Incognito Breeder

O Come Let Us Adore Him

Happy Holidays to you all from Me and G and the whole gang!

Mind in the Gutter

Sorry I haven’t had much to say of late. The holidays and my job are dominating my every waking hour these days. I’ll try and post tomorrow, but until then, here are some photos I took last week. The Christmas Tree lot sign had the G-Man pissing his pants for a good hour and a half. We’ve entered the Beavis Zone, people. It’s all fart jokes and bathroom humor from here on. Makes me grateful I have a boy.

Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now

Yes, I invoke the classic, Diane Warren-penned, Starship-recorded, theme song to the movie Mannequin because even the plastic citizens of Red Sox Nation are showing their spirit.

Our Kim Cattrall wanna-be from Waltham stood outside a dive bar last week, sporting her faux-bunny rabbit jacket and Boston cap. In addition to her duties as stalwart Red Sox rooter, she notifies bar patrons of the new Waltham smoking ban, collects cigarette butts in a tray she wears around her neck and serves as a passive hottie for daytime drunks to hit on. A woman's work is never done.

The admittedly creepy head of Johnny Damon was offered as sacrifice by my local hair salon. After three down against the Yankees, they plopped a hat on his hairy head and set him up on the front desk. Since then, our boys can do no wrong. Sure, the neighborhood children are having nightmares of a headless outfielder hitting flaming jack-o-lanterns over the Green Monster into their backyards, but such is the price we must pay for making history.

Teach Your Children Well

From what little I’ve learned, all you can do is give your kid an idea of where he’s from, so that he can figure out who he is. The whole “give them roots, so that they can grow wings,” which is a poor metaphor when you examine it, because really, what creature has both roots and wings? Hmmm?

Anyway, the G-Man was five years old the first time I took him to Fenway. The Sox played the Kansas City Royals. Jimy Williams got thrown out of the game. Nomar performed an inhuman double-play. We sat in the 23rd row on the third-base line. G lasted until the 5th inning, it was a night game. The Sox won 6-5. The G-Man remembers his Cool Dog, an ice cream treat in a sponge cake “bun” that looked like a hot dog.

The second time I brought him to a game was a week after Ted Williams passed away. We had the same seats, (the same print broker hooked us up.) It was Boston vs. Tampa Bay. I invested a day’s pay into hats, and balls, and programs, and Cool Dogs, and popcorn, and Fenway Franks, and soda, and cotton candy—just to keep him interested in the game. He was bored, he didn’t understand what was going on, and worse, he got nervous when the crowd would shout and chant. He takes these things personally, and confused enthusiasm for general aggression.

From an early age, I taught him to jeer the Yankees. Instead, he would cheer them on, just to get a rise out of me. Even when they weren’t playing. Even when we were at a Bruins game. I finally resigned myself to being the lone Sox fan in the house. Perhaps, I could interest my nephews in the team.

Then this season happened and peer pressure intervened. It’s all fine and good to root for the Yankees if it makes your mom's skin crawl, but when your friends refuse to sit with you at lunch, being contrary loses it’s appeal. Two weeks ago, while walking around Boston, we came upon a street vendor with a table full of Sox caps and souveniers. My son, my boy insisted on getting a ‘Yankee-Haters’ cap. I thought I could never be prouder.

That was until this Saturday night, during the first game of the World Series. Up to the plate stepped right fielder, Trot Nixon, and his name appeared at the bottom of the screen.

“Mom,” said G, through a mouthful of peanuts,“is he any relation to Mojo?”

Damn, I love that boy.

Sing it Loud, Sing it Proud

(to the tune of ‘God Bless America’)

As seen in the rear window of a truck in Watertown on my way to work. Many of Massachusetts fine driving laws were broken to bring you this picture, which was taken as I weaved in and out of traffic, cut off other vehicles, and ran a questionable “yellow” light to get close enough to our lyricist.

Believe!

Wilson Farm in Lexington, MA has been rearranging the pumpkins in their field to post the score of each ALCS game in this series. I was pleased and proud to stop traffic this morning while standing on the hood of my car to grab this shot.

Blue

Where I Work

Porch With a View

My new apartment has a wraparound porch. It overlooks the new park under construction across the street. Next spring, when the park is finished, I will be hosting kickball game parties, grown-ups only, catered by Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Jealous?