Your front-row seat to my nervous breakdown
Second greatest comeback in postseason history … and you all have me to thank for it.
It was the fifth inning and the Sox were getting blanked, 5-0. It was a funeral. Sox hitters looked like zombies, and Sox pitchers were helping the Rays hold an impromptu home-run derby. The TBS announcers had shovels in hand and were tossing dirt on top of the almost-closed coffin.
My wife had seen enough.
Me to my wife after running outside and catching her before she backs out of the driveway so that I can hand to her the cellphone she left on the kitchen counter—the one that I can never reach her on:
“Please keep this on you.”
“I do.”
“Apparently not.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why it was inside.”
Four years ago this month, my wife and I closed on our house and joined the ranks of the “homeowners” (a misnomer if ever there was one, because, I assure you, we SO DON’T own this house; Countrywide Mortgage owns not only this house, but, thanks to the plummeting real-estate prices of the past several years, everything in it … but I digress).
At the end of our first winter here, it became apparent to us that the previous owners, in order to make the house they were selling look pretty for the least possible cost, slapped a coat of paint on it with little or no preparation. Their plan worked; we gave them an assload of cash for their pretty house, they vamoosed, and, after less than one year here, we had a house that looked like a giant, pale-yellow scab.
Scene: Zan and Daddy on the couch, watching the Red Sox play the Angels.
Z:“Daddy, do you know any of the Angels players’ names?”
Me:“Well, their newest guy is Mark Texaira … and they have a great hitter named Vladimir Guerrero …”
Z:“V-lad-i-mir Gor-arrow?”
Me:“Guerrero.”
Z:“Gwa-arrow?”
Me:“Almost. It’s Guerrero.”
[Pause]
Z:“I wish they named him Bill.”
To: [Lots of people]
Hi, this is Jon. I can’t get to the phone right now because it shattered into a million pieces on Interstate 95 early last evening. Its pieces are intermingled with those of the six-hour-old BlackBerry Curve that I received from my employer yesterday. I left both on the roof of my car while transporting my family from point A to point B. Total estimated retail value: $700.
If you need to reach me, please call me on my home phone … which I probably won’t answer, because I’m busy throwing up.
Thanks.
Look, I appreciate your concern, but, really, I’m OK. He’s not going to hurt me again.
Yes, I know it’s not the first time he’s said he’d change … not the first time he’s said it won’t happen again … that he’ll stop drinking … that I can trust him … that he really loves me. I know.
So, yesterday morning, I went for a short run (redundant, really, since “short” is the only kind of run I ever seem to go for, if at all), and returned home feeling all fit and spry — and hungry. This last part is always a challenge, because the extent of my culinary abilities is limited to boiling and toasting — or so I thought. Turns out I can remove “toasting” from my cooking résumé.
A few weeks back, my workweek began with an assignment that kicked much ass. I was invited to attend an exclusive, in-studio performance by Army of Anyone, a new rock group that features Filter frontman Richard Patrick, Stone Temple Pilots members/brothers Robert DeLeo (bass) and Dean DeLeo (guitar), and former David Lee Roth Band drummer Ray Luzier. The show took place at Boston radio station WBCN.
Following the performance, I got to sit down with Richard and Robert, whom I interviewed for about 40 minutes. Though I’ve done a number of interviews in the past, this was my first using a digital recorder, which records the audio input onto a compact flash memory card. Very cool … except for the part where I apparently did not familiarize myself as thoroughly as I should have with this new-fangled contraption.