Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Of Dogs and Men

I got a new dog this week. He's a Boston Terrier, he's three, and he has only two settings: sleeping and tearing around like an idiot. He just got rescued from a puppy farm with 3 other Boston Terriers, where he was being pimped for his man juice as the only male around. I'd feel bad for taking him out of such a plush environment (bitches in heat, 24/7) if it weren't for the fact that it was a puppy farm run by assholes. Besides, he got fresh baked chicken today straight from the oven, so he's making out all right.

However, the little guy needed a name. I figured it had to be the manliest name I could think of given a) his former profession and b) his diminutive size. He weighs in at a robust 11.2 lbs. (well, 11.2 minus balls, now), and is still underweight. He makes a nice pair with my cat, who has grown fat due to stupidity (not an exaggeration, but that's another story). Long story short, he's only about half the size of the cat, so he needed a name to try and compensate for that. That and no one likes wussy names. I even employed the help of my closest internet friends (reg. required).

Here's the list of my favorites (credit given where due):
  • Thanatos
  • Kentucky Rage
  • Ace Jumpjet
  • Clint Doomsday
  • Gunsmash Punchface
  • Captain Edward Woofington, III. Prime Minister of Puppertonville (courtesy of "fenwayfaithful")
  • Cabrera (not that I'm biased)
  • Maranville (After Rabbit, who was born in Springfield, MA and played primarily for the Boston Braves. "Walter 'Rabbit' Maranville compensated for his lack of size with an overabundance of spunk and determination. Over his 23-year major league career, spent exclusively in the National League, the wide-ranging Maranville accumulated a record 5,133 putouts and developed a reputation for his eye-popping "basket catches." In 1914, he finished runner-up for the MVP Award as a key member of the 'Miracle Braves.'") (courtesy of "Empyreal")
  • El Guapo ("PantsB")

While these were all tempting choices (especially Cabrera), with some influences from the other names above, I settled on the one name that was manlier than them all.

I'd like to introduce: Capt. Brock Slaughterhouse

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Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go make up some business cards with the name "Clint Doomsday" on them.

-- NU50 out

Saturday, April 16, 2005

pirate no more

My head was lush with teeming growth. I'm sure there were entire colonies of microscopic beard gnomes who lived in a wonderfully rich civilization. Judging by how long my beard had been around, they should be just hitting the Renaissance this week. Well, tragedy struck in the form of a razor. My Mark Bellhorn with a Johnny Damon flair has been reduced to a mere cleaner version of Kevin Millar, minus the frosted tips of course. I'm a big fan of Millar and all, but the guy can be a little... fruity.

It was either clean up, or get some classic Arroyo cornrows, because I am incapable of getting my hair cut in a fashion outside of the active 25-man Red Sox roster. It is a neat feeling getting my hair trimmed and losing the beard, kind of like having my head take off its winter coat. It's also different relearning what my face looks like in the mirror, as about 75 % more of it is now visible.

Just a glimpse into the exciting whirlwind that is my life.


Sunday, April 03, 2005

Tick Tock

In 13 hours, baseball is finally back. We get to see if Wells still has stuff in the tank (this guy says he does), how RJ will like New York (my bet: he will now, ask again in July, however) and we finally start getting ACTUAL tangible results. There is a problem though:

It's not for 13 hours.

So I thought I'd try something different today: a running log of how I'm occupying myself trying to cross that finish line. I anticipate being very bored, and if you end reading this, it means you are suffering the same fate.

08:00 AM

Naturally, MVP Baseball 2005 is there for me. Tweaked the lineups to match tonight's game, and we have a preview for tonight's opener.

BOS 3 NYY 1 (12 inn)
W: K Foulke L: M Rivera S: A Embree
HR: (none)

RJ went 7.1 before leaving the game following a lead-off single by Kevin Millar. Gordon closed out the 8th, giving up a hit but stranding both runners. RJ gave up 1 ER, allowing seven hits and striking out 4 . However, he was bettered by Wells, who gave 8 strong innings, with only a hiccup in the 4th (Rodriguez 2B, Williams 1B) allowing the 1 run. He struck out 9.

Starting with the 9th inning, the game became a battle of star closers. Rivera gave up two bloop singles in the 9th but escaped without damage, and Foulke pitched a 1-2-3 inning to send it to extras. Both closers pitched the 10th and 11th without incident.

The 12th was the difference maker, with Torre leaving out Rivera to pitch his 4th inning. Varitek led off with a single to SS. Jeter made a diving stop, but Tek hustled down the line to beat out the throw. One can't help but wonder that if Jeter was a step quicker and didn't need to dive if he would have had Varitek out at first. This brought up Trot Nixon, who hit a smash to left field. The hit would have been sure extra bases were it not for a spectacular leaping grab by Hideki Matsui running full bore at the warning track.

With 1 out, Bill Mueller stepped up to the plate, a man described as a "Yankee Kueller" by some. After fighting off a pitch foul, he smoked a liner down the third base line. Varitek is approaching 3B as Matsui gets to the ball at the wall, but Third Base Coach Dale Sveum conservatively holds Varitek at 3B as the ball dribbles down the line. Runners at 2nd and 3rd with one out.

Bellhorn comes to the plate having scored the first Sox run in the third, having doubled and being driven in by Johnny Damon's single. Bellhorn answers the call again, doubling to left to bring home 2. Torre finally goes to his bullpen and brings in Stanton, who pops up Johnny Damon and induces Edgar Renteria to ground to 2B. However, the damage had all ready been done. Alan Embree came in to relieve Foulke, who had pitched 3 shutout innings, getting out Matsui and Bernie Williams before striking out Posada to end the game. NY batters combined for 14 strikeouts, the worst of which was Tony Womack, who K'd in the leadoff spot in his first 4 plate appearances.

One can only hope tonight's game is this good.


I realized some breakfast was in order. I thought I would go to Burger King, as I heard that they had a new breakfast sandwich. That was, until I actually looked up what said breakfast sandwich was. I think I'll wash that one down with a cool refreshing glass of congealed bacon grease. I'm hardly what you'd consider "health food conscious", but a guy's got to have limits. I guess I'll have to make myself a sandwich instead. PTH would be proud, I'm not bugging my local DD folks now. Of course, Dunkin Donuts' sandwiches are so processed, they just make me miss Chicken Lou's.


Ahh, this should keep me busy.

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If you haven't seen this movie, you are truly deprived. In fact, if you haven't seen this movie, you should drop what you are doing and go watch it now.



I don't know why it insists on moving that time down.

I watched the movie. Then I watched the cast commentary. Then, the well of activity dried up. A small bale of tumbleweed rolled over my desk just moments ago. 5 things I've learned in the past few hours:

  1. I have 10 fingers AND 10 toes.
  2. If you hold your breath for a long time, you can see little flashy blue spots.
  3. If you are watching TV and repeating everything said in a thick Italian accent... it can get really annoying.
  4. CNN doesn't update as frequently as I'd like. Which is apparantly breaking news every 45 seconds.
  5. My cat is very poor at staring contests.

I'm going to go grab some food, then I just need to bridge the 1 hour gap until gametime. Oh joy of joys.



Almost game time, and the pregame shows have begun. I've got a Turkey Club in my stomach, and it just might be that the turkey club is sandwiches at its perfection. Perfectly balanced, tasty, and I think the only way to ruin it is by overloading on one thing. And even than, its still pretty good.

Hope you haven't been as bored as I've been. Because, man, I was poking myself in the eyes just for something to keep me interested.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Butt on a Telephone Wire, Indeed

It has become painfully clear that no matter what they say, women are liars and in fact do not want guys to be honest with them. Accepting this as fact is the first step. The new step is deciding what my brand new background story is going to be. I've narrowed it down to the following choices:

  • The World's Strongest Millionaire: Chicks dig money, chicks dig tough guys. I can't lose.
  • Competitive Beard Grower: It would be a great conversation starter, and it would give me an excuse to grow a wicked awesome beard. I'm thinking an Ambrose Burnside.
  • Hollywood Stunt Driver: Not only is it a sweet manly profession, but you could easily drop names left and right. The trick is to abbreviate whenever possible. "After work on 2F2 (that's 2 Fast 2 Furious) Paul (Walker) wanted to hit up the town with me and Luda(cris). It was cool, but Paul drinks Strawberry daiquiris exclusively. It was weird."
  • Ninja: If she doesn't believe me, I'd just throw down a smoke bomb and disappear. When I show up dropping from the ceiling 20 minutes later, I'll bet she'd try to hump me right there on the bar.
  • American Idol Talent Scout: But American Idol is a real competition I can vote on! Silly girl, the producers pick who gets on that show long in advance, with a lot of help from yours truly. Oh, you want to be a singer? How convenient.
  • The "other kid" from the Goonies: Not Chunk. Not the Asian kid with the gadgets. Not Corey Feldman. The other one. I think I can make up just enough fake "on the set" stories to pull that off, and really, who amongst the female population wouldn't wear "I nailed a Goonie" like a badge of honor. Goonies never say "die", and women never say "no" to Goonies.

I guess I should feel bad for my premeditated falsehoods, but I see the guys women are taking home, and frankly they deserve it. Who are these guys, you ask? Simple: they're not me.

-Hawaii out