Posts Tagged ‘Robinson Cano’

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day: E’s notes from the All-Star Game

July 17, 2010

So I try not to bring it up here because I am such a baseball psycho and if I were to start, I fear the whole blog would be in quick order given over entirely to ball, but I actually watched on television the MLB All-Star Game and fell in to my old habit of taking notes during. I will bore you only with the page where I passed my Tipping Point — which is to say I enjoyed too much beer during commercials to do after a certain time anything other than yell at the ‘casters and any players who incurred my wrath through sloth, gluttony, or other Deadly Sins. The following is my 3rd page of notes, which occurred somewhere around the 5th-6th inning.


By me, of me, for me. Click to enlarge.

In case you need transcription of my dreadful scrawl which makes even the hastiest of doctors wrinkle their brows, it runs like this:

“Sprint Commercial EVO 4G ‘firsts'” (started strong showing great inventions through mankind’s history but then depressed me with how much fucking garbage the 20th century with its built in obsolescence and rapid shedding of outmoded technology has wrought upon the earth — fields of smashed crt televisions and busted hi-fi systems)

“Eyebrow guy — name?” to which I later appended “BRAUN” (dude is cute)

“hole in defense by 2nd, wtf?!?” (this in reference to balls getting past the AL infield and inexcusably eluding my boys, the normally slick-as-shinola Robinson Cano and you-may’ve-heard-of-him-No-Big-Deal Derek Jeter; clearly the only explanation is a gypsy curse.)

“David Wright is still g.d. adorable as hell” (hate the Mets —sorry Jon Stewart— but I love tiny-but-mighty Wright)

“does our radar gun go to 100?” “um — yes.” (conversation between idiotic commentators; of course the gun goes to 100 and up, you fucking idiot and as an aside, just because you are paid to comment does not obligate you to talk incessantly)

“The Things We Make Make Us, Jeep with robots really?!?” (this in reference to a particularly heinous Jeep commercial featuring assembly line robot arms that I think was intended to uplift the ingenuity of man and our sovereign genius or something but inadvertently took the opposite effect for me.)

He may be metal and small and not judge you at all but to me your robot friend is merely the harbinger of the Terminator apocalypse. You can’t fool This Guy!

O frabjous day of twenty-two-ness: batshit-bananas numerology, and baseball spring fever

February 22, 2010

“O, frabjous day! Calloo, callay!” (Carroll, Jabberwocky.)

Computer is fixed!, day off with the littl’un!, Spring Training has begun! and it’s my favorite day of the year — 2/22! Historically, this is my lucky day. I’ve always liked this date best out of the rest of the calendar. Twenty-two is my lucky number from very, very far back, followed closely by two itself (twenty-two trumps just-two because what’s better than one two? two twos. three twos, as in two-hundred-twenty-two, are okay but still inferior because they are three and not two in number. do not attempt to unravel this logic) and this was also the birthday of my first friend, Alex; feeding ducks with her by the little pond at Noble Library in San Jose is one of my first memories of laughing just from being happy. I wish it stopped there with the whyness of twenty-two-ness, but I get kind of …. into numbers.

See also: my lucky time (10:22 PM, or 22:22); the pages of Treasure Island and Wuthering Heights on which I hide money (222 and 22, respectively); the exact uniform number of Robinson Cano and less auspiciously Roger Clemens.


Julie Newmar: “Batterrrr uuup!”

Ask me someday about my theory that he is two people, one the familiar Texan do-gooder and all-around nice fellow Roger Clemens we came to love, and the other an evil, lying, cauldron of seething rage named Rogero Clemenzetti. A wicked and long-dormant personality who will stop at nothing to satisfy his creepy id-like aims, Clemenzetti emerged after a rat bit Clemens in an otherwise empty subway car between Long Island and New York, and he has never been successfully suppressed ever since — it is a very sad case of Jekyll-and-Hyde and I’m surprised no one else has caught it.


Picture from Star Trek Movie Night at the Giants’ AT&T park via Trek Movie.com, taken 4/27/09. I did not attend, as I was at the zoo with my kidlet for her 5th birthday — but we went to the movie later that week and we both cried at the beginning; we are diehard fans of Treks TOSand TNG (not so much the soapier others), but we looooved the reboot and did not find it sacrilegious at all (hot boys don’t hurt neither, and it’s about time we got some girl fan service up in this piece!).

In other thrilling baseball connections, 22 is half of the jersey number of Hank Aaron and Reggie Jackson (4’s and 44 are goodish numbers because of their relationship with 2, being both the square of it and divisible by it, but 8, despite being not just a multiple but its cube is not as good, I feel less comfortable around 8 because it’s just getting too far from 2); 20 (an also-very-very good number because 2 + 0 = 2) less than the number of one of the sport’s greatest heroes, Jackie Robinson (being 42 which is a super-very good number because of DA); and, best of all, it is 20 + 2, 20 being Jorge Posada’s jersey number, though he wore 22 for a few weeks in 1997, before the re-acquisition of Mike Stanley (meh), when Posada switched to 20 so Stanley could once more wear 22 (again, MEH).


Gwen Stefani: “Batterrrr uuup!”

As you can see, 22 is the best number there is, 20 and 2 being close seconds, and therefore 2/22 is the best day of the year. Period. Also: baseball.


Baseball players always have bubble butts. I do not know what repetitive motion it is they do that gives them woman hips, but they’ve all got ’em, except for lanky pitchers, who just have bad knees.

Sorry for the long and pointless diversion but if nothing else, I hope this has proven to you the depths of my numerical mania, and the next time I scoff at the zodiac, feel free to remind me that I have insanely detailed schools of superstition of my own and would do well not to throw stones.


via Michael Leget on the photobucket.

If you think all that was bad, you should talk to my husband, who is medicated for obsessive compulsive disorder, some time about the Importance of Doing Things By Three. He will make a believer of you or die trying. It’s a passion that probably frightened away other, wiser girls, but actually endeared him to me.