Further Feminine Musings from the East Coast

Back by popular demand to give the folks in flyover country a bit more east coast wisdom (and to give me an excuse to post another rap video)...ladies and gentlemen, the guest postess with the mostess...Crystal!




I’m back! Thanks for indulging me with a few (uh, a lot) more words in your corner of the internet, guys.

Let’s start with a miniature “picture pages” of my own, to set the scene appropriately.




Fenway Park:

I’m trying not to be too gushy here, but I’m really not sure there’s a better stadium around. It’s historic, it’s small, it’s green. It requires attention paid to the elements, it has the most kick-ass scoreboard in professional sports, and no crazy gourmet food stands selling nonsense like sushi and crepes. Speaking of…

The Food:

Now, let me be clear: my Fenway Frank looked nothing like this one. The thought of brown mustard and relish kind of makes me throw up in my mouth. But overall, it’s a solid dog. The bun is what really throws you off—imagine folded Wonder Bread cradling your wiener. (Ding!) It’s supposedly a “New England” thing…but I think they’re just too cheap to shell out for real buns. (For an excellent overview of famous stadium hot dogs in the major leagues, check this out. I might die immediately thereafter, but simply must try a Cincinnati Cheese Coney at some point in this life.)

The Drink:

I think I lost count. But they sure tasted good.


The Man Candy:

Unfortunately, he was fully clothed and sitting a few too many sections away from me. His loss, clearly.

With this context in mind, let’s turn our attention to the topic at hand.

Jonathan Papelbon described the game thusly: "You could just sense that Boston fever from the crowd. City of Champions. Right there [the bottom of the eighth], something special happened." While he’s batshit crazy, I totally agree with him. With the Sox down 3-2 going in the bottom of that inning, you just kind of knew the Texans were about to get screwed.

“Sweet Caroline” was sung with the usual 8th inning vigor and the scoreboard flashed the (now meaningless) victory of the Bruins over the Canadiens. Chants of “USA” erupted. (Really. I was a bit confused, but it beats the usual “Yankees Suck”…even when another team is visiting.)

(Ed. note...Montreal is in another country)

Witness: Wicked Craziness.

And the record-setting crowd (37,598, the most since WWII…which makes no sense to me—uh, World Series games?—but is still a fun useless fact) was just plain old fired up. I don’t know a better way to describe it, other than to say that—at least in the outfield—there was plenty of alcohol to fuel that fire.

Ortiz tied it up with a shot to the outfield that scored Pedroia (cute little fetus that he is!), and Manny stepped up to the plate. I don’t think there was a whole lot of doubt in the stands about what was going to happen next.

He just straight up demolished that ball.

It was gone, 37,598 people went fucking nuts, and I learned that there’s no better way to spend a spring night in Boston.

TW(O)T...now with boobs

I could spend a few sentences introducing you to our first-ever guest columnist, but instead please enjoy a video from her jr. high talent show:

Take it away, Crystal!

Saturdays with Santana (at Shea)

One of the first images I was greeted with upon arrival in New York last week was a city bus covered with a massive image of Johan Santana in orange and blue. (Seriously, who picks team colors of orange and blue? Even my favorite Venezuelan with his gorgeous caramel tones is hard pressed to pull off that color scheme.) It was a bit of a reality check, along with a mouthful of exhaust. He really is gone.

Lucky for me, though, the fates aligned. My second MLB outing of the year got me out of the baggie-topped Dome and into the equally doomed-to-rubble Shea Stadium to witness the matchups of Santana v. Sheets; Fielder v. peanuts and Cracker Jacks; Wright v. single women (and let’s be real, gay men) everywhere.

So what did I learn from our east cost brethren? Let’s see.
Does a 5-3 outing really warrant booing? Apparently so, if you are fans of a team that crashed and burned in historic proportions to miss the playoffs last year and wanted to welcome their new superstar with open arms. I mean, sure…he allowed three homeruns and botched a key play to hold a runner on third. But still. He’s so cute! New Yorkers really do kind of suck sometimes. (Just kidding, Derek Jeter New York! I love you! Call me!)

Drunk girls on stuffy local trains are never not funny. And if you ever run into Zoe the Mets Fan on the number 7, you’re in for a real treat. She’ll ask to marry you and tell you how hot her best friend’s boobs are…just be sure you get off the train before she starts turning splotchy and stops talking. I think that means vomit is forthcoming.

Shea Stadium’s last year is being commemorated with orange and blue metal beer bottles. WHERE IS THE LOVE, Metropolitan Sports Facilities Commission? Are you just going to let the Metrodome slip quietly into the night?

I’d like the DH abolished. It just adds a bit more spice to the game—it was really fun to watch Santana at bat (and to see his average go from .200 to .143 in a matter of innings), it makes each at bat (and non-pitcher batter) a bit more valuable, and it keeps Barry Bonds out of work. Discuss.
Prince Fielder running towards home plate to field a bunt is a sight to behold. Just picture that for a minute, please. Yep, I laughed.
I snuck into the new Mets stadium and buried a Nick Punto jersey in the outfield. Now where’s my ESPN.com story?

Milwaukee actually looks really good. I’m not sure what Bud has done behind the scenes to orchestrate what could be a turnaround for the ages, but I was impressed. This Sheets kid is pretty tremendous.

The attractiveness rating for the Mets declined roughly 61% with the loss of Carlos (C-Button, in these parts) Gomez and addition of Luis Castillo to the lineup. Just because I know you guys care about those things.

My east coast baseball tour continues this Saturday with a stop at Fenway for the Sox v. Texans. I’m excited to see Manny’s braids and weed rimmed eyes, Ortiz’s bedazzled accessories, and Papelbon’s crazy eyes and dancing legs up close and personal as well as continuing my ongoing investigation to determine whose hot dog reigns supreme (Fenway Frank, watch out…the Dome Dog is coming for you). Oh, and watch a little baseball, too.

All I really have to say, though, is this: thank god this didn’t come to pass. We’ve already suffered enough.