i think i'll be moving on back to my original place at blogspot. livejournal more often than not just makes my blood boil. this account'll stay open for lj commenty purposes, but no updating. at least until i change my mind. again.

I'm sick of envisioning new ways for Curt Schilling to die; the latest has me dreaming of watching him choke to death on the bloody sock while Alex Rodriguez bashes his skull into a gooey muck with his man-purse.

futility infielder has a wonderfully frustrated post up regarding the pent-up pissed-offness some of us yankee fans have about this offseason, echoing a lot of sentiments i've expressed (albeit not as well) slightly here, mostly elsewhere: "I'm especially sick of the lack of vision and imagination being shown by the front office." in. fucking. deed.

but yes, most of all:

I'm sick of temperatures in the single digits and low teens, and the increasingly graying snow still piled on New York City's curbs. I want to see players bathed in sunlight as they run around on green grass wearing their batting-practice jerseys and tossing the ball lackadaisically. I want the next three weeks before Pitchers and Catchers to pass overnight so we can get on with a baseball season that will inevitably take more twists and turns than we can possibly predict. Bring it on.

Current Mood: bah
Current Music: sonic youth - get into the groove

with your guest host, the yankee chicken! thanks to karen for letting him hang out over here!

Current Music: atmosphere - god's bathroom floor

i need this.

there seems to be a lot of "i hope NE loses cause i'm tired of them winning" going around. i don't even really want to touch upon the asinine "i hope they lose so boston fans can be miserable/ you're not a yankee fan if you root for a new england team" garbage. i don't understand it. my grandpa's hate, the ire of a lifelong, heartbroken steelers fan ("it was good against evil and EVIL WON."), that i can grasp, but not identify with. instead, i admire. see, they remind me so much of this buncha guys i used to know:

...It will be difficult to recount the starting lineup. After looking it up, you'll have to report that their World Series MVP was Scott Brosius, a guy who looks like he should be fixing your computer. None of the players were the best in their position in the American League. Tino Martinez wasn't even the best Martinez (Pedro, Boston). Or the second best (that would be Edgar, Seattle). No, Timmy, that wasn't the year Reggie Jackson was on the team. And Mark McGwire played for somebody else. As did Sammy Sosa, Ken Griffey, Barry Bonds, Greg Maddux and Roger Clemens. Your best bet is to try to distract Timmy with candy. In the future, candy will be even better.

If pressed, go with the morality lecture. Though we talk about teamwork and selflessness, we don't find that stuff exciting. We prefer individual stars. The truth is, we're a Rambo culture that talks a Saving Private Ryan game. We're a republic that turns out only for presidential elections. We lured Ginger out of the Spice Girls.

We are so unaccustomed to actual team spirit that manager Joe Torre, after the Yankees won their championship on Wednesday night, awkwardly called them "a great team team." They were. Every single player contributed, big time... Batters patiently waited for hittable balls and forced pitchers deep into the count. Coaches stressed on-base percentage over home runs. Everyone played crisp, robotic defense and opportunistic offense, waiting for the other team to make a mistake. [joel stein]

uh huh, and neveryoumind the brady/jeter doppelganger weirdness.

harvey araton and brian cashman see it too:

Watching the Patriots dismantle the Steelers on Sunday night, Brian Cashman was struck by déjà vu, by the notion that he had seen this all before. And he had, except the core names were Brosius, not Bruschi; Martinez, not McGinest; O'Neill, not Andruzzi.

"Absolutely," said Cashman, the Yankees' general manager, when asked yesterday if Bill Belichick's Patriots reminded him of Joe Torre's Yankees, circa 1996-2001. "I was thinking exactly that watching the game last night, how much the Patriots remind me of us. They obviously have a lot of talent, but most of their players would not be considered the best at their positions. They're an efficient machine, and they win with a tremendous amount of preparation and discipline that comes from the top."

Those Yankees had the composed button pressing of Torre. These Patriots have the calculating brainpower of Belichick. Continuing on this theme, we played a brief game of word association. I said, "Tom Brady." Cashman, without hesitation, said, "Derek Jeter."

Current Music: the who - teenage wasteland

SUCKERS!

Current Mood: light
Current Music: tindersticks - until the morning comes

dear ian o'connor:

about new york fans. you can insinuate that we're arrogant, overbearing, any number of endearing terms you and the rest of your bitter, condescending tribe like to throw around, but one thing we are not is stupid.

Randy Johnson does not want to be here, never make any mistake about that. He has no love for the Yankees, Yankee tradition, Yankee Stadium, or anything else Yankee that counted for every ounce of Derek Jeter's singular backyard dream.

He does not embrace you, Yankee fans, or anything else about your pastime loyalties. Johnson comes to the Bronx as a fireballing mercenary with a heart as stone-cold as Roger Clemens'.

we have eyes. we are literate. some of us even grasp the ridiculous notion that not everyone on god's green earth grew up wanting to wear pinstripes, or that not everyone is as cuddly and yankeefied as our winsome cap'n, or that this beautiful game is clouded by greed. some of us are having a tremendously difficult time accepting this acquisition. some of us even have long memories, waaaay back even before the popular myth that the yankees hatched perfectly formed in 1998 and promptly went raping your mommas and pillaging your villages, and this newest yankee was the cause of some of our most crushing pain.

but we will get over it, sort of, much as we got over clemens (incredible, i know, but some of us saw through him, too). why? "i just want to win so bad. that's all i've ever wanted to do." because he's here now, and he's hungry, same as i am. it's a marriage of convenience. we don't need to love each other.

Now Cashman employs two brooding loners in Brown and Johnson, an honorary member of the same club in Mike Mussina

yes, this is the part where i tell you to go fuck yourself, you clueless cocksucking mick motherfucker, for making a wholly unnecessary assertion about a veteran member of his new team, which i'm sure is the reaction you were hoping for all along. congratulations.


love,
jennifer

Current Mood: ######

ha! i was just looking through the yankees mlb archives and found my birthday gift (scroll down to july 6th) from moose, my favorite mister almost!

aw spring, hurry up.

i learned of tino's return new year's eve, whilst in an irish bar in honolulu: i was sitting there, just TRYING to enjoy my beer and sportscenter on mute while some drunk fool mumbled in my ear, something about "where are you from and why aren't you married," and "i'm not hitting on you, i'm just a lover of people," when in one joyous instant, the bartender descended like an avenger from the sweet baby jesus to rid me of my stalker AND sportscenter silently informed me that constantino martinez was returning to the bronx. i nearly knocked over my beer, fell off the barstool, and blinded the barkeep with my beatific glow.

so a fond, if belated, welcome home to the best ass in baseball.

TALK TO THE HAND, CAUSE RJ AIN'T LISTENIN:




oh, the press conference? i'm glad he made zero attempt to disguise his mercenary intentions, unlike everso many others who have passed under the joe d sign.


somewhere inbetween all the apologizing and arizona damage control, his voice broke a little with earnest emotion:

``I just want to win so bad. That's all I've ever wanted to do,'' he said.

and with that i decided i am prepared to attempt the journey from irrational horrorshow skin-crawly animosity now reserved only for cal ripken to a benevolent love bestowed purely and SOLELY upon his pitching arm heretofore reserved only for roger clemens:

Randy Johnson doesn't laugh very often, and even when he does, he lasers in with those cold, small eyes that suggest there's a fierce temper bubbling close to the surface. The Big Unit apologized several times for shoving a cameraman in Manhattan on Monday, and while he sounded contrite and sincere, the Yankees should make sure Johnson stays in touch with his most precious gift, that inner rage.

...The Big Unit can be remembered for a lot of things - but not for his graciousness or long, thoughtful answers. The Yankees have Mike Mussina to act as the clubhouse intellectual. They have Joe Torre as the billboard of professionalism. They have Derek Jeter as a marketing weapon. Johnson is here for his fastball, and only that.

If the Yankees are smart, they've already sent Johnson back home to Arizona to prepare for spring training. There, he'll lock himself in the gym and hone those precious weapons.

His arm, which generates record-breaking heat.

And his heart, which is pure ice. [bergen record]

Current Mood: meh
Current Music: pulp - i spy