In related news, the blackbird was signed to a two-year contract with the Red Sox, where it will serve as a pinch runner ala Dave Roberts

Last night was weird.

It was hot, and those who filed into the ballpark were sweaty, a little ornery and ready for the home team to justify the trip out into the oppressive heat. I suspect that many of the crowd were in our position - having purchased tickets in a frozen January, not knowing that Game Day would be one of Boston's hottest in a looooong time.

Varitek was out, and as of game time, we weren't sure of his situation. Johnson had been called up from Pawtucket because Snyder had to be pulled into Monday night's game; the Sox had hit at least four home runs the night before. The natural inclination was to worry that weak pitching and an exhausted offense suggested a frustrating kind of game.

So our pitching's shaky, the rock behind the plate is missing in action, the bats were tired and no one would actually be psyched to play baseball in this kind of weather.

Awesome.

But I decided to shake off the sense of foreboding and make the best of it. I was in Boston. Yes, it was broiling hot, but I was going to Fenway with friends, there was ice cold beer on tap and I was going to take in my first personal view of the team in a couple of months.

How bad could it be?

As Gordon Edes' Globe story succinctly sums it up today:

Instead of roaring for another walkoff home run by David Ortiz (bloop double and squibber single), the sellout crowd of 36,328 was reduced to directing its ninth-inning encouragement at the bird, which made it back to second and hopped toward third. In the middle of the ninth, the bird occupied center stage, appearing on the video scoreboard, while the PA system played the Beatles' ``Blackbird," at the behest of Dr. Charles Steinberg, the Sox executive vice president of public affairs.

`On a night like this," Steinberg said, ``this is what people go home and talk about. `Hey, were you at the game with the blackbird?'"

A quick sputter of a rally - thanks to Gonzo for making it interesting - but otherwise, the highlight was realizing that we had a lovely breeze blowing on the upper bleachers, while the box seat occupants were probably sweating themselves silly.

Ha. Take that.

It was just very, very strange. At one point early on, the bleachers were flooded with more beach balls than I've ever seen at the park (accompanied, inexplicably, by an inflatable Tootsie Roll?). I think someone on the third base side caught - or almost caught - a foul ball with a cup of beer, judging from the spray visible from our perch. The blackbird situation - which really did get the entire park chanting "Bird! Bird! Bird!" as loudly as if we were at the Garden in the 80s - and the worry over Lowell's foot...the fact that I wasn't yelling or chanting nearly as much as I typically do...

Weird, weird, weird.

The day itself was, well, hot. Damn hot. Insert-"Good Morning Vietnam"-sound-clip-here hot (ten points if you know what I'm talking about). And of course, it was the day that I wound up running all over Boston. Started in Central, stopped in Chinatown, rested in the Common, headed to Newbury and then, oh wait, went to Fenway.

It was a little spastic - by the end, I was busy apologizing to everyone because I was trying to make sure we could all meet up - and I cursed Mother Nature for being the spiteful bitch that she is, but I had fun. The best was probably being called a brat after casually mentioning that I was in town...

Ha. Good times.

But if it's this hot next time I'm in town (next weekend's CP/deSol boat cruise/Guster doubleheader), I'm going to throw down.

Or just beat someone with a water bottle.

Whatever works.

(more photos, as per usual, are up on the flickr)

Catching up

When a lot of activity is crushed into a short period of time, it proves tricky to sort it all out in proper chronological order. It winds up getting all mixed up and coming off something like this:

I answered the phone with "I haven't been so happy to see your state in a loooooong time" and then realized we may or may not be in the same bar/restaurant as a couple of Red Sox players. Which is funny, because I was indignantly debating just what losing Mike Lowell would do to wreak havoc on the current Red Sox dynamic. I ordered us another round of the special on tap as I realized that this version of "Stop the Bus" was crazy differnt than the song I'd fallen in love with last year - but this version was still pretty amazing. T accompanied us on our walk to the car, and the show was over just as I finally realized that I'd had more to drink over the course of the night than I'd realized. I smiled as I heard piano playing in the other room, and I was busy packing slices of pineapple and red pepper pizza into a takeaway box as N was informed that she leads a double life as Hazel Mae. As I lay on my temporary bed, I became certain that the fan would cool me as long as I stayed as still as humanly possible. An emergency of some sort forced me to take a detour and get lost before I droped a cool, damp washcloth over my forehead and eyes, dozing for an hour before I headed off to catch my train.

Many thanks to the fabulous individuals who contributed to the jumble - the time there proved to be precisely what I'd been needing.

From about Wednesday on, the days have all proven extraordinarily random, but in a pleasant sort of way. Faced with surprises at seemingly every turn, I've decided to temporarily abandon my perfectionistic ways and just go with it.

So far? It's working out well.

Wicked

After three weeks keeping myself firmly rooted within the green mountains, I'm busting out of this joint.

Hoo-ah. The highway awaits!

A best friend

It was dark, but enough lights had been turned on to make out the shape of the skyline. I studied them as we glided back to the shore.

I felt a playful nudge against my left side. "Who here is going to know who you are?"

I pointed to a clump of three buildings. "Everyone who would fit in those. That many. They'll know."

She smiled at me, knowing how much I wanted it. These buildings, this ocean, these sounds, this place and everything that comes wrapped up with it. "Yes, they will."

Later, as I navigated the uneven sidewalk with my high-heeled shoes, she took my arm and pointed off to the side. "Those are the buildings you chose."

I took a quick count. Top floor, 12 rooms - and only perhaps a quarter of one row on one side of one building.

Gulp.

"You know, I meant those other buildings. You know, the smaller ones. Baby steps."

We laughed, she shook her head.

"No, I think you were right the first time."

Dispatches

We leaned our backs against the ship's stern railing, looking over the top deck at the skyline as it peeked over at us. The band began to kick into "The Boat Song" just as we felt the gentle thrust of the engines kick in.

I had to chuckle along with the rest. Odds were good that at least three-quarters of those both onboard and on myspace had set that song as their default for the day. Hell, I'd done it, too. How could you not?

What if we were in the same boat
Rolling on a green sea
Listening to the water
No ordered future, no sorted old, wet memories?

The setup wasn't what I'd expected. I'd envisioned the band on the top deck, playing for the crowds assembled on three levels. But placing the band inside the main room made sense upon factoring in that not every boat cruise benefited from the gorgeous sunset beginning to glow in the distance. After a 45-second foray into the sauna-like crush inside, I settled into our friendly cluster of birthday revelers at the back, where we could lean, dance, sing or converse as we deemed fit.

We snapped photos, laughed and swooned over the skyline as the ship cut through the water - I realized that it finally felt like summer as I sipped a pineapple martini and pushed the hair back from my face. I don't find myself on the water often, but I love it each time I do. It was my first harbor cruise, and I was often found staring at the skyline, seeing it for the first time from a two-lantern point of view.

The band was on, as is seemingly always the case, with a vibe that seemed to compliment the crowd. Ready for a good time, but a little more laid-back than normal, just letting the music go where it wanted and smiling along the way. Or, at least, I have to imagine the guys were smiling. I felt as if I could hear Ryan's smile through the speakers.

It was odd, though, chatting my way through a Montbleau show. The music was what had brought everyone together, but it was background music, something I'd never found the music to be before. I guess it's because I'd never listened to it on a boat before. We sang along with some of the music, of course, and there was a crazy corner dance elicited by "You Crazy You," but there was a definite disconnect. Not in a bad way, either, although I'd always prefer to see them in a traditional club setting.

This was just different. And nice. More than a little surreal, particularly as the ship pulled back into the docks after our three-hour tour and several hundred voices could be heard singing along with "Stretch"'s chorus.

You just don't come across that too often, and I was glad to be there.

***
Yeah, I'm pretty much burning in hell.

This is nothing new, of course. My highway to hell was paved a long time ago, and the proper signage was put in place the moment I accidentally took my First Communion during a Sunday evening service early into my college career.

(True story, swear to God. Wait. I shouldn't be swearing to God - see? I'm doing it again!)

But I couldn't help it. I really and truly couldn't resist the opportunity that presented itself to B and I.

See, a morning in Beverly had turned into a meandering walking tour of Salem. There were five of us, and L served as our designated North Shore tourgide, pointing out spots and sights and whatnot.

It was rather odd for me. Having spent so much of my time only a town or two away, there were spots that jumped out at me, and I could explain how they'd popped into my life at various points.

("Ah, the Hawthorne Hotel was fun" sounds particularly eyebrow-raising until I add that "I was 9," "it was a wedding reception" and "get your head out of the gutter.")

But I'd never actually explored Salem. I'd enjoyed Salem Willows flavored popcorn, but I'd never been there myself. I knew of specific witch-related points, but I didn't know where they were. The House of Seven Gables could be on Plymouth Rock, for all I knew of how to find it.

After walking about, our group briefly broke up. Three went off to have their cards read (fitting, no?), and B and I decided to keep on exploring. As we sat in a juice bar, rehydrating, the idea struck.

We headed to the car, grabbed my iPod and headed back to the Old Burying Point.

Now, keep in mind that I do not disrespect the dead. At all. But I'm wandering around Witch Town, USA, in the baking sunshine, at a cemetery that has become a tourist attraction, right down the street from a wax museum and signs offering vampire tours.

This isn't exactly the most somber place.

And we followed every rule. Stay on the trails. Keep quiet.

I saw absolutely nothing that forbid cuing up "Thriller" on the iPod and sharing the earbuds. And there was no signage that prohibited a quick bustout of a music video dance move or two - out of view of everyone else.

C'mon, I think the ye olde folke of Salem would have totally dug it. I mean, Witchstock was supposedly going on right down the street.

But, that said, I suppose the whole thing came up because witches were supposedly going to go to hell anyway.

Hmm.

Oh well. Hell it is.

(more photos on flickr)

June 26, 1999.

Visiting family in Massachusetts (this was back in the day when Boston-area trips for me were rare), my father, brother and I decided to embark on one of those random adventures that always left my mother shaking her head in amusement.

"You're going to go pay money to stand at Fenway?"

Four words, Mom: It's a Pedro Game.

The game against the White Sox proved to be the only time I saw Martinez pitch in person. It was a massacre - 17-1 final score, an 11-run first inning, five Boston home runs (including two by then-favorite Nomar), and Pedro dominating in the five innings he pitched. Our standing spot was on the third base side, but the back row of seats was empty, so we decided to use them until their owners arrived -- which wasn't until the fourth inning. By the end of the game, T and I had made our way to seats in the second row behind home plate, sitting among the folks touting radar guns.

(Those were the days, huh?)

Our crew of three arrived back in Beverly with beaming grins, and my brother and I overlapped each other as we recapped the game for the amused family members who had stayed behind.

"TWO STRIKES, but I just KNEW Nomar would connect -"

"- you should have seen V's face as Dad picked on her about him -"

"- because he just doesn't have as much FAITH in Nomar as I do -"

"- you should have seen HIS face when Nomar hit the homer!"

"I never thought I'd actually almost get tired of the Red Sox scoring runs!"

I complained when Pedro left, but I'm now just looking forward to seeing him take the mound back at Fenway. The big question today has been "How would you greet him, if you had tickets to the game?"

Well, I'm going to be perched in front of the television at home, cheering for him.

That said, it would be glorious to see another Red Sox slaughter.

My nostalgic tendancies only go so far.

Update:
Dear Pedro - Sorry, dude.
Dear Red Sox - Whoo hoo! Many thanks!
xoxo - Vix