all the other has-beens can get a ton of hits and turn that into revenue, i dont see why i cant.

speaking of money makers, guess who saw anna nicole smith getting into a car today? oh yeah.

rumor has it that she saw a guy wearing an E! cap. she said “oh i love your hat!” he said, “would you like it?” she said, “yes, tell me where i can get one!” he said, “oh, they dont make these any more, would you like this one?” she said, “why thank you, let me rub my boobs all over you to thank you!”

i love that girl.

love.

all of that, reportedly happened before i saw the cable tv star and i have to say i thought she looked super beautiful. totally glamorous. very movie starable. didnt look nearly as chunky as she can on tv, but then again, i have a very big tv so it probably adds 35 pounds to her.

i love being star struck.

she was looking right across the street at me.

i think it was me. it might of been at the sign that said koo koo roo over my head.

i wanted to wave at her because i know how much she loves her public.

but im terribly shy.

im just as bad as adam curry and will wheaton. i bet they wouldnta waved either.

hi blog. oh, i don’t know, june gloom.

see those pumpkins for sale in the abandon lot, it’s october, amigo.

im not sad, just very mellow. a little anxious about what the future has in store for me. a little bummed about the angels, who i was rooting for last night.

that’s weird, i woulda thought you would definitely be pulling for the twins. minnesota has given us Prince, Husker Du, The Replacements, Jesse Ventura. wasn’t that the first place you ever really got drunk?

yes. in winona, mn.

so why are you rooting for those frat boys from behind the orange county?

for welch. it’s his team.

well im feeling great tony. have you heard all the nice things that people have been saying about me lately?

this feels like a bad vaudeville ventriliquist bit.

just go with it. nobody cares.

why, no, blog, what are the people saying about the blog, i mean about you?

look at this great list, bro:

Moxie beams: Forget simon says, it’s all about Tony. Mr. Pierce told me I couldn’t post again until I had kissed a stranger. Consider it done.

Some Standard Hotel dweeb got his grubby hands all over Moxie? I knew I shoulda gone to that damn thing. Thanks for bringing all that to my attention, blog.

madonna has a new movie where she’s on a desert island alone with a hunk dude. would you want to be stuck on an island with madonna?

oh yes.

what about courtney love?

sure, why not.

what about jennifer love hewitt?

seeing that she’s starving already, i don’t think i’d want to do that.

read any good new blogs lately?

Frankenstein turned me on to the fact that Tony Soprano has a blog. it might not be the first one. it might not be the best one. but it has potential. and im a sucker for anything that ends with “posted by Tony,” especially when it’s in reference to the most compelling tv character to come along in quite a while.

what about that chick from Alias

im bummed, i saw the first two episodes last year and then tuned out.

dude, that’s a great show. what about “24”?

exactly the same thing happened with that too.

got that big tv and you don’t watch it?

you don’t get carpal from watching tv, bloggy blog.

yeah, guess snot.

ok, hang loose, old zeroes and ones

have a great day, typer of keys. by the way, costas is from new york.

details, details.

once she twisted her ankle we were talking a lot again.

i’d chat with you, but i want you to rest your wonderful hands.

thanks, anna.

i liked your story about rosalita. is she anyone i know?

nothing in here is true, baby.

awful lot of detail for pure fiction.

ok some of it was true. i did get stared down by two gangstas at the bowling alley, but they weren’t Black, they were latino, but i thought that was too stereotypical.

black gangsters aren’t stereotypical suddenly?

believe it or not, but there are twice as many latin gangs in LA than Black ones.

anna then told me a story about growing up in moscow and a russian gang that used to hassle her when she was little. she asked me if she had told me that story before. i said probably. it didn’t matter to me. my memory was so bad that i liked all of her stories no matter how many times she told them.

by hey, she was anna kournikova. coolest girl in school. i doubted that i would ever get over that. if she read the ingredients from a beefaroni label i wouldn’t care.

plus i loved her accent.

and who was i? i wasn’t even the coolest blogger in my neighborhood.

are you going to play in zurich, anna?

no.

when are you going to play again?

probably not until LA in about four weeks.

LA?

yep.

so why aren’t you here with me?

im here in switzerland getting treatment for my ankle. then i will come visit you.

good.

do you want me to visit you?

yes, please.

have you seen any celebrities lately?

walked right past the Fonz yesterday.

who?

Henry Winkler, Arthur Fonzerelli!

oh, from “The Waterboy.”

They didn’t have “Happy Days” in russia?

In the late 70s, tony, america was our enemy. and i wasnt even born yet, thank you.

i keep forgetting that. what year were you born in again?

1981.

i dont know how im supposed to feel about that, anna. is that sexy or sick?

who cares, just love me.

oh, i also walked right by jules asner.

you see a lot of her.

she works in the building across the street from me.

is she pretty in real life?

very.

prettier than me?

how could she be?

Is She Prettier Than Me?

didn’t FHM name you the sexiest woman alive?

i’m not going to ask you again, tony.

no, she isnt prettier than you.

correct answer.

tall.

what’s that?

shes tall.

why don’t you change the subject before i fly over there and beat your ass.

little kobe was born last night.

yay for greg and molli!

he was almost born today, john lennon’s birthday.

awwww. i loved john lennon.

even his Beatles stuff?

then we debated beatles vs stones vs zeppelin and we didn’t stop talking until the dawns early light.

is it good news or bad news to get an Honorable Mention from The Right Wing News in its The Best Of The Blogosphere poll?

what does sara k smith think that she can learn from grad school that she doesnt already know about writing? she’s easilly the most under-rated least-linked writer out there.

when will mc brown stop kicking my ass?

what’s little kobe waiting for? Christmas?

what if i started a Yahoo Fantasy NBA league, and nobody came? even if it had a live draft this saturday at noon? (private league #3285, password=jules)

why is it that some people can design so well, but then become so uninspired to update their blog? don’t they know that i would kill for such design?

isn’t dawn’s new blog purty?

why must laughing boy be handsome, witty, verbose, and clever And want to steal my traffic? no wonder karisa loves east coast hustlas better.

and finally, where does a. beam get off thinking that she doesnt have to update except when she damn well pleases? does that lil pink cat got her tounge? if theres one thing i hate its when people who kiss my ass stop writing on their blogs.

theres an Press Club event tonight that i had a hot date for but she cant make it. we had something planned for friday and saturday and it didnt work out. on sunday we had something planned, but i was busy so i said, free drinks at the new Standard, whaddya say, im on the guest list, and she said sounds great. but now it’s not so great, so im just thinking about watching the angels game from the comfort of my own home, relieved that the burdon of the proposal is lifted from my shoulders.

but what if the reverse cowgirl is gonna be there? who doesnt like to meet seductive amazonian writer/photographers who dig porn?

what if moxie is planning to attend? who doesnt like to raise a glass to being single in LA with a loveable skinny blonde who drives a porsche?

and what if the girl of my dreams ends up there, spidey senses telling her that her afroboy is nearby, looking for someone to talk to and there i was stirring my baileys mixing in the creame when our eyes met over the little plate of warm cashews?

and what if i passed all that up to twirl my rally monkey in front of a big screen?

ah, destiny, you wicked witch.

in ice skating in the olympics you’ll hear the announcer say, “this is the most important routine of Michelle Kwan’s life.” or at one of those presidential conventions they say of the nominee, “Bill Clinton is going to have to deliver the speech of his life,” and while sitting on my couch digging around the bottom of a Ruffles bag i would think to myself, good thing i don’t ever have to have any moments like those.

imagine if this was the most important sentence of my life.

sheesh.

id rather serve a life sentence.

well this morning i finished the secret proposal that i have been hinting to all of you about, and my copy of Dreamweaver decided to give out. and here i trusted that Bejing street vendor who sold me the Windows 2000, Dreamweaver 4, and Lord of the Rings Part II “bundle” for $25 .

dude clearly said that all of the products were “top notch high quality” despite being burned on blank cds that had the remains of AOL 7.0 labels mostly peeled off of them.

friggin black market. and then Blogger Pro wouldnt update.

i took a deep breath and walked outside to the perfect los angeles weather, walked back to my desk and got it together.

this proposal is for my dream job, a career i was born for. a career so good that i refused the armloads of cash that the LA Times Kabul office offered me to roam around afghanistan, pakistan, iraq, and iran and do a man-on-the-street type blog to show the softer side of the war torn area.

i said, two armloads of cash.

they said, fine.

i said four armloads.

they said, a man only has two arms.

i said, find a four armed man and fill his arms with cash and i will do it.

they chuckled and said they’d call me back.

i dont want to work for the la times in kabul.

i want to work for you. here in hollywood. my home.

i told the times that that was exactly their problem. they were so busy trying to tell us what goes on in the world, they forget that we are the world. that hollywood is the center of the universe and that sunset blvd is the mecca that hollywood blvd once was.

they said, shhh, we’re looking for a four armed man.

i said, go to hollywood blvd and you’ll find him. you’ll find anyone there. he’ll be at the popeyes ordering some cajun firecracker shrimp and a peice of dried chicken. i said why arent you writing about not only the four armed men of hollywood blvd, but the two armed women and children who are the future of this town?

i said, why arent you just being a kickass local paper for a town so big and wide that there must be a million stories in this naked city. its the crossroads of the world. its the land that time forgot. its the place where dreams still come true.

they said we found a three armed man in new mexico, hows that?

and sometimes i wonder if this really isnt the sentence of my life.

isn’t the fame, the money, the gifts, the groupies, the notoriety, the power, the influence, the excuse to talk to yourself and answer back, no.

the best part of having a blog is that if you run across a picture of the ever lovable kirby puckett, you can put it up and not have to explain shit to anybody.

saps like bob costas are going to get on the tv and tell the millions of viewers that this is the perfect time for us to appreciate kirby puckett, but costas is a short little condescending fire hydrant ripe for a dog’s hind leg. we don’t need costas to tell us when to love kirby. any time is a perfect time to appreciate the hall of famer.

costas will get on his soap box and try to tell us something we don’t know about the former twin who rejected wheelbarrows full of cash to pull a giambi and sign up with the bronx bombers, and instead stayed where he belonged, where he was adored, in the twin cities and helped win the world series for minnesota in seven games back in ’91, the year that punk broke.

old bob will go on and on and they might even play the music from “the natural” or “field of dreams” or some made for tv tear jerker starring the blue eyed golden boy and his game winning moon shot over the old wooden fence advertisizing a shaving creame and the slow motion cameras and the cheers and the fanfare and his ma in the stands in her straw hat and his best girl.

too bad hollywood baseball movies don’t star big fat round black guys who stand five foot nine going blind on one eye youngest child of nine who sign autographs and go to hospitals for the kids and really do end game six with one swing of the bat. not in the bottom of the ninth. but in the bottom of the eleventh, sucka. because if they did make those sorts of movies you could get kirby back in those slimming pinstripes and theatre-goers would finally have someone they could root for again.

it’s good to have kirby puckett back in the spotlight again in this series between the never-say-die angels against the team that selig wanted to kill, the twins, because kirby reminds us that good guys don’t always finish last. kirby was part of two championships for the twins during his days. costas will show you the numbers. he’ll get the words out right. he’ll hammer home the old standby that with guys like latrell sprewell and randy moss and john rocker and influencing kids, we could use a few more kirbys. but costas had great role models growing up himself, and he still turned out to be a pudtz.

kirby didnt have a willie mays or a bobby bonds around like barry did. kirby had all the pressures that bonds had, a town that relied on him, all the cameras all the time, and not only did kirby smile when he was underpressure, but that smile was geniune. there was love there. there was a man who loved playing baseball and loved to win, and was mighty good with the glove too, jack.

but i just like having kirby back cuz he makes me happy when i see him. theres your next governor, minnesota.