Seven Red

The Mets’ loss today was like a miniature version of the 2007 season. Just terrible. Hopefully, the sting of it will help them buck up for this road trip, while the Phils nip at their heels, as per usual. Very disheartening.

So so day for the Metropolitans. They dropped one they really should have won after a tough performance from Johann. It’s just another signal that the bats will have to stay lively to support the relief crew, but I think we already knew that. The second game went much better, with solid contributions from the likely suspects. I like that beltran seems to feel better this September. The bullpen also stepped up in Game 2. Barring a bad eighth inning in the first game, the Mets essentially shut out the Braves for 17 innings, which is not bad.

The contuing slide of the Brewers is a mixed bag. It’s good because the Cubbies are more or less assured their playoff spot this year, and this town is going to be fun and crazy with the Cubs in the hunt. It’s bad because the Brew Crew should be beating up on the Phillies and giving us more breathing room. Then again, the breathing room is coming from the other direction, since the collapse of the Brewers mean that the NL East is increasingly looking like it will field the Wild Card team, whether that ends up being the Phils or the Mets. Still, I’d like to see Milwaukee take at least one from Philadelphia, if only to slow their roll a bit.

Sweet Little Apostrophe...

From the “That Pretty Much Sums It Up” Department. Please tell me I’m not being Mr. Composition here when I suggest that perhaps, just perhaps, the McCain campaign’s gear for student supporters (supposing such a group exists) should get through the three major words printed on the merchandise without a massive fucking grammatical error. Please? I shit you not.

My very ancient male co-worker came into my office this morning, handed me a Susan B Anthony dollar and said “Happy Anniversary.” How cute is that?

feministing alerts us that a new, sexier Dora the Exlorer may be on the way. Because what little boys and girls really, really need is a sexed up image of, er, little girls. I mean, without them what would little boys do?

God knows what plans they have for the monkey…

Before

After

As I’m doing the dishes or some other housework in the kitchen I overhear babygirl and topspun talking about her new toys. I bought her a set of wooden emergency vehicles including two fire trucks, an ambulance, a boat, a helicopter and a police car.  They are discussing the different sounds the different vehicles make. An ambulance goes nee-na nee-na, a boat goes aawoogaa and such.

“Babygirl, what does a police car sound like?”

“I don’t know”

“Woop-Woop”

“Daddy, what’s police?”

“They’re um… people who… uh ‘help’ you when you’re… um uh… ‘in trouble’.”

“No”

“You’re right babygirl, they’re not, but that’s the best I can do at your age”

Here it is my thirtysomethingth birthday and I’m back at work after a quick vacation in the country. babygirl loved our visit to the farm, but my camera ran out of batteries so you will not be subjected to painfully cute pictures of her chasing chickens. She didn’t catch any.

We also visited with old friends and new babies. babygirl made many friends. I had to promise her we would go back so it looks like another plane ride is in the works for August.

Two recommendations when flying with a two year old. Bring lollipops. Do not run out of wipes. 

Wow. We’ve been neglecting poor Seven Red. I haven’t really had the energy for it after quite a bit of work. For those on semester systems, aintcha lucky. We still have four weeks to go here. In two weeks, I’m doing two conferences in a five-day stretch: one in Athens, GA, and one in Seattle, so it’s been a little hectic with that and grading and meetings meetings meetings. Oh well. She is away with babygirl this weekend, so of course it’s been utter debauchery, where debauchery means topspun in his underwear watching Sports Center. It’s pretty racy, trust me.

Some quick reviews, in any case, so this won’t just look like a maintenance post. 1) I actually really liked Cloverfield, which I found weirdly engaging. This should not be surprising. I like anything that takes an old idea and submits it to contemporary technology and emotional tonalities. So, Cloverfield probably started with the question: What would a totally fucked up Godzilla-situation really play like? And I think they pretty much nailed it.  2) There Will be Blood is a curious study of the way business fanaticism encounters religious fanaticism. It’s very clearly a way of thinking through our own problems with these two phenomena, so the early 20th century setting is an interesting switch. I vote yes.

No graffiti this Friday, but no less nostalgic for all that.

sevenred’s Albany and Atlanta family is in town, visiting babygirl and taking in the scene. Specifically, she’s MathMom and MathSister arrived, an hour apart, from their respective towns, which of course led to many wonderful adventures at O’Hare international. That means that I’m on babysitting duty (if one can babysit one’s own child, a point she consistently takes a negative view on when I use the term) tomorrow, since the ladies will be heading to the Art Institute and probably some fancy lunch or other, then to dinner, while I sit around drinking beer (after babygirl has gone to sleep, of course).

In any case, we were hanging around in the sevenred kitchen, chatting it up, and we had NPR on. Chicago NPR is about 1000% better than State College, PA NPR. Better funding base, I guess. So night show was some weird world music review or other, and suddenly, I was 11 years old again. The DJ played Chanson pour l’auvergnat, the classic French pop jam by Georges Brassens. Georges Brassens is a bit like a Leonard Cohen avant la lettre, but in French. I haven’t heard this song in probably 20 years, but I was practically singing along with it. Is it obscure? Well, yes. So how do I know it?

My parents would occasionally have some weird music night. We’d be disallowed from watching television, since the record player was in the same room as the television, and instead they’d play their records. (Occasionally, they’d allow us to physically carry the TV into my brother’s room, and these were real boon nights, since we could watch whatever we wanted to on our New York City non-cable selection!). I used to resent my parents a bit for this, primarily because their music seemed, at the time, irretrievably lame. My friends parents listened to cool stuff, ya know? And modern stuff. My parents didn’t play a track that came out after 1975, with the exception of a Kenny Rogers record they bought in 1980 or so, and Purple Rain, which my uncle and aunt bought me Christmas in 1984. My parents had the Beatles, of course, but only the first Beatles album. No fucking around with Sgt. Pepper, you see? White album? Forget it.

But now, I’m a bit happier that things went the way they did. Because when Georges Brassens comes on the radio, I sing along, and that’s pretty cool. I know Harry Belafonte’s early stuff by heart. I heard some song the other day that was riffing off it (“my heart is down/ my head is spinning around/ I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town…”), and I was on it immediately. See what this guy’s doing? Kingston Trio? No problem. In fact, when I was waiting tables way back when, I heard a group trying to figure out “that song about the subway in Boston, where the guy can’t get off?” Who did that? I walked over and said Kingston Trio, MTA. They just about lost their shit, since I was way too young to know that.

But now I know my birthday present for the Pops. I’m going to send him a double CD of Georges Brassens, and then a mixed CD of a bunch of songs they used to play. The record collection is long gone, but that’s why you have kids. To remember shit like that and burn you CDs, or whatever it is that they know that you can’t possibly imagine. The folks were – and are – cool in their own way, something I’m learning more everyday. I think it’s difficult when you grow up a bit poor, because you develop all these resentments that are unnecessary, especially towards your parents. I look at my brothers now, and I kinda admire what the Folks managed to do with a little. And I’m getting into strange “I’m developing perspective…” mode here, so I will stop.

The French also inspired me to track down the version of Jacques Brel’s Ne Me Quitte Pas that played in the Christina Ricci movie Pumpkin. That would be the version, in English, by folk singer Emiliana Torrini, which I now own a copy of. Pumpkin‘s also great for its prominent play of Belle and Sebastian’s Stars of Track and Field, which she and I suspect inspired the screen play (or vice versa).

As you may have noticed, I’ve withheld posting on the worst late-season collapse in modern baseball, hoping against hope that the Mutts could pull out of this tailspin. It is not to be. Tonight, they handed me a fine birthday present: they lost to the Cards, the Phils beat Atlanta, and the NL East is all knotted up with three games to play. Frankly, I don’t see the Mets winning another game this season, and I see Philly taking at least two out of the three. So, as I see it now, Philly will take the NL East by two games, and the Mets will not – will NOT – make the playoffs. This is, of course, a disaster of monumental proportions, sports-wise (perspective is necessary at times like these), and Willie Randolph and Omar are probably gonzo. It’s for the best. With the raw talent on the Mets bench, nothing like this should be happening. Of course, it all comes down to pitching. I was complaining to anyone who would listen all season about middle relief, and the collapse came to fruition there.

I suspect I won’t have much Mets blogging to worry about come Saturday. This one’s over.