You know, I haven't been giving this humble blog much time or attention lately, so I suppose it's time to "dip into the inkwell" and throw my two cents into the ether of right-wing conspiracies, porn, self-help, self-righteousness, quasi-mysticism and shit talking. This baseball season, so far, can be summed up by using the opposite theater masks of tragedy and comedy, and this Oakland ball-club has all but bathed in the bubble bath of the above. After causing a mini-panic, collective brain-implosion and a negative knee-jerk reaction after starting out 0-6, the team collected themselves and went on a tidy 13 game winning streak-all but erasing the memory of their earlier incompetence and once again garnering the affectations of people with nothing better to do and an inability to prioritize the importance (or lack thereof) of daily trivialities. People like me.
There was also a plethora of injuries, most notably a guy smashing his pinky finger against a desk (Jesus Lizard) because he was sucking at video games, (for more idiotic baseball injuries see John Smoltz and Glenallen Hill) and another taking a ricochet off a BP pitching cage and getting a shiner in an absolute "someone up there really hates me" freak of nature accident. (...and in a deliciously tasty form of irony, I did once take an angry Nintendo controller ricochet off the peeper, giving both injuries a swirling, yin and yang home in my world of lunacy)
Yesterday, Mark Canha was drilled in the elbow by a Baltimore hurler breaking legend Captain Sal Bando's HBP record and, ever the comedian, doffed his cap to the crowd. I am absolutely thrilled that this guy has worked his ass off to turn himself into one of the best lead-off hitters in the game, and to surmise he was acquired from the Colorado "baseball team" for the baseball trade equivalent of a ham sandwich.
The crescendo of BS before you is slowly coming to an end, (we're all busy, aren't we?) and I'll leave you on this particular thought-watching Elvis Andrus play baseball is like the equivalent of rubber-necking a repulsively bloody and twisted metal-strewn car accident on the freeway. You know you shouldn't look, but you can't pull your eyes away because you want to see how bad it gets. An absolute shit show that makes me wonder how the yokels in Texas ever put up with the guy. Mr. Blue Hawaii was the protagonist on the one and only time I EVER saw a runner tag and score from 3rd on an infield pop. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you would pencil that in on your scorecard as a "SAC P6."
Blasphemy.