By way of explanation...I have been following the Philadelphia Phillies, off and on (lengthy sabbaticals are necessary to preserve one's vestiges of sanity), since about 1972. I am pretty certain that my interest in them is almost entirely sentimental at this point, related more to the voices of the announcers and memories of simpler days, than to the often discouraging results of the games. The season also provides some structure for my otherwise recklessly careening life. This journal serves a joint purpose: a.) as a forced exercise in writing, and b.) as a cathartic outlet for the vortex of turbulent emotions watching the Phillies creates. If anyone can derive amusement or validation from it as a by-product, well then, so much the better. Your distant cousin,
Ol' JT.

10.12.05: Bugs Win, We Lose.



Well, it's like this. Entirely missed most of August, entirety of September, and this part
of October. But I have a good reason. You see, there are these bugs, pictured above.
I believe they come from Japan. In any event, they are here now and there are a lot of
them. Don't know how they get in the house, they are quite good at this, though. In all
other ways, however, they are hopelessly stupid. I mean, they just sit there on the window
pane, waiting to be crushed. And they can fly. But they just sit there, after buzzing around
in your face at night, get you real angry, sit there like they WANT to die. And here we are
in America, so I kill them. Kill alot of them. Funny thing though. When you kill them they
give off this noticeable smell--smells kinda like cilantro. And you think, 'well, it could be worse', and think nothing of it. But after a while, as you sleep, I'm pretty sure the molecules released by the crushing of these insects, which are, in fact, I think, alien life forms bent on taking over our mind processes for their own personal gain, infiltrate our persons by way of the respiratory system and enter into our very bloodstreams. Getting a little woozy just talking about it Chase Manhattan Bank. Long story short, I have been shrouded in this gauzy netherworld all tinted in brown, probably doing their bidding. Hazy images of vast bureaucratic offices, endless forms to fill out, application upon application, and then you have to go home and wait, but nobody ever calls. You have an unexplainable desire to chew on those gummy worms they have sometimes. It's not so bad really. Bottom line is, though, it completely rids one of desire to post one's inane
thoughts on the so-called 'internet'. I feel kinda better now there's been a cold snap
and not quite so many bugs to kill.
So I have been given to understand that the Phils didn't quite make the playoffs.
That's too bad. One thing I can tell you, though, it wasn't Ed Wade's fault. [Wade was 'relieved' of his position recently]. I'm not entirely sure they really, really, REALLY wanted to anyway. So I wrote this poem:

Elegy For Ed Wade

No more the passing winds
Blowing through those haunted eyes,
of yesterday's no tomorrows.
Shoulda kept Polanco, put him at 3rd
traded Bell, who can't hit right handed pitching very well.
You'll never get anything for him now.
This iced tea tastes like it's turned.
A little.

Hey, always next year. New insect lords, maybe...


8.11.05: Phloaters 17 Kabillion, Everyone Else negative zero.




Well, the Phillies have actually won a couple in a row out west, and that's great, but this dimension has become too stupid even for me, so I have decided to move to a wonderful place called New Calizona and be there for a while. The town I live in is called Daleville and not alot happens there. I make my home in the Gripping Arms Apartment complex out on Road Street. As in 'real life' I am looking for employment, but I think I've got a line on a cushy toll collector gig out on the Spectral Turnpike, so I'm practicing making change with myself.
As luck would have it there is a baseball team out here called the Phloaters and they're pretty good. They won their first game and decided to quit while they were ahead, wish everyone would. Best of all, perhaps, the local supermarket is well stocked with Diet Vanilla Coke and that cheese I like, so Vaya Con Dios, Amigos...

7..14.05-7.21.05: Phillies win 3 out of 4 from Marlins. Phillies lose 2 out of 3 to Dodgers.

Great stunted apologies to whom it may or may not concern. It's been a little weird lately. So very hot. Why, you could fry an egg on the hood of my car right now. In fact that's all that I've been doing, frying eggs on my car hood, scooping them onto paper plates, and then selling them to passing drivers. Hood omelets, I call them. They are surprisingly unpopular.
I bet it's not this hot in canada right now. Or as stupid. I mean, come on, NO universal health care? What is this, 1915? Oh I hurt my back pumping out the outhouse and since I don't have benefits I guess I'll have to pay for it myself by selling little Enid into white slavery, oh well...But as they say, you give the people what they want--evidently 'the people' (that is to say the slim majority that voted That Guy into office TWICE) want the very rich to continue living their dream lives, just don't take away our Nascar and faux country music. Pardon my simple-minded zeal if you please. I'm a little bitchy because I think they are phasing out Diet Vanilla Coke in favor of Coke Zero (see 6.23.05 entry), which will pretty much wrap it up as far as I'm concerned.
The Phillies. Ungh. I really can't continue to consistently comment on the Phillies anymore. I know I only did it for a month or so, but you get tired of trying to make a golden sow's ear out of an empty purse sometimes. I think they are fine. They are gonna win some, and they are gonna lose some. It is unlikely that they are going to be making the playoffs, but I will continue to watch them compulsively, knowing this sad truth all the while. Just like waking up in the morning--you don't do it because there's a golden surprise egg full of chocolate happy pills waiting for you downstairs--you do it...well, you do it because...I think it might be better if I just do drawings for a while.



ALL STAR BREAK

Muggy. Bobby hit the ball alot.

6.24.05--7.05.05 Innumerable, discouraging Phillies losses.

Haven't felt much like writing lately. I believe that the same 'area of negativity' that descended over the Phillies in recent weeks has likewise enveloped me in it's stuporous shroud. I even stopped watching the games for a while to try and shake it, but it remains next to me, fading in and out, personified by a dirty-faced adolescent wraith I call Gary. I've seen Gary before at other low times in my life, and he tends to give the absolute worst advice, via a form of emotional telepathy. He usually goes away when the cycle of fortune rights itself. It's quite possible, I suppose, that these 'cycles' could actually be some form of recurring depression innate to my psyche, rather than an external, cosmic conspiracy directed explicitly at me. But I don't think so.
As for the Phillies, eh, no so gooood. You see, alot of the teams they have been playing have been trying to win, pretty hard, and that's not helping. But what can you do? Ease back, babies, and riiiiiiide. Nobody's driving this hearse, we're going off a cliff, and that's fine too. Not alot really matters when you get right down to it. Except the sun, and the breeze, and water. They matter alot. And pie.

6.23.05 Mets 4, Phillies 3.
6.22.05 Phillies 8, Mets 4.

So I'm sitting here with a half-drunk glass of 'Coca Cola Zero'. It's only half-drunk because I'm a-not a-drinkin' no more, thank you. It's that bad. You've doubtless witnessed some of the hype surrounding this youth-marketed version of diet soda. What the clever advertisers failed to tell you was that Coke Zero(great name, fellas) tastes like they put suntan lotion in it. OK, I might be exaggerating a bit, but smell it, folks, then put some suntan lotion on your arm and smell that. Go ahead, do it now, I'll wait...identical, wouldn't you say? Now, there could be an upside to this in that drinking it can bring back pleasant memories of the seashore, like the time mom and dad brought you a tuna sandwich with some lemonade...imagine that, lemonade. That's something you don't get much at home. Hey and it tastes real good together, the salty, mayonnaise-drenched tuna on toasted bread and the too-sweet yellow liquid--yeah, that was one good thing that happened in the past. Another was this one time when I came home after doing some drinking and found some leftover pizza and a half-flat bottle of warm Coke (this is REAL Coca Cola, mind you). Being somewhat hungry I threw caution to the wind and combined these elements, and let me tell you the taste was about as close as one can get to being at one with God by using 'over-the-counter' products. The brilliance of real Coke--syrupy deep and perhaps even greasy?-- only makes this latest travesty (add it to the list along with New Coke and pretty much every other attempt a different formula, except for Diet Vanilla, which is actually very good for mixing with rum or whiskey) even more appalling by association. All the memories of tuna sandwiches with lemonade in creation can't change that.
Oh, that reminds me. The Phillies. Well you win some, you lose some, and some, well, let's just say the wildebeast gets YOU. Any sign of their so-recent verve has disappeared, replaced by a kind of mauzy faloonsha, er, lifelessness. They seem lifeless, very much like this Coke Zero I am presently pouring down the drain. World Champion Boston, which comes into town next, may well be the Phillies' drain...but you never know...but actually, deep down, you do know...but you don't want to know. Suntan lotion.

6.21.05 Mets 8, Phillies 5.

Had one of those dreams today, where you wake up before the action is resolved and you just don't feel right the whole day because of it. It's like part of my brain was miffed because I disturbed it's little movie so it just took the whole day off. It was something about high school, though I think I was my present age. Nothing important happened, I just kind of sat around, not talking to anyone, while all these kids went about their business, and felt this sense of being slowly smothered. Very similar to my actual experience, as I recall. This vaguely troubled feeling crossed right over into the Phillies game, which, despite a return to the confines of their home stadium, was a continuation of the team's weeklong road doldrums.
Indeed, the game seemed somewhat dream-like, and the P's definitely retained the glazed-over torpor that is characteristic of interrupted REM sleep-states. Either that or an actual aura of negative energy has descended on both them and I, rendering us helpless to improve our worsening fates as day melts into day until we expire wheezing in the dust. I'd prefer to go with the dream scenario.

6. 19. 05 A's 5, Phillies 2.
6. 18. 05 A's 2, Phillies 1.

Gonna lump these two again, because, hey, it's all pretty much a blur anyway right now. I am flagging--all flagged out, if you will. Dug that thing out of my leg, though. I'm not sure if it was a tick, or what--I didn't find any legs, but it definitely wasn't your average scab. Lyme disease is really quite all I would need just about now to make me doff my homburg and say, 'Gee, it's been swell, Ellery, but I really must be off to the regata. My yacht has been registered for the Queen's Cup and Captain goes down with the ship, doncha know, jolly good and ta ta..."
Oh, Phillies. It only stands to reason there should be some slippage, but against the A's? And not the A's of my sunny childhood in their day-glo, tricked-out green and yellow '70's uni's; hurrying home from school to see the world series with Catfish Hunter and Reggie, and of course, Rollie Fingers with his dastardly 19th Century mustache and sidearm delivery. And Vida Blue! Where have you gone, Vida Blue, Vida Blue? Sounds like a play I should write, oh, about some little boy who gets a pet chameleon at the fair, and the chameleon starts talking to him at night, telling him to do bad things. Like what, you ask? Well that's between the little boy and the chameleon if you don't mind, they have a BOND. The only real bond this poor little tyke could develop with anyone perhaps, because whenever he tries to be part of some group or clique they try and cow him, so he's pretty much a loner, except for the damn lizard which escapes into the hedge and dies--END OF PLAY.
Well, tomorrow is a much-needed day off to reflect, to regroup, to play some Pachinko maybe. Then it's the Mets, the Red Sox, the Braves...oh it's agonna get uglier before it's gets pretty again, if it does, and it doesn't necessarily have to. Honeymoon's over, honey, and the Worm's back in town. Lest we smite him with our very MINDS!

6.17.05 Phillies 6, A's 1.

More like it, definitely, though most of the game did not feel like a win. The Phils seemed to be coasting on the last vapors of that rarified homestand magic, putting together a series of improbable hits together in the 7th against an otherwise strong Barry Zito to put the game out of reach. Despite the W it does feel like the worm has turned, and turned on the Phightins. And it's not one of your pretty, store-bought worms, but a hosey spectral nightmare, segmented and hissing, hypnotizing the Phillies' batters with it's furry, calico eyes. Tejeda pitched well, though.

6.16.05 Phillies 3, Mariners 2

EKED this one out. EEEEKED. Veritably scraped it out with an awl, scraping and cursing. In extra innings. Scoring runs has suddenly become as difficult as pulling hen's teeth in the monkey house, but a W is a W, even if in this case it may well stand for 'Worrisome', or 'Wanna wake up, Willie?'. Bright Side: Myers pitched another exemplary game, giving up but one run. Dark Side: 2 of the Phils' 3 runs scored as a result of throwing errors on the Mariners' part. Really Dark Side: I got this thing in my leg and I don't know what it is.

6.15.05 Mariners 5, Phillies 1.
6.14.05 Mariners 3, Phillies 1.

Kind of 'lumped' these two together because they seemed like the same game. And I'm a-kind of a-fadin, from, you know, the heat and lack of coffee. And 'business' I had. And it was a lumpy kind of game--Phillies, listless and bleary, Mariners, efficient and confident. We all knew there would have to be a cooling down of sorts, and where better than the cavernous confines of Safeco with it's dominant blues and greens intertwining in shadows and the doubtlessly cool Seattle breezes distracting the boys from the heady fever dream that was the last two weeks. It's all about momentum in this sport and we can only hope that this is but a temporary inertial shift--by rights, with Myers on the mound vs. a fellow with a rather high ERA, they may yet avert a sweep and try to restoke the fires of the Little Train That Should via the slumping A's. Can't
go back to that bad mind, fellas, come on. Almost everything good is based on semi-erroneous absolute belief in yourself or so I've been told by this guy. He has a really
nice orange parka and purple shades and his own folding chair, so I think he should know.
Cool breezes now, heatwave reluctantly looses grip on Valley. Snuck some coffee. It was good. Guy upstairs isn't gonna like it, but you know, he doesn't have to be ME. Well, this part of me, anyway...



6.12.05. Phillies 6, Brewers 2.

Again, this is a somewhat lacking account of the final game of what has been a phenomenal homestand (12-1!) due to a hangover of dusky somnolence from the previous day's bout with internal gremlins . Still hot too and no coffee--thought the better of it, as it is on the list of things I should probably avoid, along with EVERYTHING ELSE THAT MAKES LIFE WORTHWHILE--I kid, I kid, life's great. A parade, that's what it is. With a big, blow-up, cross-eyed Ziggy on a tether and a marching band playing "Jamboree Crawdad Surprise" or something. And lot's of funnel cake.
Went bowling because it was so hot. Had the lanes entirely to ourselves. Where was everybody? At the parade? I can't bowl, not at all. I start the ball in the gutter. And now my arms feel like somebody beat them with pipes. It was worth it though, just for the shoes which were the most comfortable by far I have ever had the pleasure to ensconse my feet in. But then you have to give them back. And go outside into the yellowish brown heatmidity, like you're some kinda tuna roll in Zeus's oven. And at the carnival later, you get there a little late, there's no cannoli's left...but the Phillies won again somehow Utley Burrell homer six in a row cusp time--now to the west coast where there are probably plenty of cannoli's. And crisp breezes issuing from the nostrils of some more benevolent and laid back deity, thank you very much.

6.11.05 Phillies 7, Brewers 5.

Can't actually remember details of this one because I was so under the weather. Sometime around waking I experienced a relapse of some mystery pain in my lower abdomen (previously diagnosed as a kidney stone), kind of like if a peach pit had somehow turned into one of those mini-robots with the saws that people seem to like watch destroy each other--like that only in my gut. Having learned that 'professional care' is just a little rich for my blood, I decided to self-medicate by means of a percodan-like pain killer I had been prescribed. Within an hour it was as if a translucent hood had been drawn over my head and very heavy weights had been tied to all bodily extremities, and large, white, abstract forms were sharing the room with me. Did I mention it was also as hot and humid as a boxcar full of burning pelts? At any rate, between futile trips to the bathroom I found myself curled up on the couch trying to find that magical position where it hurt slightly less. Not that I cared that much about the pain, which seemed like a minor border dispute with a foreign country, by then; the head archer in my brain just likes as much order as possible so he can make a bullseye and please his mom. Eventually I heard the sounds of the Phillies coming from the TV--a little slowed down, with just a tad of phase-shifting I think. I would occasionally crane my neck to glance at the glowing set...hmm, tight game. And they're all in canoes on a river of milk...c'mon, Bobby, paddle!
Even in this somewhat addled state I was able to determine by the excited tone of Harry's voice when something big had happened--Pat Burrell crushing a 3-run homer to put the game on ice in the 7th, I would learn later. I remember slowly raising my fist from fetal position on the couch and mouthing the word 'mufflower' for some reason. Within a half hour of the hazy victory I was feeling considerably better...


6.10.05 Phillies 5, Brewers 2.

I really thought they were gonna lose this one. Even though it was a fairly tight game it felt annoyingly familiar for most of it, like the rigor mortis that had characterized the first part of the season. But when, with the game tied at 2, Brett Myers came out in the 8th at 95 pitches and struck out the side con brio, as if by force of will, I shouted aloud, 'They're gonna win this one!'. Kinda scared the cat, but he really ought to be used to me blurting stuff out with no other humans present by now. In the bottom of the 9th it was like there was no real doubt (so unlike many other bottoms of the 9th in the past)--walk, walk, David Bell walk-off homer, end of story. I'm starting to fight the hope--you gotta do that, you know--POUND that hope down, before it seduces you and you wake up one morning feeling pretty good, and THAT'S when they come at you with the razor blades...but it's getting harder.

6.09.05 Phillies 10, Rangers 8

So hot now, I forgot my name. I think it may be Rank Hamblosis and I run a tube place out on Jiffy Street. Been slow lately, very slow. Sometimes everything just stops moving altogether, and it's pretty wonderful, I'll tell you. Phillies pretty wonderful too,
keep winning somehow. Some kind of vast psych-out probably, like, like when you plug in your guitar and it's the usual crap gig but you're playing for the Big Guy for some reason? Nobody claps but it doesn't matter, it makes it even better because you laugh in your head and say THIS IS GOOD, then really splay the old fatoon, rightly, no? Es verdad. Oh, pardon me, I've just been to the carnival and I'm all uppity... What I mean to say is, the ol' Phillas are in the winning head, and the other teams know it and they subconciously 'screw the pooch', I think the expression is. Or something. It's not really explainable, it's about walking tall, like a tuned-in Frankenstein, baby--I'm sorry, it's the humidity talking...What happened was the ball was flying because of the hottiness and there were more homers than at a friggin Simpsons memorabilia convention, and the P's hit more than the R's. That's just how it's going. Newcomer Ugueth Urbina had a shaky first relief outing, but hey, if things weren't shaky sometimes, how would we know what still is?


6.08.05 Phillies 2, Rangers 0.

Ho...Hoowah! Shut out. Shut down. Shut the door, the neighbors are looking. Shut my mouth. Hushpuppies. It's all that, bruthas and muthas. By which I mean to insinuate that the fearsome Texas Rangers failed to score this game, while the Phillies did not fail, hence winning. I am beginning to suspect that maybe the Texans came in here slumping a bit and this may not be the genuine article, but it's what I'll remember, for a few days anyway. Actually missed the Phillies scoring when I stopped in at the local supermarket in order to get some pens. Pens disappear in my house, the good ones anyway. It's either my girlfriend or ghosts. Or maybe that I'm getting a little forgetful and will carry them wherever I go and then just put them down, like, down the cellar, and then blame someone else because they're not there. Anyway, needed some new ones. I got Pilot G2's--now, they're pretty expensive, but once you've written with them you don't really want to go back to more proletarian implements. It's the gel, you see, the way the gel ink flows. Let's just say it's a pleasure. Ended up getting some turkey sausages and sour cream too. When i got back out to the car it was 2-0 Phillies, courtesy Mr. Burrell. That's how it ended. A fine job of throwing the ball by everyone, especially Mr. Tejeda who is usually in the bullpen. And even the guy with the Rangers, who actually played basketball with Princeton. I'm not kidding, he's 6'10". Sorry you lost big guy, you pitched real good.
Another thing I'm sorry about, aside from putting in an application at that vending machine place--I mean, what was I thinking there?--is the departure of Placido Polanco, who was traded to Detroit today for reliever Ugeth (spelling?) Urbina and a guy named Ramon. I suppose it was necessary for Polly's happiness, and that's the important thing, but I will miss his solid baseball noggin and fiery spirit. Here's to you, Placido (drinking noises), and I'M IN LAKE PLACID WITH J.LO AND THERE'S A SNAKE--



6.07.05 Phillies 8, Rangers 5.

Really thought that thunderstorm yesterday was some kind of omen that the Phillies' fortunes had waned, especially with the much ballyhooed Rangers coming into town (not to mention the huge black letters that formed in the sky saying, 'PHILLIES FORTUNES WILL WANE). But, like the thick, hot, stinking air that returned shortly after the rain, so the boys' winning ways would engulf the Texans with a muggy victory. Gotten so used to them being comfortably ahead that watching the games has taken something of a backseat to other pursuits--chiefly finding places with air conditioning in which to loiter. On returning to discover the Rangers had shortened the deficit to 1 run the little fellow in my gut started to wring his hands a bit, but the one in my upper brain reassured him, saying "Tut, tut, Maximillian, things are in hand. Have some cherry essence dried plums--atsa boy..." Things 'worked themselves out' in more ways than one. That's how it's been of late--easy, breezy, slightly incoherent. Sure'n I've a spring in me step when I'm ambling down the boulevard aimlessly, ice coffee in hand, shakin me fist at the punishing sky: "Do your worst Old Man! I've got sweat to BURN." Oh I know it won't last, comeuppance coming soon with the this and the that and the 'oh boy that hurts right there fella!' Gotta...squeeze...out...all...joy...now.
On a minor side note, despite their team winning 7 out of 8 games on the current homestand, some Philadelphia fans booed catcher Mike Lieberthal a number of times tonight (heck, they booed him on his celebrated 1000th game the other evening), even though he had 2 hits and an rbi--true he also had a base-running blunder and has been under-performing up until recently. I understand the impulse, but not the need to carry it through in this context--folks, it's a party, right now at least. Have some crab dip and jello shots and let a playa play, yo. I mean, he wears turtlenecks alot, and that's OK with me.


6.06.05 Diamondbacks 10, Phillies 8.

This didn't quite seem like a real game to me. I may well write the Commissioner of Baseball one of my fanciful letters and ask that the loss be erased because the whole thing was a product of mass hallucination. Firstly, it was at 1pm on a Monday, which is pretty unlikely, secondly, it was so brightly hot and humid I could only make out vague abstractions of players on the tv screen, and thirdly, I think even the Phillies themselves knew it was time to lose one. Hence falling behind 5-0 in the first inning on a series of ground ball singles and a less than spectacular triple, and then letting them tack on additonal runs until it was 8-1 in the 5th. And yet the newly game phightins would not go quietly, mounting a stirring comeback in the 9th that would bring them only 2 runs from tying. It was like a vaguely unpleasant dream, like the one I just had where I was carrying around a baggie of live, pink, chubby prawns...what the hell was that about?
Anyway, after such an impressive stretch I could only feel a certain degree of relief with the loss, not unlike the effect of cooler temperatures brought on by this afternoon's thunderstorm; a process of evening-out has likely begun, with the formidable Texas Rangers riding into town tomorrow. You never know, but however enjoyable this heady little trip to the planet Respectabilicon has been, it's probably time to make our way back to earth and it's confounding realities.

6.05.05 Phillies 7, Diamondbacks 6.

Hot Hot Hot. Got hot today, and humid, doubtless a small teaser of things to come. It's like the Great Architect Of The Universe suddenly woke up from a spring's blissful slumber and remembered He had to 'put it to' his favorite creations by means of blistering gobs of white, muzzy heat, because, hey, that's what He does. You walk out into the afternoon, from the air-cooled confines of, say, a Dunkin Donuts, and WHAM you're drowning in an ocean of white pressure, an ingot in the furnace stoked by the god of oppression, Homigoditsot. The sun, usually a benevolent figure who paints the ugly creations of humanity and nature alike with golden syrupy lovelight, has turned into a cross-eyed beast I call Meealmathor, and breathes hotty smunch upon our helpless forms with seeming delight. So you drink, even though it only makes things worse, you drink Long Island Ice Teas until you feel good about the solar pounding, and you dance around the park yelling, "I GOT THE FEELING, JESUS! BAKE ME SOME MORE!"
The Philadelphia Phillies have indeed 'got the feeling' as well, extending their winning streak to 6--count'em--6 in a row. At this point they could probably go out and try to lose and they'd win; they get runs accidentally for criminy's sake. Even the umpires were on their side today, reversing a call that turned a 2-run double by Mike Lieberthal into a 3-run home run--I mean, that's UNHEARD OF. They are in the groove right now and the less said the better. I have learned to not enjoy things too much because as soon as you do the Stukas dive bomb your house and no one likes your music anymore--so, yeah, I'm kinda glad they won, but I am girding my loins this very minute and you're very lucky I do not offer webcam access.

6.04.05 Phillies 10, Diamondbacks 6; Phillies 5, Diamondbacks 3.

What do people have against doubleheaders? When I was young they were fairly common occurences--they even scheduled them, unheard of in these 'enlightened times'. Yeah, Huck and I would prop the ol' transistor radio up against some hay on the raft we made out of popsicle sticks and aeroplane glue and paddle our way down the sunlit, filthy Lehigh right on down to Moonlight Bay, listening to the sweet crackling of the announcers' voices for hour upon hour, as we fished and daydreamed about cotton candy, harvest dances, and taking over the school by force. Never really wanted it to end. It did, sadly, when we came upon the body of the preacher's niece floating by--and crazy old Jasper saw us! "Run Huck, Run!" I yelled, perhaps foolishly because we were on a raft in the middle of the river. That's when things got really hairy...
Of course these days people don't have the time for such marathon commitments of attention--gotta have everything happening fast, with explosions and flashing lights and no payments until January, because if they took a little time to quietly reflect on their empty lives they might start to question some things, and that takes effort so just FORGET DOUBLEHEADERS, junior.
But I still like 'em, especially when the Phillies win both games--man, it seems like maybe the pod people from Nebulon are finally here, and they replaced the real Phillies with much more confident and energetic duplicates because these are not the same players who sleepwalked through the entire month of April; check it, I don't think they can move both thumbs at the same time--that's how you know. In any event, despite the almost certain disaster that looms not so far ahead, today's relatively easy twin-killing really took me back to that raft with Hank, or Huck, or whatever the hell his name was: breaking out the corncob pipe and slim jims, Whitey and Harry and the boys, and the gauzy orange embrace of sunset and youth frittered away...Corn fritters! That's what I need!


6.02.05 Phillies 6, Giants 5.

Another kind of wooly mammoth of a game. Phillies take the lead, Giants tie it up, Phillies take the lead again, Giants almost tie it up, then not much else happened for a long time and the Phillies won. OK, maybe it wasn't all that wooly, but there were some tusks I think. And during the 7th inning stretch a choo choo train made of hamburger came out of the bullpen and people were allowed to take bites out of it--some kind of Phillies promotion I guess. Frankenstein monster was there too, he seemed sad. OK, I made that up, I didn't really see the last few innings of the game. After last night's excitement I was a bit burnt out and kinda expected them to drop this one anyway. But they instead got out the broom and swept up the cabin so Abe's mom won't have to worry about that racoon no more--which is to say, they won their 3rd game in a row, returning to .500 for the first time since, oh, Jeffy could fly. That's just a little scary.
But not as scary as these 'dark' potato chips I got today. They taste burnt. My reasoning in getting them was that if I have to get potato chips, and sometimes, well, you just DO, I might as well get the kind I don't like so I won't eat them too quickly. It's sorta working, but is this any way to LIVE?

6.01.05 Phillies 10, Giants 6.

Fantasplendicious! Woo Hah! Man, this game had it all: frequent lead changes, disputed calls, 2 ejections, and all topped off by a pinch GRAND SLAM by Mr. Chase 'it but you won't catch it because it's over the dagblam wall, dummy' Utley to ice the game in the bottom of the 8th. I think it's safe to say the Phillies are in some kind of gear at this point, so sit back and enjoy the ride before they try to shift and it gets stuck betweeen 4th and reverse and totally strips the tranny in half and the car explodes as we plummet off some cliff.
One aspect of the game may be overshadowed by the late inning heroics, however: the expulsion of Jim Thome (his first time as a Phillie, at least) over arguing balls and strikes. The real issue here is not the isolated called strike in question, but two months of utter frustration for the Big Guy, particularly in clutch situations, which manifested itself in his minor meltdown with the ump. It has been painful watching Jim struggle the way he has, and while we can only hope this behavioral anomaly will result in renewed spirit, it might be time to ask for a little help from some higher powers. So, all of you so inclined (again, perhaps the use of plural here is a bit of wishful thinking) let's please save a place in our prayers to the baseball God Mahogy (or the Other Guy, either one's good) for this big-hearted slugger who has lost his way, ba ba ba.

5.31.05 Phillies 5, Giants 2.

Had to cut the grass today. It's a hateful process because there are alot of grades, and metal things sticking out, and the sun making the sweat pop out of my forehead, roll down into my eyes, and it burns. Not to mention the poison ivy, which is clearly one of the Creator's favorite little notions, at least judging by it's practical indestructability. Actually, the whole perimeter of the yard is becoming a jungle of frightening proportions. I went in there the other day and there was a guy with a pith helmet drinking a cup of tea. "For queen and England, hey what!" he muttered trying to shake a deadly Fer-De-Lance off his arm. "Bloody venom's making me happy. Do you know the way to Chad?" "Chad Everett?" I asked.
Oh, I do like the drone of the lawn mower. Made up some of my favorite songs that way, humming along--like "Baby Bobcat Rider". That was a hit in Madagascar I think. No, it's just the hopelessness of it all that I dislike; you just know as soon as you cut it it starts growing back like some green mutant virus--COME ON! It's like the friggin Bridge on the River Kwai over here. Can NOT win.
Phillies, however, did manage a W, although, strangely, it didn't feel like it. Wolf didn't pitch particularly well and was in trouble frequently, but the Bond-less Giants were just so dead they couldn't manage to score against him. The 2 runs they did get were in the 9th against Billy Wagner who has been making a habit of giving up home run balls--a troubling development for a closer, to say the least. Maybe he's worried about cutting his grass.

5.29.05 Braves 7, Phillies 2.

You ask, good reader (hey, I'm optimistic), whether I expected the Phillies to sweep the Braves in their home park this good Sunday so full of the sun and it's orangey hues. And my answer to you is a simple, 'I DONT KNOW. What are you doing in my house? Maude, get the dog, we got trouble!' But I digress. I like to think good things will happen because they should, notice I say 'like to think'. I like to think alot of things. I like to think ruby-throated sparrows will vomit sparkling grape juice into the mouths of young lads, but sister, it ain't a'goin' to happen. You see how this is. It's the basic dilemna of life which is that you're here, you're unclear, get bruised with it. I mean, Myers was on the mound, we stood a good chance...but hey buddy you can't win 'em all. Sometimes you can't win any of 'em. Sometimes there are snakes involved, and you have to just chop them up or they'll bite you...I gotta go now. A happy Memorial Day, with all the grilled meats.



5.28.05 Phillies 12, Braves 5.

Oomphh. This is about as good as the boys have looked all season. 12 runs, 16 hits. It was a strange feeling for them to have the game in hand so early and decisively; I kind of lost interest and just had the game on in the background while I accomplished various important tasks. Like staring into space, remonstrating the cat, purchasing some crabmeat at the local food emporium--hey, it's Saturday I think. Yes, the wheels are starting to turn on the Phillies' Mystery Wagon--I see it as being like one of those old, steam-run fire engines, painted all red and white, and all the guys wear fire helmets. I don't know why. The film is overexposing and they are swinging their legs off the edge of the wagon. Little children sell oatmeal cookies and lemonade. 'All aboard, guv'nor! Only an ha-penny will do and get you some bangas n' mash ta boot.'
Lieber's struggles continue, however; they are like distant black thunderheads on an otherwise perfect day. Or not. Myers on the hill tomorrow, shall we get out the broom aunt Sadie? I think not just yet, lad. Now go and fetch my milk of magnesia, I feel peekid.
Those crabcakes are sitting inside me--feels like they're still alive, snapping their claws at the walls of my small intestine.


5.27.05 Phillies 5, Braves 1.

Hey, it was a little too warm today. No transition, went from cold to warm a little too quick--a-fiddley-iddley-ick. Shoulda wore shorts but I did not know. Did not know because I don't watch the weather channel because they are BAD. Typical of the slow deterioration of EVERYTHING because perhaps everybody is thinking a little too much about FANTASY ISLAND and such. Tattoo and Dracula drinking bloody maries, the all-important finals of American Pieface Robot Parade, etc. Don't get me wrong, I like the warm days--just wasn't ready.
Phillies were evidently ready for the Braves though. Jumped right on John Smoltz
for four runs in the first inning, including a 3-run HR by Jim Thome--an encouraging sign to say the least. He looked so happy afterward, like a kid who just got a chocolate bicycle for Easter. Lidle pitched with his usual quiet command, bullpen did it's job...the last two games everything has been going suspiciously well. It's quiet, Wyatt.
A little too quiet if you asked me. The hills are full of eyes.


5.25.05 Phillies 8, Marlins 5.

See, this is how it was supposed to work, with the hitting in the clutch and the solid relief pitching and the no complete strategeroric blunders and the hi hi miss Maisey lookee here what we got in the fadundaplasta nice lady. Even the Big Guy was hitting the ball, a sign perhaps that the Good Ship Thome may be navigating warily out of those blazastardly doldrums that have so demoralized all the men aboard--why, Cookie Joe nearly hit young Billy with a yardarm just fer smilin', he did.
Of course the Phightin's might have gotten a little help from that other Big Guy via a brief rain delay that forced the Fish to use their long relief--an Achilles heel? (Do marlins have heels? I'll ask the Internet, He'll know). If the Phillies can tag you for 6 runs in a couple innings, you may have a problem there. To his credit Wolfie stayed in until the 6th when he seemed to lose interest and gave up 3 runs, just to make things interesting, but was more than ably relieved by Ryan Madson, showing the same poise and chops as last year's wunderkind. And Wags, well...the lights go out eventually. Then we're in bed thinking about tomorrow...an off day...gotta use that brocolli up...the void gapes like the maw of Big White Nothing itself. And then the hated Braves--FROM HELL'S HEART...STAB...Oh my, I must have some quinine directly.

5.24.05 Marlins 4, Phillies 3.

Ouch. This one hurts. A stellar pitching perfomance by Myers ruined by poor management and a lackluster bullpen. It would be nice to think that maybe they'd learn something from this--like, if your pitcher has the other team's number, let him pitch until he doesn't, especially if the alternative is a rather shaky relief corps. But if history is any indication, they won't, and there will be any number of these grim scenarios playing out before fewer and fewer eyes as the season slips into the abyss of even greater irrelevance.
They won't because of conventional 'wisdom'. The same blinkered impulse to do what the statistics say you should do that causes managers to put in weak pinch-hitters simply because it's a better right/left match-up, or sneaker companies to make endless variations on the same ugly shoe even though they make you look like a mentally-challenged robot from the future, or governments to villify their constituents by overthrowing other countries based on shoddy intelligence. How about maybe THINKING about other possibilities, just this once...What we need is more unconventional wisdom--a choice to do the seemingly wrong thing that, in it's apparent wrongness, is actually the necessary catalyst towards shaking up this tyranny of spreadsheets and charts--an atheist President, charteuse All-Stars with mauve laces, and for cripes sake, LET THE PITCHER FINISH WHAT HE STARTED WHEN HE'S IN A GROOVE, DADDY-O!!!
So it's Wolfie tomorrow--if he establishes his fastball they might salvage a game,
what with the often hittable Al Leiter being on the mound for the Fish.

5.23.05 Marlins 5, Phillies 2.

Again, no real surprises here. Dontrelle 'D Train' Willis was pitching for the Marlins, the Phillies are still the Phillies, so they lost. You lose alot of games over a season, just as your life is full of disappointments and bitterness. You just have to learn to accept, hey, even like it a little.This is an OK loss, considering Willis is now 8-1 and a freakin animal on the mound. There was even a brief silver lining to this otherwise noxious cloud in that Lieber, who has been struggling mightily, pitched a very good five innings before self-destructing in the 6th. Eh, I say. Eh.
Now this evening's game, featuring the Phils' present ace, Brett Meyers--they really ought to try and win this one. I know it's hard. Getting up in the morning is hard. Brushing your teeth is hard. Jesus, EVERYTHING'S hard. I wish we all lived in Candyland and rode around on motorized donkeys that make little digitized 'ee-aw' sounds and got spending money from God Himself every Friday because this is all HIS fault, but we don't. I feel like I'm facing Dontrelle Willis every gosh dern day and he breathes fire through his nostrils that singes my eyebrows before beaning me in the temple with a baseball shaped rock then does the Mexican hat dance over my lifeless body. But I'm still in there swinging, boys, KNOWING I'm gonna strike out everytime, because...well, actually I'm not really sure why. I think I better stop writing now.


5.22.05 Phillies 7, Orioles 2.

It's Sunday, the day when God kicks back. He's sleeping right now, with the TV on. There is a calm in the air. People seem in less of a hurry to peter out their agonizing existence on meaningless consumption. You can get tacos 2 for a dollar at Taco Bell. It's pretty damn nice, all in all. And as if all this wasn't enough, the Phillies win too, taking the rubber game of a series against the Baltimore Orioles.
Nothing spectacular--Pat Burrell's 3rd inning 3-run homer would be all the Phightin's would really need with the workman-like Corey Lidle on the mound, who gave up just 2 runs in a complete-game victory. But maybe it's a start...they've taken two series in a row from well-regarded teams, and the sputtering, often lifeless engine that is the Phillies offense seems to be slowly turning over, like a busted-up DeSoto on a January morning in North Dakota in 1954 right after the molasses factory blew up.
If you're like me, however, you should be feeling an odd trepidation in the pit of your stomach right about now...the cycle of fortune is slowly completing it's remorseless transit; Sunday is almost over. And tomorrow...Marlins...Willis...almost certain defeat. Clutch to this fleeting moment of rectitude, lads, before it slips into the sullen nether regions of vaguely recalled dreams... Man, I could do with some potato chips right about now.

5.21.05 Orioles 7, Phillies 0.

Well you kinda had to expect this. They were due for a loss after taking the series from the Cards and winning the first game against the Orioles, and three in a row is still stretching a bit. Felt no pain in this loss. Pitcher had their number, that's all.
The sun looked nice today. I mean, it always looks pretty nice, but after battling with the clouds it broke through quite spectacularly, a gauzy kind of white-out to the brain if you know what I mean. And rolling off the sides of everything like a cheese melt made by the great Jehosephat himself. Splendid. Unbended everything so you see it straight like layers of an amazing torte you sink your teeth into and you say, "Man, that's too rich."
Thought I'd have some scotch tonight. It's been a long time, because you know the colored liquors rile up the blood and then it's all swearing and splotched out visions of the true cross being made into toothpicks for the brides of Satan, etc. Stuff gets broke, seriously. But here am I, on my second vanilla coke & Chivas and I'm only feeling just a little like pawing the walls in despondence. But I'm NOT going to have another. Because I'm out of vanilla coke.
Well it's Corey Lidle tomorrow, so you feel like they have a fighting chance. Then
again, Sidney Ponson is pitching for the O's. He's from Aruba. I wish I was in Aruba
right now. Maybe I am...
True peace and clear light to all.