To put it mildly.  Where to begin?  I could post about seven thousand links–but, I will be merciful, and keep myself to one two three four.

First

Second

Third

Fourth

And maybe I lied, because here’s one more, about The Guy Who Was My Favorite All Year Long.  Please sign him immediately, Theo.  And stay away from The Creepy One.  Please. 

Okay.  Deep breath.  (and, oddly enough, I am going to have so much more free time between now and next April.  Or, actually, until pitchers and catchers report in February.  What will I do with myself?  Oh. Right.  Work.)  I will also feel much less emotional turmoil–although, after tonight, I don’t think Red Sox fans are allowed to complain anymore.  Ever.  We still will, of course, because it’s our nature–but, we really shouldn’t. 

Well, okay, just one more.  Because I am weak. 

And in other news, this was pretty excellent, too.

Moving on now.  The end of the baseball season means that I will spend the next few months obsessing about politics.  For a change.  I’m starting to get the very strong sense that Obama is toast.  Part of me is disappointed, because I really wanted to fall in love with the guy as a candidate, but from the very beginning, it has always seemed as though he’s only running because he thinks he can maybe win the nomination–not because he wants to be the President. 

And we have someone who wants to be the President, and is actually prepared to do the job.  In the best of all possible worlds, I’d like the campaign to be joyful, but after the grim, glum nightmare of the current Administration, I think I’d be quite happy with calm, cool, collected competence.  There’s actually a lot of food for thought in this article, although it’s not exactly cheery.  I’ll back her all the way, though–especially since I think the prospect of Rudy in the White House is absolutely terrifying.

I’m not sure I recommend this novel, but I’m not too proud to admit that I am currently reading it and am reasonably entertained.  However, as soon as this Gerald Ford book is released, I’m going to grab it.

Starting tomorrow, I think I need to begin doing this and this.  Although I do not enjoy exercise for the sake of exercise–predictably, I only enjoy sports activites–it will be a pleasure.

I woke up very upset this morning, because I dreamed–in detail–that the Cleveland Indians had won the pennant, not Boston.  And I kept saying, “No, no, I was there. I know the Red Sox won.” And they (no, I don’t know who “they” were, but they were mean) kept looking at me with pity, and explaining that I had not, in fact, been at Games 6 & 7, and that the Red Sox had gone down in defeat.

It was quite dislocating, but I’m certain I was sitting in Fenway Park this weekend–mostly, in remarkably good seats. 

Exhibit A (sadly lacking the needed 2.8 aperture):

Exhibit B:

I can also attest to the fact that Greyhound buses are not particularly comfortable, and sometimes, people who ride on them overnight spend the next couple of days hunched over with unpleasant lower back spasms.

Is there something wrong with me if I think this is kind of weird?  Maybe it’s just as well that I didn’t move to Denver some years back, with the notion that I would ski every single possible day.  (I actually really like the area, and considered relocating quite seriously.)

And that I found this somewhat unsettling, too?  Possibly because, in almost every single case, the woman in question would be a better candidate than her husband. 

The Denver Post asks a pretty good question here.  I don’t know the answer.  Although this is kind of encouraging, and this is, too.  While I find this annoying.  And cloying.

I used to live in California.  I am very fond of California.  Let’s hope the winds finally stop blowing.  Scary stuff.

I had a pleasant evening.

I hope that others, among you, did, also.

I’m not weeping–but, I’m not singing.  However, if they aren’t going to play well, what can you do?  So be it.  And since my family is a Pure Red Sox family, we have none of this foolishness.  Luckily.

While–as a human being–I feel sorry for this man, if he comes into the game tonight, I’m turning off the television.  Life is much too short to witness horrible sights.  Although I won’t go so far as to say I shouldn’t waste my beautiful mind on such things. 

And Manny is maybe not very bright, either.

But, the team has lots of good young players, the farm system is loaded–if you haven’t already, wait until you see this kid play!–and they have a chance to be extremely competitive for years to come.  Ergo, it’s all good.

And the Patriots are fabulous, so no self-respecting New Englander can really complain.  We’ve had an excellent ride for the past few years.  I hope the ride continues after tonight, but if it doesn’t, que sera, sera.

A testosterone thriller with a female main character is more fun than one with a cliched male lead.

i would like the Red Sox to win tonight, obviously–but, I can’t help wishing even harder for some semblance of world peace, given the terrible attack in Pakistan today.  

But, our Commander in Chief is still relevant.  Whew.

I was walking my dog tonight, and I suddenly realized that I could hear a strange sound.  Singing.  Me.  Aloud.  Right there on the street. 

Although I do not wish for anyone to be unhappy because of the performance, or lack thereof, of a sports team, could it be that I was singing–because the Yankees lost?  Well, yes.  In fact, all things being equal, I must confess that the night air also rang with my merry peals of laughter.

What, you may ask, was I singing?  My Favorite Things.  Kind of goes without saying, don’t you think?

I continued to sing–literally–for several hours, whilst doing long overdue chores.  Mostly Rodgers & Hammerstein, as is my wont, on the rare occasions when I overcome my own coolness and embrace spontaneity.  I sang this and this, and even this.  It was appalling.  But, I am still wide-awake, so may go for this next, or else try to find my copy of the book upon which the musical is based.  Or maybe, I’ll just laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

However, I like Joe Torre.  I hope Mr. Steinbrenner doesn’t over-react.

Rudy is probably pretty grumpy tonight.  (I’m sorry, though–I’m still not buying this.  I’m just not.)  However, Rudy should be happy, because–for no clear reason–he continues to be the front-runner for the Republican nomination.  This is very good news for the Democrats, because I actually think the only serious GOP threat is this guy, despite the fact that I’m not sure he’s even polling in the single digits.  I despise almost every single one of his positions, but you know, it’s awfully hard not to like the man.  Fortunately, the Republican Party has not caught on to this simple reality yet. 

And, in other old news, Joe Biden is absolutely terrible at campaigning, and therefore, unelectable, but he might a pretty good President.  Too bad.

I have a sinking feeling that I may spend what remains of the evening singing this.  Well, there are worse ways to spend one’s free time.

While you are waiting for Ellen to write her post on the Red Sox’ sweep of the Angels and how she got to see Manny’s walkoff at Fenway (and no, I am not at all jealous and bitter), why not head on over to the Publisher’s Weekly website?  They have posted a Q&A with Ellen. For those of you who are sensitive about spoilers, there are some minor ones in the article.

You really need to win the first game of a playoff series, especially at home.  So, it is an excellent start.

Speaking of fine beginnings, words fail me insofar as the Other Delightful New England Team is concerned.  The first four games of the season have been simply awesome.

I have been very tired lately–strangely enough, it is not as easy to work all night, and function normally the next day as it once was–and I am ashamed to admit that I have been reading what I think of as “Testosterone Thrillers.”  There are several requirements for this kind of book.  For one thing, there are lots of weapons, endlessly and lovingly detailed to the degree that even Freud would be very, very frightened.  I do not care for violence in any way, shape, or form–but, if this is so, why do I love Hawk?  (Actually, even when he is going through the motions, I think Robert Parker is much too fine a writer to be sledge-hammered into the testosterone thriller category–and I may devote an entire post to him someday soon.)

Anyway, I am pretty sure that authors of testosterone thrillers do all of their research on sites like this.  Their main characters invariably–and hilariously–almost always work for multiple secret government agencies, and are invulnerable in the extreme.  When they get shot, for example, which happens on a regular basis, they find it–a trifle annoying.  The authors’ notes are full of thank yous to people who really ought to be a little more circumspect about how much sensitive information they reveal to writers who are going to go off and publish all of it.  If any of the characters in the books dare to express reservations about, say, the efficacy–and morality–of torture, they are immediately dismissed as unpatriotic weenies, who should possibly be jailed forever, if not killed outright.  (with a cool weapon!)  The heroes of the books know better, and absolutely hate concepts like habeas corpus.  They approve of things like this, and they fail to see the irony of this.  (Oh, John, when–and why–did you become such a lapdog?)  If they saw this or this, they would be outraged, and shout that it was a complete lie–and accuse anyone who suggested otherwise of treason.  They adore the unfettered use of signing statements.  The notion of Congressional oversight makes them sick.  They would censor this.  They have no idea why this photo is scary, but also really funny.

This upsets them horribly, because they think Jack Bauer is sometimes too sensitive.  (Bill, what the hell were you thinking?  And Rudy, what were you thinking?)

A Salon author, Mark Follman, wrote a great piece about the current Administration’s unfailing reliance upon fear.   Personally, I’d rather have our country’s leaders react more like this.

So, what books am I talking about?  Oh, Brad Thor.  Vince Flynn.  W.E.B. Griffin.

And, despite being somewhat ashamed of myself for doing so, why do I read them? 

Because life is short, and they make me giggle.