Tagged: Nationals

BAPL in Beantown, Day One – Oh Fatsos, Where Art  Thou?

img312.jpg“Oh fatsos, where art thou?” 

This was the question resonating in my head as I huffed and puffed about the streets of Boston last Thursday afternoon during my traditional post-hotel-check-in “recon walk” (translation: identify surrounding pubs within stumbling distance of hotel).  I was stunned. Not an obese person to be found, anywhere.  After a while, I thought I spotted two of them, but it turned out they were just reflections of my buddy and I peering into the window of a corner deli. 

Our recon mission quickly turned into a quest…a quest to find a flabby Bostonian. Eventually, about a half a block away, an enormous  H0mo-Flabbious was heading straight for us.  We rejoiced…until we got close enough to see the 5XL Kansas City Royals t-shirt he was wearing.  He, like us, was just another flabby tourist hailing from fry-over country.

This went on for blocks until finally, terrified, I leaned over to my buddy and whispered: “I see skinny people!  They’re everywhere!  They don’t know they’re skinny!”  Equally terrified, he nodded, then slowly pointed to the patch of hair near my temple that had turned white.  Fortunately, said whiteness was just excess powdered sugar from a donut I’d purchased at one of the ten thousand Dunkin’ Donuts stores located in downtown Boston.  The abundance of these stores just added to the flabless Beantown mystery.

We eventually figured it out though.  See, in Texas, we drive everywhere, curb-to-curb, no intrinsic exercise is involved.  In Boston, however, and despite the incredibly convenient subway/trolley system, one must walk one’s a$s off in the city to get where one is going, completely offsetting the Dunkin’ factor.  I figure it would take about 6 months to eliminate my excess flab if I moved to Boston.

ANYWAY, enough of the flab-shtick, I shall now bore you with pictures:

After the recon walk mentioned above, me, Mrs. Jonestein, and my buddy Jeff, headed to Quincy Market to get our dooshy tourist thang on.  “Starving”, we settled on the well known tourist trap, Cheers, where I consumed a twelve-dollar bowl of macaroni and cheese w/ sauteed shrimp.  Afterwards, Jeff and I left Mrs. J at Quincy, hopped on the subway(my first subway ride, btw), and headed down to Fenway for a tour of the ballpark:

1. This is my buddy Jeff as we headed up the ramp:



2. Pesky’s Pole viewed from seats atop right field:



3. “Williamsburg”:



4. Jonestein behind Pesky’s Pole from seats atop right field:



5. Williamsburg and the Green Monstah:



6. Jonestein atop the Green Monster:


7.  Pressbox from the Monster:


8. Bayland (formerly Mannyville) from atop the Monster:



That’s it for now.  I’ll continue boring you with pictures in the next BAPL in Beantown post.




Happy International Blasphemy Day!

blasphemy.jpgOn this Holiest of Holy days, be sure to share the following with your delusional friends afflicted with the mind-virus known as “Religion”:

1. The Bible is fiction, and not even good fiction…unless you enjoy mysogynistic, homophobic, capricious genocidal snuff pulp fiction.

2. Jesus was not the son of “God”, and probably never even existed (and please, spare me the Lee Strobel recommendations, I’ve read his laugh-out-loud garbage before, it wasn’t the slightest bit convincing or for that matter, intellectually honest).  However, if Jesus did exist, he would surely hate the Cubs.

3. There is no supernatural sky-daddy who created the universe and keeps track of, nor cares, how many times you pause “Transformers” to rub one off watching Megan Fox look slutty.

4. Christianity is the bad sequel to Judaism, and Islam is the exceedingly worse sequel that should have gone straight to DVD. 

5. Mormonism is one of the many wacky spin-offs of Christianity that should have been cancelled after the first episode.

6. Scientology was a very lucrative practical joke initiated by L. Ron Hubbard to demonstrate how people will enthusiastically hemorrage money to you and believe fking ANYTHING.  The only reason it hasn’t eclipsed the Abrahamic Trilogy of Myths (and spin-offs) is that it hasn’t had 2000+ years to fester and spread.

7. The rest of them are just as silly, ridiculous, improbable, and not worthy of the clever, acidic wit it would take to properly blaspheme them.

MLBlogs Bonus –  “The Angels” are not the winged minions of “God”, they are a Major League Baseball team out of Anaheim, CA, who suffer from a perpetual identity crisis and the inability to smite the Boston Red Sox in the ALDS.

Note – Not that anyone gives a sh!t, but BAPL shall be silent until next week as I trek up to The People’s Republic of Taxachusetts tomorrow to watch the Red Sox play a meaningless game against the Injuns at Fenway.  BAPL shall reopen Monday morning, assuming my return flight doesn’t get jacked by Al Queda suicide a$s bombers.

You Might be a Baseball Curmudgeon – Part One

thing.JPGMy friends and family love to razz me about how I lose my sh!t over insignificant Things(pardon the pun) that I have no control over, especially when I’m at the ballpark trying to enjoy, well, baseball. 

Unfortunately, today’s ballpark experience has turned me into a “baseball curmudgeon”.  See, I go to watch Major League Baseball, you know, the very best of the best competing in my favorite sport…the chess game with athleticism.  I do not haul my large self out there for the “family friendly”, “built for fun”, “use your outside voice(no, please, do NOT use your outside voice, you fking brat)”, “let’s leave in the 8th inning to avoid traffic” experience. 

And while I don’t consider myself a baseball “purist”, i.e. I actually like the DH in the AL, seven game league championship series, and the three divisions per league, there are still plenty of things that p!ss me off, thus elevating me to at least the status of curmudgeon.

You too, may be a Baseball Curmudgeon(tm) if:

1. You despise “The Wave”.  If I had a time machine, and after I went back to assassinate Hitler, Woodrow Wilson, and a laundry list of other fascist, religious, commie/”progressive” types, I’d go back and whack the “HEY, look at me” a$shole who invented this ballpark nuisance.  Just yesterday, a couple of frat boy, “LOOK AT ME!” sh!theads in the aisle right next to me tried like hell to get it started, and much to my delight, failed miserably.  I was one happy fat guy.

2. You can’t stand the (insert cartoonish corporate costumed distraction here) Race.  At Rangers Ballpark, it’s “The Ozarka Dot Race”.  They pass out these Ozarka Dot Race tickets that are actually coupons to “save” a dollar on an obscenely over-priced 24-pack of Ozarka tap water.  Then three idiots dressed in giant Ozarka “dot” costumes and big goofy shoes come barreling out of the left field gate towards the finish line at home plate.  The only time this “race” is even remotely amusing is when they start tripping each other or some enterprising ball-player in the visiting dugout knocks the sh!t out of one of them if they get too close to said dugout.  Otherwise, it’s just shameless corporate dooshbaggery disguised as Family Fun(TM).

3. You can’t stand the “slightly askew” cap wearing of Felix Hernandez and CC Sabathia.  Oh the countless times I’ve wanted to see opposing batters blast the “check ME out, I’m all GANGSTA!” cap off their heads with a laser line drive to the head.  Hopefully, said line drive would strike precisely at the point on their head where the cap tilts, forever causing them agonizing pain every time they decide to go gangsta.

4.  You get thoroughly disgusted by the obese person scarfing down a dozen “hot dogs” on “Dollar Hot Dog Night”.  Oh, wait…that obese person is me…nevermind.  (I was just baiting you flabophobes out there into vigorously nodding your heads in agreement…you may now return to your tofu wraps, Bow-Flex machines, and Axe body spray).

5. You get really annoyed at the endless “Business Acumen P!ssing Contest” discussions taking place directly in front of you.  You know the dooshies of whom(who?) I speak:  They spew out meaningless bidness buzzwords, go on and on about how so-and-so at the office should be canned, and brag about how lousy their golf games are with hearty, wink-wink, slap-on-the-back laughitude…dooshery at it’s finest.  Occasionally, they lapse into the realization that they’re at a ballgame and turn around to ask me who’s up in the Rangers’ bullpen, to which I inevitably reply “Vernon Maxwell”.  Nine times out of ten they nod and say something like “Ah, good move!  That Bobby Valentine is one helluva manager, ya know?”. 

More later…I need to actually “work”



Enthusiasm, Interrupted

I love enthusiasm.  Enthusiasm can transform a ho-hum ballpark experience into a burst of epic fandom ecstasy.  Enthusiasm can allay the guilt that comes with paying the price of today’s ballpark experience.  Enthusiasm can turn a cheap, $5 seat into a proud luxury box. 


But what happens when the enthusiasm dies because your team is just going through the motions”?  Is it time to just sit up, say “Nice try”, and throw in the towel?

Well, gentle readers, that’s what it feels like here in Rangers (Stag)Nation.  As this weekend’s final homestand is upon us, as I reflect upon the ups and downs of the 2009 Rangers, I can’t help but feel that whatever enthusiam I might conjure this Sunday at the home finale will be disingenuous.  Indeed, I believe I’m going to have to “fake it”. 

See, I can’t help but feel that this team has given up.  I suspect there is something going on in the clubhouse and in the organization as a whole that we Proles are not privy to.  Some proclamation has been issued by the Ministry of Victory that has gotten inside the heads of our Inner Party members (Yes, I just performed a *ahem*-to-Airstrip One metaphor backflip).  With the war now switching back to Eurasia, I fear that the enthusiasm in 2010 will also wane, leaving, once again, an unsatisfied, flaccid fandom here in Texas of Arlington(We now return to our regularly scheduled metaphor…).

S’okay though, I’ve got someone on the side…we’re rendevousing at Fenway next week and I hear those Beantowners know how to show you a good time.



Please MLB, No Pomp & Pageantry

nflsucks.jpegLast Thursday at the bowling alley, they had the NFL’s equivalent of “Opening Day”, i.e. Titans/Steelers on all the tubes, and I found myself nauseated by all of the non-football crap before the game.  Nothing against the Blackeyed Peas or Tim McGraw, but if I want to see a concert, I’ll buy tickets to one, rent a DVD, or check out the local music scene…and at my age, option #2 would be the likely choice. 

When football is on, well, I’ll probably opt to watch the Texas Longhorns pummel Northwest Central Lousiana Institute of Crawfish Technology before I get excited about NFL football.  I’ve become pretty disgusted with the NFL and all the “Me-me-me!” BS of it’s overpaid prima donnas. I was going to post something on the subject, but stumbled upon Larry Dobrow’s blurb on his CBS Sports Power Rankings for this week:


As I ingested the pomp and pageantry of the NFL’s opening night last Thursday, as I listened to the 13-man studio crew conduct seven conversations at once and strained two ocular nerves watching the Black Eyed Peas do everything to rouse an indifferent crowd short of administering Red Bull intravenously, I couldn’t help but be deeply thankful that baseball isn’t more like football.

Yes, baseball has its issues, starting with that whole unfixable salary-disparity thing. Also, Wednesday night’s Giants-Rockies game could well be the last truly meaningful contest until the first week of October, which will leave 18 full days for everyone to get hysterical about the possibility that Scott Feldman will net a few Cy Young votes.

On the other hand, baseball isn’t sold as anything it’s not. The NFL presents itself as America’s Game, the only one in which any team can beat any other on (yup) Any Given Sunday. Of course, no fewer than 20 of its 32 franchises exist in a perpetual haze of mediocrity, and the in-stadium experience has been watered down to the extent that a couch/TV combo trumps seats on the 50-yard-line.

I applaud baseball for staying true to itself, for preserving its pace-of-life rhythms even as it works new thinking and technology into the mix. The game’s the thing, as it always has been. Please keep it that way.


Couldn’t have said it better myself.



superstitions_med.jpgFirst off, please excuse the word-mangled title, after all, I do live in “Dubya” country, where we have the highest rate of suicide amongst English professors than anywhere else in the nation. 

Second off, if you are of the religilous persuasion, i.e. one who enjoys closing their eyes and talking to imaginary friends, you might want to move on because I will probably insult your delicate, superstitiationous sensibilities in this post, given the subject matter.  S’okay, the rest of us will be courteous and let you leave the room without ridicule.

*waits, hums a catchy tune*

M’kay, onward and forwardlike.

As many of you know, I’m not one to lend a shred of credibility to insanely popular myths, the paranormal, or silly superstitions.  However, I do occasionally enjoy the ever-so-fun category of Baseball Superstitions, namely the one that suggests that my thoughts, actions, and opinions directly effect the success or failure of the Texas Rangers baseball club. 

See, being the optimistic pessimist that I am, I have the utmost confidence that if I dare to praise my team for their efforts, they will surely fail.  The corollary, natch, is that the more I forecast gloom-and-doom here in Rangers (Stag)Nation, the more they will…HA!  Thought you had me there, didn’t you Gods O’ Baseball?!?  Well, you know what they say,  Fool me once, shame on….”

Which is why you never see blog entries from me saying enthusiastic things like “Rangers Sweep Red Sox”, “Kinsler Closes HR Bookend With Walk-Off Against Twins”, or “Rangers End ’09 Tigger Curse”.  No, dear readers, only a Rangers victory in The Event That Shall Go Unnamed will bring true optimism to this here blog.

Shhh!  I can already hear the Ranger bats going silent for tonight’s game against Detroit.



Image tithe from here.