he could pitch a CG on 60 pitches. he's canadian!
dude! rich harden is pitching in a major league baseball game right now!
it worked!
my reverse-psychology, i-will-pretend-you're-dead-so-that-you-can-prove-me-wrong thing . . . totally worked!
wait a minute. i didn't pretend he was dead. i let him sleep with danny haren and bobby crosby. and zito! and street! damn it. but anyway.
it worked!
okay. this thing, where i don't have internet? seriously pucking with my life. (i say 'puck' instead of 'fuck' because i work with fuckin' children.) i'm sending text messages to 4-info because my clock radio gets KNBR but not KNTS and i, you know, would kinda like to know how the games end. you know.
but it's gonna be fine. going to the game tomorrow (not zito's last regular season start at home . . . it's NOT, goddamn it. if i can bring richie back from the dead, i can forestall the motherfuckin' new york mets, too), and also the game on sunday. people who are going to those games should make themselves audible to me, 650 804 0403, and people who are not going to those games need to re-evaluate their lives to figure out how they can be in oakland right now, in the last week of the season, in first place, in the climbing temperatures.
goddamn, but we're all on edge. billy beane is the focus of my life, because i'm thirty-five pages into a new AU and accidentally re-read moneyball to better characterize the rageoholic, and frank thomas like a windfall, like a reprieve or remission, something.
i'm going to dc (mountain goats and the nats) and nyc (mountain goats times two!) next week, but i've set a little deadline for the AU of ridiculousness and wonder, and the deadline is my birthday, so even if you don't hear from me, i'm still around.
go richie go.
it worked!
my reverse-psychology, i-will-pretend-you're-dead-so-that-you-can-prove-me-wrong thing . . . totally worked!
wait a minute. i didn't pretend he was dead. i let him sleep with danny haren and bobby crosby. and zito! and street! damn it. but anyway.
it worked!
okay. this thing, where i don't have internet? seriously pucking with my life. (i say 'puck' instead of 'fuck' because i work with fuckin' children.) i'm sending text messages to 4-info because my clock radio gets KNBR but not KNTS and i, you know, would kinda like to know how the games end. you know.
but it's gonna be fine. going to the game tomorrow (not zito's last regular season start at home . . . it's NOT, goddamn it. if i can bring richie back from the dead, i can forestall the motherfuckin' new york mets, too), and also the game on sunday. people who are going to those games should make themselves audible to me, 650 804 0403, and people who are not going to those games need to re-evaluate their lives to figure out how they can be in oakland right now, in the last week of the season, in first place, in the climbing temperatures.
goddamn, but we're all on edge. billy beane is the focus of my life, because i'm thirty-five pages into a new AU and accidentally re-read moneyball to better characterize the rageoholic, and frank thomas like a windfall, like a reprieve or remission, something.
i'm going to dc (mountain goats and the nats) and nyc (mountain goats times two!) next week, but i've set a little deadline for the AU of ridiculousness and wonder, and the deadline is my birthday, so even if you don't hear from me, i'm still around.
go richie go.