Online Meets/Papi & Tek Go Deep as the Natinals Drop 2 of 3

I expect to be crucified by those few and far between who end up reading this blog entry. The reason for this sordid preface is that I plan on sort of defending the physical meeting of people vis-à-vis the internet.

I know, I know. The internet is full of creepy, fat, 30-somethings who reside in their mothers' basements and, at heart, are but slobbish weirdos who whack off to fetish porn all day while working as web designers, fry-cooks, or low-level managers.

Even still, I like to think that there exist beyond this stereotype real people, like you or I, who just realize the potential of the internet to connect people who are far away from each other. It seems obvious, but the internet is best used for this; morse code is out of fashion and carrier pigeons are extinct (or perhaps that was the "passenger pigeon? Ehh, same difference...EDIT"). It can instantly carry information across long distances in real-time. But this data can come in a multitude of forms, whereas phones carry solely voices, and TVs physical likenesses and voices.

Given this unique and amazing potential, and that humans are social beings, is it so far a leap of logic to infer that social creatures will use the best (quickest, most efficient, most inclusive) means of sociability to connect with one another? Surely enough this realization was manifested in AIM, or AOL Instant Messenger, when I was in the seventh grade, year 2001.

Perhaps my natural inclination towards obsessive cycles of interest led to my somewhat ambivalent relationship with AIM. I have many friends who swear by it; their social lives are somewhat anchored by instant messaging. I have a few who resolutely abstain from downloading the very application. But I, a rare breed apparently, engage AIM with a cyclical nature. I tend to spend hours upon hours online for weeks at a time, only to sign off, never to touch the little hopping icon on my dock for months.

On a personal note, I happen to pick up an interest and drain all life from it over several weeks, months, years, only to toss it to the wayside after I've sucked every bit of worth from its now limp, light, carcass. I suppose its vampiric in a way, but it's nothing I can choose. Since Sonic The Hedgehog on Sega, to Batman action figures, to my bicycle, to wiffleball, to baseball, to working out (one of the worst) etc. , I've developed an extensive history of minor and temporary obsessions. All of my life is pocked by these marks against my ability to take all things in moderation.

But I'll save the in-depth Freudian analysis for later. For now, I'll contend that my ambivalent attitude towards AIM has its roots in this personal revelation.

But why grow tired of AIM? It offers countless opportunities to talk to your loved ones and friends now matter what time it is and where they are?

A commonly-heard critique is simply that the emotion and the subtle nuances of facial expressions, bodily reactions (laughing, crying, nervousness, etc.), vocal inflection, and (my favorite) sarcasm are all lost on AIM. This fact, I can believe, cannot be debated if you have ever once used an Instant Messaging service.

Another common jab at applications like AIM, MSN IM, Yahoo IM, Google Chat, etc., is that they are addictive. This I can sort of understand. Since it's definitely a technological form of connection, it dumbs down the process of a "conversation," simplifying it to the point where regular social conventions are forgotten, at least, and corrupted, at worst. I suppose if one were to spend a lifetime behind an LCD screen it wouldn't be hard to lose touch with "RL" ("real life", for those of you out there who were as lost reading the countless net-worthy acronyms as I). As dozens of social scientists have enunciated to us via the infamous Stanford experiement, humanity is a learned characteristic, and like a foreign language, without practice is easily lost.

Additionally, since in the United States and other highly-developed countries efficiency and speed are stressed and valued commodities, IMs are ideal. They take only as long as you can type out what you mean, and they are sent instantly (over a relatively fast internet connection). Clearly we value such traits given the much money we spend annually Fast Food and TV dinners, even at the cost of our own health. An easy parallel could be drawn to our reliance on technology, but I'll refrain from making such an obvious comparison.

However, given all theses cautionary criticisms, I feel that the internet can be something more than a plague. Just as human beings can recognize the value inherent a tool that can connect them instantly, they too can invest authentic time and thought into relationships formed over internet beginnings. Not all online users are out of touch with reality. Most, I dare say, are perfectly in touch with it, and are socially comfortable enough to utilize the internet, even after weighing the social stigma attached to it by less tolerant, and more ignorant generations.

No matter what older or younger generations will tell me, I feel like I have a unusual and unique relationship with the internet. I could be totally wrong, and in fact ironically a member of the majority of AIM/Facebook subscribers, but I personally believe that I take the internet at face value, a speedy and basic way to get people talking and getting to know each other, and nothing more.

A deeper inquiry to my spotty relationship with AIM and other social networking sites would reveal the truer and distinct reasons I tend to go through AIM cycles. To best illustrate them would be to go down a list of commonly cited AIM attributes, so here we go:

IMs keep friends close no matter the distance: If you're reading this blog because you're a friend of mine who saw my initial "Note" on Facebook, you should be smirking right about now. Everyone and their mothers (literally, in some cases) know that I'm not particularly good at keeping in touch with people once they leave earshot...no, I'm downright poor at it. No matter who the person is, no matter how much they mean to me, I'm afraid I'm just bad at it. Why? One may infer self-absorption, too much work/studying, too much fun/drinking, too many friends, not enough friends, but the truth lies in the emptiness of AIM and Facebook.

The critical loss in the basic social characteristics of a mano-a-mano conversation squander the true social value in internet conversations. It's impossible to get a rise out of someone if you're a sarcasm fiend, or if you can do great impressions, or if you can sing. The internet sheds individuality as it pertains to anything but creative writing and successful applications of emoticons (little smiley faces seeming created from text such as letters, numbers, and punctuation marks). And that, I cannot stand. You can tell infinitely more about a person when you look them in the eyes and say something. And that's just more reassuring than a profile picture.

Emptiness aside, I can understand the basic value of getting to know someone. If you want straight facts about someone, whether or not they are your long-lost friend or someone completely new, AIM is ingenious. The Facebook status update and the Tweet are beautiful, if not pathetic manifestations of real-time, interactive voicemails as have ever been conceived.

But meeting someone new over the internet, after undoubtedly browsing a few of their profile pictures to check "hotness," is really a crap shoot. Too many mannerisms are lost on the internet "conversation." Interestingly enough, "conversation" is defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as "an oral exchange of sentiments, observations, opinions, and ideas," yet "I am sad," doesn't quite hit home like someone who can't look you in the eye, always faces the ground with unwavering misty eyes, and a quivering lower lip. Besides, the outbreak of Photoshop has endangered the "profile picture's" genuineness universally.

Relationships, be they romantic (dating sites) or initially platonic (any social utility), are like in-bred babies (pardon the un-PC metaphor). Oftentimes they are conceived stillborn, or develop socially retarded (ref. the literal definition of retarded). It's an imperfect, if not blasphemous correlation, but I feel like whenever I talk to a stranger online I risk giving away all my conversation points. Now, it's not as if I go into an online conversation armed with a set of topics, but I certainly wouldn't want to exhaust the few that are serendipitously unearthed by an online conversation.

I feel that any sort of technical communication, as distinct from actual physical interaction in the real world, taints honestly good and potentially rewarding conversation topics. And if they aren't discussed online, if they are ever brought up again in an actual conversation, one may have bought a false impression fashioned by an internet converser. I speak from experience when I say that sometimes that which sounds inoculate to conflict can easily be dragged into ragged strife over miscommunication.

And yet, I found myself posting freely on Yelp's "Talk" threads without care or concern for all that I've spoken. It's true that the internet is a great way to pass the time. In my case, when I'm living at my parents' house, recovering from a knee surgery, I guess it's permissible, barely. But normally, when I've got many other responsibilities, it's so tempting to go online and talk with new people. Some are pretty quick and witty with the keyboard, which makes it enjoyable (though the authenticity of "quick wit" is diminished without the availability of a timestamp on posts and messages parodying their target) whereas others are not.

In fact, as discussed above, humanity can easily flitter out the window once bullies hide behind their SNs (screen names). It's quite disturbing how easily people can shed their actual identity to give birth to a new one online. Perhaps its therapeutic, manifesting otherwise harmful or socially unacceptable behaviors vicariously through an online alter-ego, but all signs point to no, given the correlation between the internet and people who shoot up high schools and colleges, people who molest kids, and rapists generally.

To date, I've only had one proven meeting with someone I "met" online. To be honest, the relationship failed. It was semi-romantic, though not from the beginning. What at first was a highly successful and mutually beneficial exchange of ideas and opinions (a conversation) turned into a relationship. Emotional, sexual, and social needs came to play, and the result was disastrous. I avoided the girl for the majority of two years, and for that I'm ashamed. However, to me, the real failure was our inability to reconcile each of our two personalities (the digital and the real). If you exchange many personal facts and facets of your life with someone you've never met, online, you are at risk of creating such a distinct personality. No matter how honest you are with this other person, the potential social additions to each conversation (inflection, facial expressions, etc.) detract from each, and it only becomes apparent when such a conversation is repeated in real life. Not knowing what to expect from the other person, certain expressions and reactions may be a turn off, so much so that the wide discrepancy between your friend's internet alter-ego and RL alter ego cannot reconcile, and thus are split in a schizophrenic dilemma.

And so I caution you all: take heed of my warnings when and if you meet somebody online. Regardless if Match.com says you're applicable, regardless if you reviewed the same restaurant on Yelp with relevant commentary, online meetings are dangerous, and not just in your To Catch a Predator Chris Hansen sort of way. They risk aborting potentially flourishing relationships by exhausting conversation topics and creating a social rift between two public and unequal personas (online, and in real life).

DO NOT CROSS--------------RED SOX LINE-------------DO NOT CROSS

This one will be short, as I exhausted an unimaginable amount of space on the above entry (thanks a lot Ms. Bad Cook). Besides, today's game wasn't all that spectacular.

One scary moment had me pause and rewind MLB.TV (as best I could, that buggy piece of shit) several times. When Nick Green's neck was almost impaled on a hurtling piece of maple bat, I was genuinely frightened for our brilliant AAAA SS. Thankfully, he brushed it away with his right forearm, but missed the DP ball, which rolled lazily to Bay in LF, allowing the runner to get to 3B with ease, and on the throw, the hitter to 2B. If not for this, Lester would have allowed but 2 ER and had himself and his line solid outing.

Big Papi hit his 7th HR of the season with a hard shot to deep LFC. It scored three runs, allowing the Red Sox a 3-1 lead. I'm thrilled they let him play 1B today. I hope they do it again tomorrow. Lowell could use the rest anyway.

The other player most Red Sox fans had retired to the grave, Jason Varitek, our captain, hit his 11th HR of the year. Though his BA is waaay down as usual, his power numbers are waaaay up compared to last year. He's hit 6 LHB, 5 RHB, which is interesting given his traditionally better RHB splits.

Papelbon got his 17th save of the year, and mostly without incident this time. He was perfect, but had to throw 19 pitches to get there. His pitch count, OBP, and BA are all worse than previous years. I really do wonder if it's time to sell high on Pap after the season. He just doesn't seem himself, after he complained of shoulder fatigue and had to change his arm slot, which apparently affects his velocity.

The Red Sox won 6-4 over the Washington Nationals. God, I love interleague play... Mor plz? K thx bai.

Faddah's Day/Nick Green's GW Walk-Off HR Round Pesky Pole

Before I begin this entry, I suppose it would be appropriate for me to mention that I watched today's Red Sox game with my dad as it was broadcast nationally on TBS. As bad as we are at them, I treasure each botched high-five I exchange with my dad, especially the atrocious one we had to awkwardly repeat after Nick Green's walk-off solo home run in the bottom of the 9th inning of today's game against the Atlanta Braves.

My dad works an awful lot, and he works very hard to ensure the best for my family. My mother, bless her heart, is a stay-at-home mother, and for this I'm forever indebted. However, this meant that my father had to shoulder the singular financial responsibility of providing for his family; a task that has been traditionally taken for granted and never lauded enough. He has always been a sort of idol to me, though I could never and would never want to do the sort of work he does. I try my best to listen to him when I ask him about work, and while I feel that I'm grasping the gist of the myriad office lingo he uses (without the intention of making me feel small, it should be noted), I'm still just as confused and slightly bored by it like when I was small. He's been the pinnacle of responsibility, and though he never comes down hard on me, and always offers help to me whenever I feel like I need it, I find it really hard to look him in the eyes sometimes. I think it's probably because I feel like I just can't measure up to him, and that I've got big boots to fill. It's not that I can't bond with him, but we are as different as we are similar, I feel.

For instance, he works in an office in a management position. He's very good with money, and always comes off as cool, calm, collected, and rational. He doesn't drink or smoke (not that he didn't when he was my age), yet defies traditional "square" traits. I'll never forget when one of my older, wittier friends in high school Speech and Debate told me that he thought my dad was way cooler than I was. It kind of hurt at the time, and it kind of still does, but not because I disagree with him.

I could never work in an office setting replete with cubicles, acronyms, and memorandum. I'm currently not as good with money as he is (understatement of the year). I drank a considerable amount through college, though I don't smoke at all. I'm definitely a lot calmer and rational than my sister was growing up, or so I thought until the last two years of college. And though I don't think I'm a square, I'm planning on joining the San Diego Police Department and I'm definitely not one of the "cool kids."

But one thing we hold very dear to us is our fondness for Boston professional sports. His is the New England Patriots. Mine is the Boston Red Sox. We both lean towards the sports we played growing up (football for him, baseball for me), but we love the other team almost as much as the other. So despite our differences and the professional gap that will most likely always separate us, we always come together to discuss sports with zeal. Some of my favorite memories of my dad involve simple trips to El Torito whenever my mom was feeling under the weather (she's allergic to cilantro, so we never get Mexican food), where we'd order tableside guacamole and talk Red Sox and Patriots. Every Sunday we'd get wake up early an watch football. I try to text him in-game scoring updates while he's in boring board meeting and I'm sitting on the edge of my desk chair fulfilling my daily spiritual duty to my beloved Red Sox.

I used to worry that our relationship was too predicated on our bonding over spectating sports. I thought it was silly that something as seemingly trivial as professional sports could matter so much to me. And while it's certainly not the foundation for our relationship, nor the be all end all of it, it's a crucial part because it's one activity we can both enjoy together on the off chance that our free time overlaps. Now I feel silly and somewhat ashamed that I ever doubted my relationship with my father. I love him dearly and will always look up to him for as long as he's a Red Sox fan.

Now that that's out of the way, good evening to all of you fathers out there, and Happy Father's Day. I hope your day is filled to the brim with power tools, big screen TV's, cigars, beers, BBQ, and golf/fishing/baseball, because mine certainly is. And I'm 21, childless, and just toeing the line demarcating the dependent boundary on my own father's tax returns. So since my day is so special thanks to Craftsman and Johnsonville, I'd hate to think that yours wasn't especially chock full of meat and mechanical gadgets (unless said meat and gadgets pertain to the salacious, in which case I'll be hiding behind the nearest tall, heavy object I can find).

But for those of you out there who do not indulge so, I wonder what Father's Day means to you. The North American Commercial Federation's Subcommittee On Holidays seems to have reached the conclusion that garden tools, screwdriver sets, luxury vehicles (including compensatory vehicles, a.k.a. "schlongmobiles"), hi-tech electronics, and sausages rank highest in demand amongst the general paternal population. I can't watch a baseball game without watching some middle-aged guy riding an obnoxiously green mower with a Deerection, and that's not counting Father's Day. But aside from Viagriculture, I'm afraid that the diabolical marketing veeps out there are actually behind the Man Laws of our world (sorry Burt, though I'll give you "beeracolada"). I believe even the most honorable of our sex, those who devote their lives to bestowing happiness and hope upon the little ones they care for, fall prey to the predilections of money-grubbing marketeers hell-bent on cashing in their auto-created norms.

In order to infer American male stereotypes, one need only watch ESPN on Father's Day. Sure, there might be the occasional sweet and touching advertisements about buying your dad Just For Men so he can convince his prospective employers to offer him a job in this economy. But on the whole, ads go straight for the jugular. Of course you have the fat guys sitting around barbecuing, drinking beer, and watching the game. That will never change, because that stereotype has become a cliche in and of itself almost to be simultaneously parodical.

But the ads that kill me are the tool, car maintenance, and agriculture ads. The running gag is that the man always messes something up because he's too headstrong and his wife was right all along. She presents him with the correct weed killer or the right size wrench or the preferred car oil, and then he's forced to apologize to his smug wife, who clucks her tongue or paternalistically pats his head and walks away.

Aside from the critical gender arguments one could make about these ads, I find more disturbing the reliance of each of these ads on fears of inadequacy and self-consciousness. Alarmist ads are nothing new. They feed off the fear of the consumer instilled by the company who wishes to sell their cure-all solution. However, these new breed of ads cultivate new fears of inadequacy in men, be it in the bedroom, the garage, the backyard, or around the house.

Tools, paints, and gardening ads seize upon the theme of something being broken or unsightly. The wife is dissatisfied with the husband's inadequacy to fix the broken window or repair the caulk, paint the room, kill the weeds, or cut the grass. The ads first reinforce the male stereotype of the handyman in this scenario. Then, they play upon the man's fears that he cannot fulfill his duty as the handyman unless he purchases the right tools for the job, because without them he has failed one of his roles (as husband, or if he's building a tree house, as father).

Automotive maintenance ads focus on the theme of wastefulness. This is a change from previous advertisement inclinations towards power and speed, thanks to our gradually awakening national conscience toward environmental preservation. Nonetheless, the wife or manly man narrating the ad scolds the targeted man for wasting horsepower, efficiency, or gas dollars because he's not using the right oil. That or you're letting down his own car by not "giving your engine what it wants," in which case the consumer has fallen slave to an inanimate object, quite literally.

This is not to rob people of their capacity for integrity and independence from the sirens of sexy ads. In fact, there remains a significantly part of me skeptical that people imbibe SoCo's thick, sickly sweet cough medicine just because the advertisements exhibit hip graphics. Sexy young women in tight jeans and still tighter tank tops melding with anachronistic lava-lamp colors of auburn and neon green evokes the same feeling you get when someone is trying way too hard to be nice enough to score a date. I'm hardly even fazed by the implied insult these ads spit in our faces, that we can't get sexy girls made of marbled ribbons of chocolate and granny smith-green surrounded by exploding SoCo and Lime kaleidoscopes unless we partake in their ritual bastardization of "the usual suspects." The company cloaks the Casablanca origins of "the usual suspects" in the veil that is the motif of a gang of friends out looking for merry mischief on the town, when in fact one of them will end up with a DUI, another with an indecent exposure charge, and two with herpes. I would like to think, and to be truthful to my inner romantic, do believe that people are smarter than this.

But alas, the very existence of these ads challenges my hope for our race. Inferring via the laws of the market, these types of ads exist, and are repeated by every other company whose market involves the 13-65 age grouping, because they work. If their tactics failed to secure their targeted audiences, future advertisement campaigns would attempt other hooks and lures to snare the brand loyalty of our materialistic minds. Yet, they never seem to change, no matter the product, no matter the time period. It's as if our steady march of technological development is followed closely by a stampede of sensual junkies craving the latest and greatest visual stimulus.

To me, advertisements are always a key fixture on Father's Day simply because of their conspicuous presence and their shameless preying on our collective self-conscious. It seems to me on a day reserved for celebration of those individuals who selflessly devote themselves to an idea beyond themselves, prosperity for their beloved children, that ads should maybe lay off the implicit accusations. Then again, that's why I'm a poor, proud owner of a BA in something other than business management.

-Yours truly,

Joe's Os

DO NOT CROSS--------------RED SOX LINE-------------DO NOT CROSS

The above is the warning that beyond lies a murky, seedy realm of Red Sox baseball. Do not cross that line unless you are willing to fall slave to my obsessive rants about grown men playing a boys' game. It is not for the faint of heart, nor for the squeamish, because I'm about as blasphemously fanatic about the Boston Red Sox as a Christian Crusader in Damascus.

Timothy Wakefield went for his MLB lead-tying 10th win of the 2009 season, but couldn't come up with it. However, Wake's start was a fairly decent start, going 6.2IP, giving up 9 hits, and 4 earned runs. It didn't seem like his knuckleball was fluttering much, probably due to the wind blowing in towards the batter and the rainy weather.

David Ortiz scored the go-ahead run making it 3-2 after hitting his 6th HR of the season into the Green Monster seats. He absolutely crushed that ball opposite field, as it landed high into the Monster seats against a strong wind. He's looking like he's back from the dead lately, as he's hit 6 home runs in his last 36 or so at bats after only hitting 1 in his first previous 192 at bats.

Ramon Ramirez came into the 7th inning with two outs and a man in scoring position, and quickly surrendered the game-tying hit (the run was charged to Wakefield). He then got the next batter, but lately it should be noted that Ram-Ram has looked anything but unhittable. Maybe he's not the Jesus we all thought he was.

Okajima, who's usually dominant with his precision gave up the lead retaken by the Red Sox in the bottom of the 7th inning after J.D. Drew's opposite field RBI line-drive off the Green Monster. Interestingly enough, the home plate umpire Bill Hohn ejected Atlanta's long-time manager Bobby Cox, reliever Eric O'Flaherty, and 3rd baseman Chipper Jones for arguing balls and strikes, after he granted ball 2 to Drew on a pitch that was down and in, but clearly a strike that would have struck Drew out. On the very next pitch, Drew retook the lead for the Red Sox, so it's understandable that they would have been frustrated. Then again, the umpire was bad for us too, so stop whining and sit the fuck down Cox.

Papelbon came in to pitch the top of the 9th inning, not in a save situation, with the game tied at 5. He rewarded us with yet another Papelbon adventure. They showed a stat before he began pitching. Last year, in 69.2 IP, he gave up only 8 BBs. This year, in only 28.1 IP, he's already given up 16. Somehow, his WHIP miraculously remains around 1.40. He loaded the bases with a hit and 2 BBs, then with 2 outs, he got Matt Diaz to swing ridiculously at a ball that was two feet over the brim of his hat.

Nick Green, who's played outstanding defense in the past month and is hitting nearly .300 on the season, came through with the game-winning walk-off HR that perfectly wrapped around Pesky's Pole. Green says that he didn't realize that it was a walk-off win until he rounded 2nd base and saw all his teammates jumping up and down and slapping each other and congregating at home plate.

Pilot/Josh Beckett's 3rd Career CG Shutout

I have avoided blogs like the swine flu, the avian flu, and SARS before that. Because in truth, blogs are viruses just like the aforementioned ailments. They all claim to offer a mutated, and therefore unique perception of the world: just similar enough to all so that they maintain a uniform sense of narrative and coherence while ravaging your cells.

Blogs, like diseases, can infect anyone. This is partially owed to their upside; many different strains offer various opinions and perspectives ranging from a broad cross-section of society. However democratic, while some diseases leave you with antibodies to fight future attacks, blogs prefer to weaken the author with each crippling entry, making them less and less likely to chose other public means of demonstrating personal emotions, feelings, thoughts, opinions, etc.

Take me, for instance.

Within the public sphere, a person may choose to eject what's hidden inside, flinging out into the commune for others to prance upon. They may do this for many reasons: a cry for help ("Look what's happening to me.."), self-importance ("Look what I did!"), paternalistic altruism ("Just so you know..."), Tourette's ("FUCK! I mean, sorry.."), or any number of nuanced, complicated reasons going towards the development of a social identity as distinct from the faceless masses.

But this choice must not be overlooked. It must not be taken for granted because there exists a myriad other means of expressing emotion or manifesting thoughts (apart from Tourette's, of course, in which choice is compromised). Diaries, journals, painting, writing stories, composing songs, poetry: all of these are examples of an individual's private search for meaning in their life. So why must one blog publicly? Are there unique benefits attached to each of the above reasons or is there one foundational good achieved by spilling your secrets to the world?

Although it might personally reward one's curiosity or fulfill one's entertainment quota, exploring the ulterior motives of other bloggers is not my chief objective. In fact, I claim, albeit falsely, 100% apathy towards their intentions. This blog will not be about other peoples' blogs. This blog won't make reference to other blogs. This blog will be 100% the musings of my mind.

And now, to turn the analytical lens of perception on myself. Why am I doing this? If I liken blogs to disease, why contract one willingly?

Well, like disease, blogs come in all shapes and sizes, a plethora of different symptoms accompanied by a wide spectrum of magnanimity. This blog, I will liken to alcoholism. It is non-communicable, highly influenced by behavior and emotion, and more than likely, genetics.

This blog will not make you itch in unspeakable locations, nor will it leave you bed-ridden hacking up pieces of your lungs, nor will it cause you to hallucinate (unless you drop acid because the format of the blog is conducive to such activity, in which case, "see you on the other side, brother.") and have cold sweats.

This blog will be sporadically linked to me "falling off the wagon", or otherwise consistently following bouts of taking triple shots of whatever emotions dug up in me by the gravediggers of my soul (gothic almost, right? Cha-ching).

And finally, since my great-grandfather, Joseph Daniel Harrington was once an esteemed columnist for a now defunct Boston paper, I guess the blog is genetic too (minus the whole getting paid $.010 a column, which would be nice actually). I am predisposed to publicly displaying my thoughts, just as I am alcoholism, which plays nicely out with my Irish disease metaphor.

But enough about plagues and blogs (blagues?). Now let's get to the one question I'm sure everyone was really asking themselves: Who the fuck is Josh Beckett and what does CG mean?

The short of it is that Josh Beckett is currently the ace starting pitcher on the Boston Red Sox staff. CG stands for "complete game," which means that a pitcher begins the game by throwing out the first pitch to the first batter, and concludes the game by recording the final (27th, if the game does not go to extra-innings) out.

The longer part is that I've noticed that every blog has some sort of random and unique quality to it. Sometimes, each entry will be titled according to a momentous event that the author wishes to remember in the future. Oftentimes the entry title will briefly reference this event so that at first glance, the memory of the day will come hurriedly rushing back to the author in a wild blur or colors, people, and sensual imagery. All of the time, however, the title will have to do with something that resounds deeply within the author.

I'm a self-proclaimed Boston Red Sox fan. Many in my life have pointed out to me that this is also a disease, but instead of likening it to a blog, I liken it to religion. My temple is MLB.TV and I worship my deity nearly every day, around 3 hours each day. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, organized religion--or is that a vice?

I have faith in my 40 man roster and I will stand by them for all eternity, and in exchange for my faith I will be rewarded (twice already in my lifetime, thank you very much). And if likening heavenly afterlife to the champagne showers of a locker room deep in the belly of a baseball church, if flinging $8 beers and cracked peanut shells into the wispy air in ecstatic rapture and exchanging sloppy but spiritual high-fives with complete strangers is blasphemous, then Beelzebub here I come, because there's nothing quite like a World Series Championship.

But, I digress. What I mean to say is that the Red Sox are as important to me as anything in this world. Therefore, simply titling my blog entries with memorable events of the day's Red Sox game will suffice in stirring awake my slumbering memory, deep in its Red Sox reverie of future victories and baseball conquests.

A caveat: this blog will not exclusively focus on the Boston Red Sox; however, it will devote a sub-section of every entry to the day's game, unless there is no game, in which I'll still have a section filled with Red Sox musings. It'll be found toward the bottom of each entry and it will be formatted in such a way to set it off from all the rest, so if you care little-to-nothing about baseball generally or the Red Sox specifically, then you can afford to skip it.

As this is but a sad pilot episode, a droning preface to the denouement of my extro/introverted critical observations, I will conclude by writing that should you feel bored or otherwise tired of my writing mannerisms, by all means say so, and I'll gladly glance over them, finish my glass of Jameson, and cry. For I know the tragedy of the blog is such that we are all so warm and coddled in our own lives that what you or I have to say about this mired world of ours matters very little for the rest. Socrates once said that wisdom is measured by our awareness of our own ignorance. I say, "who's Socrates?"