Will's Obit Lives?
News from the Crypt...

That's right, Mr. Will himself logged the following Obit in an email. I think I can speak for everyone when I say that "O Yeah, he still has it." We would welcome his keen and comic insight whole heartedly.

Johnny Carson, dead today....
Carnac: Colin Ferrell, a polecat, and Eminem.
Ed: Colin Ferrell, a polecat, and Eminem.
Carnac: That's what I said....
Envelope rips......Carnac blows open the envelope and pulls out the answer.....
Carnac: Name a drunk, a skunk and a punk....
Crowd lightly laughs, boos, and hissess.....
Carnac: (after a pause) May a large space probe finally find its way to Uranus......

Could It Be True?
I'm cautiously optimistic that the Red Sox did, in fact, win the World Series

It was just a week ago I was in New York being wined and dined (and by "wined and dined" I mean beer and chicken parm) by my misguided (Yankees fan) brother. Despite the results of the world series as broadcast by Fox, I was still a little skeptical about the outcome. The Red Sox didn't really win, did they?

So, it didn't come as a complete shock when my brother posed the following scenario: Curt Schilling, who's contract was not yet a year old, was subject to a little known MLB requirement. Curt, my brother explained, did not have an agent and drew up his own contract. One of the clauses in Schilling's contract indicated that a certain bonus would be due upon a world series victory. My brother went on to explain that players are prohibited from having "team based" incentives in their contracts because they are "unfair to the rest of the team" or some such B, as in B, S, as in S. And finally went on to say that while I was confined in Armonk for the last 5 days Bud and his cronies declared that all games Curt participated in would be forfeit. In essence, this pretty much made the entire season null and void.

Now, I grant you, this scenario appears far fetched. A normal person who's allegiances lie with your garden variety Major League Baseball team would not be taken by such a story. But I am not a normal person and MY team is not, by any stretch, a normal team. In fact, bringing their fans to the very edge of victory and then yanking the chair out from under their feet has been a mainstay in the Red Sox nation over the last 86 years. In some sense, it is expected. So, when Chris explained this to me it fell within my incredibly paranoid realm of possibility.

Now, I could tell you, I came to my senses and outwardly dismissed the whole thing. Yeah, you had me for a minute you old scoundrel, you. But, that would not be entirely true. It was the very subtle curl in the outer portions of my brothers lips that gave away his little charade. My realization was followed by some hearty guffaws and a couple more pulls of beer.

I'm feeling a bit optimistic now. Unless there's been some sort of a typo, Sports Illustrated has begun their subscription promo with World Series stuff and the Red Sox are featured. Hmmmm! I saw Johnny Damon and Curt Schilling at a Patriots game. They looked happy and content and were carrying a big trophy with lots of flags on it. Hmmmm! Die hard Red Sox fan Stephen King completed his book about the 2004 Red Sox season. He appeared on the Daily Show and he seemed happy and explained how the book had a suprise happy ending, not your normal Stephen King book. Hmmmm! I've watched Game 4 of the 2004 World Series 6 times now and the Red Sox have won every time (that's 6 for 6 or 1.000).

Yeah, the coast is clear. The Red Sox are WORLD CHAMPIONS!

Yep, It's November 3rd
The damage has been done

I know everyone is dieing to know. I really hate to admit this and normally I don't divulge my voting decision but I feel obligated to let you know.

I am not at all happy with the selection I made for president and I am honestly embarrassed to admit to you my final decision.

I can honestly tell you that I deliberated for many long hours over this decision

• I spent all of my time during my car ride home Monday morning and early afternoon tuning in political talk radio to get last minute information that would help in my decision.
• Monday night I rented and watched Fahrenheit 9/11.
• I read newspaper articles describing campaign rhetoric and graphically representing the candidates views on issues like the war on Iraq and the war on Iraq and the war on Iraq and the war on Iraq and the war on Iraq and etc. and so forth.
• I painstakingly analyzed the body language of the candidates. Who projected a tendency to waffle on issues as mundane as whether or not to use a hotel room "bidet"? Who rode the campaign like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, repeatedly mispronounced "extenuating" and thinks a "bidet" is French for a long neck bottle of Budweiser? Who needs to loosen up? Who needs to get a little more serious?

So, even with all of this research, my decision is not settling well with me. But I will divulge to you the final outcome.

Here goes. On November 2nd I ventured to my local polling place and cast my vote for -- [pause for effect] -- one of these two candidates. There, I got it out and off my chest. Yep, I voted and I'm a little uncomfortable about the whole deal. But, it is an American right, it is the foundation upon which our world class albeit flawed democracy is built. I certainly don't mean to diminish the importance of "Get Out The Vote" but I just want to share with you the unease that I am suffering on the day after.

My only consolation is that our o-so-very-wise founding fathers put checks and balances in the system -- ie. moderation by the Congress, dependencies on a team of cabinet members, un-biased commentary by documentarians like Michael Moore, radio show hosts like Rush Limbaugh, and TV personalities like Bill Maher, and an ever vigilant press corps. Not sure that either one of these guys could do us any harm. But, you never know.

It's a miracle, Or is it??!!
Could this be the year?

The Red Sox going to the World Series ... hmmm ... they did it by going through the Yankees ... hmmmmmm ... first MLB team to comeback from a 3-0 deficit in a post season series ... hmmmmmmmm ... they clinched it in Yankee Stadium - the House that -- shhhhhhhhh -- RUTH built ... hmmmmmmmmmmmmm ...

That sounds to me like the makings of a wicked Fall Classic - what every Red Sox fan from Ashtabula to Timbuktu has longed for for 86 years. A dream come true. A FIFTH chance to take on the demons, to purge the Red Sox nation of this damnable curse.

Could this be, dare I say, the year we have all been waiting for? Could this be the "next year" in "wait until next year"? Could this be the year that the spirit of Babe rises from the sands of Fenway, saunters out of the gates, crosses the Mass Pike and disappears into the mass of humanity in Kenmore Square whistling "No No Nanette"?

But, alas, are things really right in the Red Sox nation? It is true, the Red Sox have earned a chance to play for the World Championship ... and are four wins from the title - the title that would relieve the Red Sox Nation of their 86 year old burden.

But bear with me here, let's just say, hypothetically speaking, that the Red Sox pull off the miracle of all miracles and close out the Cards, what then? Certainly, there would be mayhem in the streets of bean town, on the shores of Maine, in the forests of Vermont, on the docks of Rhode Island, and in the mountains of New Hampshire not to mention other corners of the nation. There would be parties like no other in the history of parties. And, without fail, productivity would fall significantly in the New England work place. This would last a month... maybe 2... but then what? The glue that binds the end of one season to the beginning of the next would be conspicuously absent - because we wouldn't have to wait for next year, next year would already be here.

And aren't all Red Sox fans content to be the bearers of the burden? A Red Sox fan learns to accept, nay, expect the pity that is heaped upon them, to revel in the notoriety that being a Red Sox fan brings. Red Sox fans have basked in the celebrity stimulated by documentaries intent on chronicling the mishaps and bungles of 86 years of missed opportunity. What better way to open a conversation than admitting that you are a Red Sox fan. Everyone knows of their plight and the curse, the very admission demands a person's pity.

"Oh, you're a Red Sox fan? I'm sorry." Very attractive brunette says.

"Yeah, but they'll beat the Yankees and earn a World Championship some day." Very coy and put-upon Red Sox fan says.

"Are you free for a drink?" Very attractive brunette says.

Oh, and we love and cherish the flawed history of our beloved team. Red Sox fans though outwardly appearing hurt and offended will nevertheless watch the ball skitter through Bill Buckner's legs or Bucky Dent's "Texas league" homerun over and over again either to satisfy some innate masochistic tendency or to possibly reveal a different outcome. We are a schizophrenic but proud bunch.

Well, we know that we will miss some of the baggage that goes with being a perennial ever-so-close loser and, frankly, I'm not sure that we are all willing to give it up. Look at this year's rallying cry "Why Not Us?", for example. A question. We're not even sure. Is the Red Sox Nation ready to accept the responsibility of a baseball champion?


Well, I would gladly accept the responsibility. And, I would party and perhaps even miss a day or two of work. And, yes, I'll admit that I would miss the burden, pity and notoriety. But it would be a small price to pay for a world championship. Yeah, some Red Sox fans will leave the fold, those not content with an exorcised, run of the mill, winner. But for them, there will always be the Cubs. I will always be there for the Red Sox.

No More Nomah !
Trading curses, from Bambino to Goat

I really don't feel bad that the Sox dealt Nomah. I have too much respect for Nomah as a playah to wish him to play in Boston aftah what he has been subject to ovah the course of the last 6 months. I want Nomah to excel (except, of course, to benefit the dreaded Yankees). He deserves it. He's just the kind of playah you want to succeed in the game. And for bettah or worse, the Red Sox have made it quite clear that Nomah would be more valuable in trade.

Let's face it, he's a good guy, a classic ballplayah who works hahd and hustles out every ground ball. I'll nevah forget following the final game of the '98 American League playoff Division Series where the Indians shut down the Red Sox. Aftah every Red Sox playah had left the field with their head down, Nomah stayed out on the field and gave the fans an ovation of his own. That's a class act. Nobody, I mean, nobody can evah convince me that Nomah plays the game for any othah reason than he loves it.

And he was traded to the Cubs, aka. the Red Sox of the National League. Great fans, great history, great baseball tradition, great ball park, great curse... it just feels right for Nomah.

I will root just as hahd for the Cubbies and Nomah as I evah did for my beloved Sox -- unless of course they are facing the Sox in the "World Series of the Universe". And, to top it all off, I will see the old Sox middle infield (Gahciaparra and Walkah) at Wrigley in mid August. You can bet I will give them every bit of my support. Rock on Nomah, oops, I mean, Nomar.

Smellin' Grandma
A ghostly aroma

Everywhere I go I smell my grandmother's house. And it's not a pleasant smell. It's kind of a cross between doughnut grease, urine soaked baseboards, and stale Sir Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco. Although it has been nearly 20 years since I last stepped foot in her house, this smell has made casual appearances in my life, typically during the day immediately following a particularly vivid dream of the house. By the end of the day the smell disappears into the recesses of my memory. But this weekend it has been a constant, wherever I go. It seems to have lodged itself in the hairs lining my nostrils.

My grandmother was conceived, born, raised, and married in this house. She managed a family of her own, she burned meals (did I say the house smelled of burnt chocolate chip cookies?), she gently nudged her kids out of the nest, she watched herself become the matriarch of a huge (by today's standards) and sprawling brood -- all from within this house. And with the exception of a couple of years in Rockland and a couple more in Guilford and a few vacations, every living breathing day of her life was spent in this house. The house IS my grandmother Hazel.

My grandmother's house was built in the late 1800s by Hazel's dad, a man that tottered on the very edge of the elite and the high browed. He seemed to have blown his chance by betting his stake on some California prospecting that went bust. But at the height of his prominence Samuel Giles built this house. A beautiful Victorian ripe with all the decorative flourishes of the period.

Although the house was originally designed for the Ellsworth blue bloods it slowly settled into a more utilitarian phase. The beautiful barn in the rear of the property fell to neglect. Old studio divans were replaced with less showy and more comfortable couches. Ornamental fireplace facia were removed exposing the bare brick. The decorative turret cap disappeared. The front entrance; a double door appointed with small squares of heavy glass, a long sweeping front porch and a turnaround driveway; was locked up and abandoned for the more familiar side entrance into the kitchen. It was in THIS house that my father was born and in THIS house that my memories were formed.

My grandmother cooked a lot. But I don't think that I'd offend anyone if I admitted that she wasn't the best cook in the kitchen. She had a reputation for burning things - "freshens your breath", my ever-political-minded grandfather would say. But to her credit, that never stopped her from trying. One of her few specialties was molasses donuts which she cranked out with perfection. The delicious smell of molasses stayed with the kitchen, soaking into the wallpaper and kitchen furniture. It was this smell that greeted my nostrils each time I opened the screen door into the kitchen. Ahhhhhh.

Although my grandmother predominates my memories of this house outliving my grandfather by about 10 years, my grandfather contributed greatly to the significance of this smell. He was incredibly fond of pipe smoking. And the sweet smell of Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco followed him wherever he went. Often he would take a break in the enclosed side porch, have a smoke, read a magazine, and take a nap. The day bed on which he napped - the same bed that my father grew up with and threw up on - soaked up the tobacco aroma, the tangy sweet smell of the fresh cut leaf and the harsh bitter sweet smell of tobacco smoke.

As my grandfather and grandmother aged and their mobility became limited it became necessary to adapt the house. In the back corner of the kitchen past the stove was a door behind which was the back stairs. Beyond the back stairs was a little used hallway leading to the back door, a mud room of sorts. To reduce the need to climb old, narrow, poorly lit staircases, this room was converted to a bathroom/laundry room. Old dry thirsty baseboards and exposed wooden floors fell victim to the poor aim of male grandchildren and a misguided or, dare I say, drunken adults.

On days when a southerly wind predominates, the breeze snakes it's way through the cracked window in the side porch, gathers a cloud of Sir Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco smoke from the day bed, steals through the ever open window into this bathroom, laps at its baseboards, kicks up the stench of stale urine which eases it's way under the door and into the kitchen. It is here that it blends with the aroma of molasses donuts and fully ripens for the harvest.

Yeah, it's not a pleasant smell but the aroma that haunts me these days awakens a multitude of images and memories of bygone days, days that I look back with both envy and affection. When I think of my own kids and the smells that may elicit their childhood memories I am immediately horrified and regret my affinity for Mexican food. But what's done is done...

Here's To Spanky
A real pussy

I buried the last of our two cats yesterday. After a prolonged bout with cancer, Spanky was put to sleep. It had been quite obvious that things were not right with Spanky since his brother Alfalfa passed on to his reward, a victim of kidney failure, about 2 years ago.

I must admit that I am not much of a cat fan. They are relentless in their pursuit of pure annoyance. Whether deciding just as I fall asleep to lie down on my head or scream at the top of their lungs to go outside they never seemed to have to work too hard to get my goat. However having spent the last three years with a chocolate lab I have gained a new found appreciation for felines. They are independent and clean. They don't smell (unless their mouths are packed with cancer) and rarely have gas (that smells, anyway).

At any rate, I returned from work on Thursday and was reminded by the project Meg was studiously working on (a Shady Nook beach rock painted as a grave marker) that Spanky's hours were numbered. At that moment I was overwhelmed with a sense of emptiness that I still cannot explain given my cat aversion. Spanky sat in the corner of the dining room in a patch of sunlight, head down, cheek severely swollen, obviously uncomfortable. In 2 hours he would be dead.

I threw the last load of dirt on top of the Crate and Barrel box that acted as Spanky's coffin. Inside the box Spanky's lifeless body was wrapped in one of my old smelly gym towels. Kate placed the lovingly painted marker. Meg sobbed. Bev's face - puffy, tear streaked and red - had obviously been suffering the torment of the decision to put Spanky to sleep for the last couple of weeks.

Here's to a cat that was loved and will be missed. Here's to Spank..