You know how within days of Princess Diana kicking it, living saint Mother Teresa finally turned up her toes? Do you remember some dim miss actually saying that Mother Teresa had died because she missed the princess so much and wanted to be with her in Heaven? Well, I do!
So all I can think about this week is the Angels—and Minnesota Senator Paul Wellstone, and the two having absolutely nothing to do with each other. Oh, I could be ridiculous and say the Angels were underdogs, so . . . but I didn't like the idiot in the above graf, and I wouldn't like me.
Paul Wellstone was terrific and Jewish and pretty much a Commie, and I loved him, and I don't really want to be one of the chattering classes making a buck off his passing and what it portends. It's personal.
So let's talk about other dead people!
I'm getting pretty sick of the talk about Gene Autry, the Singing Cowboy, smiling down from heaven, and how he always wanted the Angelsto wear red because it reminded him of a circus, and once they finally donned red uniforms, they finally took the title. Oh, yeah? What exactly was holding him back from his red-uniform dream all those lonely, losing years, seeing as how he owned the team? Hey, I like Angel Red, and even Fullerton motorcycle cops were wearing red shirts under their uniforms Sunday. It's just the constant nattering about long-gone Gene Autry that tweaks me.
You know who else I'm sick of? Barry Bonds. Thirty-four percent of those polled on the moronic Sprint Virtual Manager during the games thought Bonds should be voted MVP even if the Angels should go on to beat hell out of the Giants, which, I hasten to remind you, they did. Of course, last year, 28 percent of California voters voted against the constitutional right to have one's legally cast vote counted. I hate people. Still, I, too, thought Bonds should take the MVP award—as the most valuable player for the Angels. When he wasn't kissing his son in a manner that could only be described as "romantic," the big jerk did nothing but drop ball after ball. He dropped one ball three times in Game Six, and then he turned around and did it again. Oh, the Angels are intentionally walking Bonds? Count your blessings because when they did pitch to him each time he was at the plate in Game Seven, he got the proverbial "dick."
Now, since all the Giants fans being interviewed on stupid Fox after their loss were very gracious, let me point out that I think Shawon Dunston is a very loving father who kisses his son appropriately, J.T. Snow is superhot (only partially ruined when they showed a closeup of him evacuating his nostrils, one at a time), leathery catcher Benito Santiago seems like a totally cool guy, and it was fun watching pitcher Brendan Donnelly knock him down three times in a row, and of course everybody loves Dusty Baker. Oh, except the Central Casting Villain guy who happens to own the team.
We took the kid and Suparna the Rocket Scientist to The Arrowhead Pond for Game Five: while the Angels were up in San Fran, you could watch the games on the Pond Jumbotron, with overpriced beer and Thunder Sticks for $5 to benefit an Angel charity. A lot of the crowd were blond moms with kids: it was a thrifty, homespun version of an actual game; it showed you were a "fun mom" who "likes sports" and "likes your kids"; and there wasn't a hassle with parking. At least, that's why I did it. That and the beer.
Of course, the game was not "fun" to watch, seeing as it was a 16-4 pummeling by the Giants, and Sherman marched to the sea with less damage. We will speak no more about Game Five.
Instead, we'll speak about Fox's Rick Garcia! Garcia wore the same turtleneck and jacket two days in a row, and he is stupid, and he only talked about Barry Bonds, and then, when a colleague of his was interviewing Angels pitcher Kevin Appier, he cut in over her earpiece to tell her to tell Appier that one of her colleagues was a "Quartz Hill boy! He'll know what it means!" Even I have never inserted a comment about myself while someone else was doing an interview. Oh, wait. There was the time I hijacked the interview while The Orange County Register's Martin Wisckol was asking undoubtedly dull questions of Republican state Senator Dick "May I Call You Dick" Ackerman. But I was drunk and charming, and Garcia's just a dick.
Things were much better over on KTLA, where the folks doing their standup reports from the game said they were there with "Drunks, showoffs and people who want to be on TV"—and then actually talked about the Angels instead of giving four minutes to whether Bonds should have been MVP, like they did on ESPN, before moving on without naming one Angel player. Like this: mmmmm, David Eckstein! And Troy Glaus! And sinister, monster-faced Ben Weber! And Frankie Rodriguez! And Darin Erstad! And Tim Salmon! And Troy Glaus again! And lots of other guys who were equally important and humble and win-one-for-the-team!
You just know all those guys had mad, amazing sex with their wives Sunday night, except Eckstein, who was probably playing with a puppy. If you had mad, amazing sex with an Angel Sunday night, or if you are David Eckstein, please call (714) 825-8406. We want to hear all about it. Really.
We did other stuff this week, too, and it was also great! Most important, we hit Integrity House's Halloween Party, where Jim Washburn's Hippie Candles (comprising Joe Ongie, Cold Hard Fact Danny Ott and another guy on drums—sorry!) played rock & roll covers to an audience that had incurred traumatic brain injuries. Integrity House is always a good time, and even though attendance was light due to a freakish Southland phenom wherein water falls from the sky, people of all ages and a wide range of abilities danced more or less rhythmically to tunes such as the Rolling Stones' "Mother's Little Helper" and Kiss's "Rock and Roll All Night" and a short medley that included all the requests, like crowd fave "YMCA." Integrity House and its clients totally, totally rule, and I have never had more fun dance partners ever. Oh. Except for Chuckie the Federal Bounty Hunter. He's really good at swinging. Wait! Wait! I can feel a Barry Bonds joke coming! No. Struck out.
Breaking news! Congratulations to our homegirl Arrissia, who pushed 6 pound, 8 ounce Chloe Emma out of herself Monday, following a 10-hour labor during which she refused to go to the hospital because the game was still on. Nic, Arrissia and Chloe are doing fine.
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