70!
It seemed like an eternity, but Barry finally hit number 70 last night, no thanks to Larry Dierker and his Astros.
Well, that's not quite true. After pitching around Bonds for an entire three-game series — walking him eight times and hitting him with a pitch once — in a lopsided 9-2 game, Dierker sent out rookie pitcher Wilfredo Rodriguez to pitch to Barry. The result was almost inevitable. Barry turned around Rodriguez's 93-mile-an-hour fastball and deposited it in the second deck. Oh, and in a related story, the Giants won the game. But the Diamondbacks won as well, so S.F. is still two games back.
So what of the Giants' three-game set at home against the hated Dodgers? To even have a chance at making the postseason, the Giants will have to sweep L.A. But will the Dodgers roll over? Not likely. Not that L.A. has anything to lose, but few things would make the Dodgers happier than screwing up the Giants' party. But will they pitch to Barry? Remains to be seen.
"Experts" are saying that in a rout, the Dodgers could trot out a sacrificial-lamb relief pitcher, a la Wilfredo Rodriguez, to pitch to him. But we'll see. I predicted 73 in a fit of unbridled optimism a while back, but I still think there's a damn good chance he'll make 71 or even 72. And who knows? If they Dodgers don't puss out the way the Astros did, Barry could make me look awful smart. ...
Tracy Miller's Capsule TV Reviews, as Overheard by Ian
10-4, good buddy.
So there's good news and bad news here at Blawg World Domination Headquarters. The good news: Lots and lots of people are digging (or at least listening to) the Return of the Rock blawg radio show. The bad news: I exceeded my monthly bandwidth allotment for my storage site yesterday. On the third day of the month. So no more blawg radio for now.
Sorry, I know you're heartbroken, but I've unlinked all the blawg radio programs until I can figure out a way to host streaming mp3s on the super-cheap. If you can direct me to a solution to this problem, please contact me at your earliest convenience. Otherwise, I suggest you launch your favorite audio-sharing/piracy application, download the songs on the various playlists, and recreate the radio show of your choice. Sorry, but it's the best I can do in the meantime.
Now, other news.
The other news is as follows:
Have a grand old Thursday, and watch out for bicyclists. Unless you're a bicyclist. If you're a cyclist, watch out for cars and junk. ßßß
Go ahead, hit me! I need the money.
I don't own that bumper sticker, but considering that people are constantly trying to mow me down, I might as well. In the last week alone, I've had the following near misses (near hits?):
This morning at 5:30 AM, in the pitch black and dense fog, a speeding cop car with only its running lights on almost T-boned me as I made a left onto a busy street; as I crossed a busy street on my way back from lunch on Monday, I was almost crushed by a guy driving a Bobcat; and I truly take my life in my hands every workday as I cross SOMA streets on my way to my office. People truly have no regard.
But all this culminated yesterday in me actually getting hit. Not by a car, thankfully, but by a punk-ass kid on a road bike. So I'm walking to Trader Joe's yesterday to pick up soy milk and other vegan-type treats, and I'm negotiating the treacherous parking lot. I look over my left shoulder to make sure Sylvester Stallone isn't trying to run me down, Death Race 2000-style, and the coast is clear.
I start across the parking lot street thing, when I glance again over my left shoulder. Now keep in mind that maybe one second has elapsed between the two over-the-shoulder glances, but this time there's a kid on a road bike like four feet from me, and heading toward me at a high rate of speed. Uhhhh ... what the hell just happened?
So while I'm contemplating the plausability of what I'm seeing, I start to spin to the left to get the hell out of his way. But instead of slowing down like a normal person, he decides he's gonna maneuver around me. I guess he thought I'd just stand there, like that deer in those headlights, so of course he swerves left also. Collision ensues.
He more or less drove up the back of my left leg, and we both went down. I landed on my left elbow, owww, but I think he got the worst of it, what with the pedal clips and junk. And then something unexpected happened: the fucker got up and started to ride away.
Huh?
No, no, no. Let me explain something, bicyclist boy: That's not how it works. you don't get to plow into me and just ride off like nothing happened. Nuh-uh.
So of course he pedals right over to Trader Joe's and hops off his bike. Where'd he think I was headed: Pier 1? Nah brah. So I dust myself off and make my way over to Trader Joe's. I reconnoiter the aisles until I find the guy, and this conversation follows:
Me: Dude, what the fuck do you think you're doing?
Him: (silence)
Me: I'm fucking talking to you!
Him: I know.
Me: So, what the fuck? No "sorry"? No "excuse me"?
Him: (silence)
Me: Dude, that's not how it works. You don't get to hit me and then walk away without saying anything.
Him: (puts down shopping basket and walks out of store)
Me: That's right, you better run back to yer mammy, boy!
OK, I didn't actually say that last part, but the rest was pretty much word for word. Truly, truly amazing to me how many people's mommas didn't raise them up right. Oh well.
I'm only slightly the worse for wear, with a sore ass and elbow. But that kid had the living hell scared out of him, and I imagine that' gonna hurt forever. So what is it with me and dudes with bikes, anyway? ßßß
Don't like baseball? Then don't bother.
OK, people, let's get down to brass tacks here: the Giants are not making the playoffs.
I know, I know, most of you are crushed. Actually, I bet most of you don't care, and a good percentage of you don't even know what the hell I'm talking about. But let me break it down for you: St. Louis is a lock for the Wild Card; San Francisco is 4 games behind them with 6 to play. Giants have no shot there.
Meanwhile, in the divisional race, San Francisco is 2 games behind Arizona in the N.L. West. And filthy veteran aces Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling could each start twice in the Diamondbacks remaining 6 games. That's 4 more or less guaranteed victories for Arizona.
So even if the Giants sweep both their remaining 3-game sets against the Astros (possible) and the Dodgers (not bloody likely) and Arizona loses 2 of their remaining 6 games (probably the best a Giants fan can hope for), there will be a tie atop the N.L. West. Should the Giants manage to force a 1-game playoff, which is highly unlikely, the Diamondbacks could start Randy Johnson. Game over. Lights out. Giants go home, Diamondbacks go on. A little piece of me dies inside.
But on the bright side, Barry will be breaking the home run record. It's almost a foregone conclusion. The way he's locked in right now, it's inconceivable that he won't hit at least 2 home runs in the next 6 games. But what may be even more impressive than the number of home runs is his ungodly slugging percentage: .846 as of this writing. When compared to batting average, slugging percentage is a much more effective means of measuring how good a hitter is. Slugging percentage is defined as total bases per at-bat, rather than simply hits per at bat, which is what batting average is.
At any rate, Barry's gaudy slugging percentage doesn't even factor in the ridiculous number of walks he's received this year: 167 as of this writing. All of this adds up to an absurd .505 on base percentage. That is to say that every time Barry steps to the plate, he is more likely to reach base than not. Just amazing. If last year's MVP, Jeff Kent, who hits behind Bonds, was having even an average year, the Giants would have run away with the N.L. West. But he's not. Rich Aurilia and Barry Bonds have pretty much been all the offense the Giants have been able to muster this season. The late additions of Andres Galarraga and Jon Vander Wal have helped, but it was too little too late. Sad. Sad but true.
Being a Giants fan in September is usually trying. But it could be worse. I could be a Cubs fan. Or, God forbid, a Red Sox fan. ... ßßß
Numbers and stuff.
October. Whoa. How the hell did that happen?
Last thing I remember it was June or July or something. One of those months that begin with a "j." And the Bay Area's fabled Native American summer appears to be upon us. At least I think that's what you call it when the weather goes from overcast and 50 degrees to hotter than hell in the span of two days. It's hot here. Too hot. Anyway. Blogging about the weather means I need to get out more.
Actually I got out plenty this weekend. Saw Zoolander on Friday, and it was pretty poor. I laughed a bunch at Ferrell and Owen Wilson, and Vince Vaughn managed to almost steal the whole movie without having a single line. Amazing. As a whole, though, it was pretty weak. Two pentagrams out of a possible five.
Dead or Alive, on the other hand, defies description, much less a conventional review. The first 10 minutes of the movie was the most intense, manic, suturiffic action sequence I've ever seen in a film. And the last 10 minutes was the most surreal, high-concept stuff ever conceived. There are not words to describe what went on. And sandwiched in between was a really good Hong Kong-style action flick. See this movie. You will never be the same. I promise. I have to give it five pentagrams just in case.
Also saw Finding Forrester. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. How does one go from Drugstore Cowboy to this?? I mean, it wasn't terrible, but making a boring movie about writing and basketball, two of my very favorite things, isn't easy. Anyway. Gus van Sant, you have some 'splaining to do. ßßß
Don't miss last week's brilliant insight.
heavy rotation
dack.com
memepool
mecawilson
shellen.com
a fire inside
sfgiants.com
kingfresh.net
