Sox AL East Champions- 1st time since 1995!

A bunt single by Baltimore's Melvin Mora gives The Red Sox the division title!

Of course you would like to clinch on the field, with the players jumping up and down and getting to shake up Champagne immediately afterwards in the clubhouse. It's also more fun for the fans, who can celebrate in unison. I was there in 1990 when The Red Sox won the division on the Last Play of the season. With the go ahead run on base, Tom Brunansky made a diving catch near Pesky Pole. I was standing in the right field bleachers and going crazy with 30,000 plus other people at Fenway Park. It was amazing. Probably the best sports moment I'd seen in person. Right afterwards I got in line for playoff tickets and spent the night on Yawkey Way. (Don't try this tonight, because you'll be very lonely out there. Playoff tickets can only be had if you're lucky-via the internet-or very rich...but that is another topic and we don't need to bring the mood down on such a great night).

There was no drama inside Fenway Park tonight, but having The Yankees (and Mariano Riveria) blow a 3 run in the 9th inning and for NY to lose the game in extra innings to a lowly Orioles club isn't bad either.

And 17 years ago the playoffs were a lot different. There were only 2 division winners and no wild card. Getting The AL East pennant was a huge accomplishment, and you were only one step away from The World Series.

In 2007, with The Sox already assured of a playoff spot, it's doesn't have the weight it once had . . . . but it's still damned cool. It's even sweeter to end The Yankees run on those flags. And even more sweeter that it's our first division title in 12 years.

I was able to listen to the Yankees broadcast on mlb.com and hear NY blow their game to give us the division championship live. And now I have the stream from WEEI on the computer to get a picture of what is going on at Fenway. I would love to be in Boston instead of San Francisco, but I'm still enjoying this very much.

. . . . Just talked to my Mom, who informed me that they had the Yankees game on the big screen in Fenway and many of the fans stayed. And from Joe Castiglione on WEEI I'm hearing that the players have gone back to the field and are celebrating with the fans. Papelbon & Gagne are showering the fans with Champagne. Very cool. 162 games is a long grind, and the players should take this time to go a little crazy.

So raise those glasses in a nice toast, and get ready for us to keep on winning (11 more times) in the playoffs. I haven't had much to feel good about lately, so I will certainly appreciate this. But there's still so much to be done.

A Look Back To September 2002

Due to some grim personal problems, I haven’t felt much like writing this month. Creativity does not arise when you’re feeling down. But if anything good comes out of the pain, it’s that you’re forced into introspection. You’re forced to looking honestly at your life, and even though you might not like what you see, the truth will eventually help.

And part of the process is analyzing your history. And for me it’s apt to take a look back five years ago, the last time I found myself single. Reading through my journal from that period might not provide any answers, but it may give me a modicum of perspective. So here is what I was thinking and writing in September of 2002.


September 1, 2002
9:04 p.m.

So here it is, Labor Day Weekend, and I find myself hunkered down on Descanso Drive in front of the air-conditioner during an uncharacteristic humid evening. I’ve spent this whole day editing my manuscript, and I’ve made good progress. A Model Community is almost ready to send out to the world.

So why do I feel, as Kristofferson sings, nearly faded as my jeans? Sure the heat has whittled away my energy, but the weariness isn’t all physical.

I had tried to get people to go to The Red Lion tonight, but I didn’t follow through and have no idea whether anybody will show. Should I make a trip to Glendale Boulevard? I thought being around friends inside one of my favorite bars would help, but I’m feeling rather lousy and alcohol has no appeal.

I need a trip far away from Los Angeles, California.

Key West would be great. My buddy Dave emailed me and wanted tips on the island. He’s going there with his wife, and when we were roommates (6 years ago . . . how could that be 6 years ago??), I had told many stories of my Key West days. So just typing Pier House and Mallory Square and Fort Taylor and Captain Tony’s in my email back to him made me sigh. I want out of this damned city. I feel like a rat dumbly zigzagging around a maze……………….


September 9, 2002
10:30 p.m.
Monday Night

Okay, things are pretty f’n good right now. Of course it can all crash to shit in a nanosecond, but The Patriots began their Super Bowl defense tonight with a 30-14 smack down on The Steelers, things are going well with my (hopefully) new semi-girlfriend, and I finished the near final draft on A Model Community. Sure, if I analyzed my life enough I could probably find things to depress the shit out of myself. But I have no interest in such an activity, and I’m just going to enjoy September 9th in the good year of our lord 2002.

Because, as everybody knows, in less than two days it’s going to be that anniversary. It won’t be a day to smile. It won’t be a day to rejoice. But it will be a day to shed a tear for the victims, to celebrate survival, and to be thankful of your life.

Well…there’s no sense going on about my successes or problems after even mentioning September 11, 2001. The pictures of my trip to the World Trade Center in 1996 are still tacked up to the wall, and in the middle are the three firemen raising the American Flag at Ground Zero. Six and a half years ago I was standing on top of Manhattan, my head above the skyscrapers, horizon, and clouds. Nobody will ever be at that spot ever again. It’s an eerie and awful fact…………………………


SEPTEMBER 11, 2002
11:04 p.m.

Last year I couldn’t articulate my sorrow and there’s no reason why I could do it now.

Nobody knows why one person is allowed to live while another cannot be saved from death. All day at work I couldn’t help but ponder that unanswerable question. And as such thoughts pinball around your brain, you cannot believe you’re still spending hour upon hour at a job you don’t enjoy. Sure, you’re breathing now….but there’s no promises you will be tomorrow. And what do you have to show for it?

I’ve dedicated myself to succeeding in my career, and even though I’ve consistently failed, I can take some sense of pride in the effort. But I’m still earning money by doing something I see as pointless. I’m still not only far away from my family and friends, I’m living in a city that rates extremely low in my opinion. And it could all end tomorrow.

You can’t consciously think doom and gloom or you’ll go crazy. But the fragility of existence is something that should be acknowledged on some level. You have to have priorities. And waiting around for “fate” to help me is not one of them.

Publishing my novel is a good start. As Palahniuk said in Fight Club, “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time”. You should at least try to do something worthwhile with your days and years. I wasn’t even a teenager when I began writing short stories. It’s the only thing I’ve truly wanted to do. Okay…I can’t make any money writing, but I can get my novel available to whoever wants to read it.

So what does it mean?

I still might leave L.A. before the end of the year. But I’m not going to ponder any future stuff until after A Model Community gets to Xlibris Publishing. Whenever I get overwhelmed and depressed, it’s usually because I’m looking to far down the road………………...

September 30, 2002
11:52 p.m.
Monday

Here it is the waning minutes of the month, and I find myself back at my little brown desk with cold air sneaking through the windowpanes. It can’t be more than fifty degrees outside. Cold for L.A., but still fine weather. After such a hot summer I’ve enjoyed this overcast weather.

Still haven’t heard about my car. Since I blew that tire and damaged my steering column I’ve been mobility challenged for more than a week. My mechanic is back (very honest and friendly) and should give me an estimate tomorrow. I await with both fear and anticipation. The subway is a decent alternative to driving, but I could do without the 25 minute walk. In Boston I was never more than a hundred yards from a T stop.

You could also phrase that as a touchdown away. Which is what the Patriots were from winning their 13th straight game. Unfortunately The Chargers stopped them…and I experienced that lousy feeling for the first time in 300 plus days. It was an amazing run, and there is no shame in their defeat. But why did I have to see it in person? I hadn’t see The Patriots live since they clinched a wild card spot in 1999 against San Francisco…and I make the trip down to San Diego where the incredible streak ends.

Bummer, man.

Yes, and even worse to witness it in hostile territory. Which got me thinking along the same lines as I did in June at Dodger Stadium…that I’m so sick of being the away team. I want Fenway Park and Foxboro and The New Garden. I want to be among scores of friends…to be apart of the community I loved so much. Be it sports or just your average day-to-day stuff. I am through with Los Angeles.

Some good news before I close…the editors have A Model Community, and when I get back from my trip back to Boston to see family and friends it should be ready. And during that time I’ll keep myself busy with writing the back cover summary and my biography and the description I want posted on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.com. There’s also the new script- which might turn out to be the framework for my second novel.

Which brings us to…

My search for a college teaching job. I don’t even know if I’m qualified, but with a M.A. and a literary novel I should have a chance. I’ve said it so many times during my four year misadventures in Hollywood, but this time I truly mean it. What's kept me going, even during my darkest hours, was the belief I would sell a script. The belief has faltered into a desperate hope, and desperation is no way to go about life.

I might be happy at a little college in New England. Not much money, but minimal expenses and plenty of time to read and write. Find a nice girl, settle down, have some kids, and all that usual stuff. I never much gave any thought to all that usual stuff, but I never gave much thought to getting old.

Weird…that’s the only way to describe how I feel, right here in now, as I move a few more feet into my 30’s. I’ve held onto not growing up for a long time, and it was a noble effort. But it’s over. I can still enjoy going to bars and staying up late and sleeping with different women, but I want more. I was pretty contented to just focus on writing and then to goof off in my spare time. But it’s not enough. I’m not saying I want to get married or start a family…shit, I don’t even know what I really want…but I’m sure of what I don’t want- the routine I’ve carved out for myself.

I’m whining and babbling like a 2 year-old now, and we’ll end it here before I reach October. You have to be thankful of the good things you have, and try your best to change the bad things that sting the soul.

A Trip To The Mainland

During the times when I’m not feeling loquacious (which has been the case of late), it’s always nice to crack open an old journal and see what in the hell I was thinking and writing years ago. In January of 1994 I was a bartender living in Key West, trying to get over a girl and write the Great American Novel. Since I wasn’t having any luck at either, when a few friends came to visit we decided to take a trip:

Key West, FL
January 27, 1994
Thursday Afternoon 4:12 p.m.

Returned early this morning from my first road trip to the mainland. I’m quite weary, but still glad I did it. Let me explain.

I guess it all started yesterday afternoon when I called in sick to work. Jamie, Dave, and Corey rented a car to drive up the Keys and I didn’t want to miss out. I’ve been here almost 4 months and until last night I’d never been any further than Marathon Key. So I made the call to Perry’s, and under false pretenses (a sprained ankle getting out of the shower . . . always give embarrassing stories about yourself when you’re calling in sick to work) I was given the okay to head up U.S. 1.

At 2:30 we finally hit the road. We didn’t have any plans or even a destination. Islamorada and Key Largo were thrown out, but nobody really cared where went. So after stopping at Burger King in Stock Island our journey was underway.

U.S. 1, the road that connects all The Keys with Mainland Florida, is not a road for speedy travel. Traffic during the day gets heavy, and it can seem like an eternity when you’re stuck behind a mammoth truck. At some points there are 2 lanes, but those are the exceptions. Mostly it’s a one lane shot with oncoming traffic hindering any passing plans.

Except it’s not all bad. Fortunately the road offers nice views of the ocean, glimpses of the old railroad, and interesting flora and some elegant houses. Also, if you get deep enough, it’s cool to know you’re hopping from one island to the next, suspended over the Atlantic Ocean by just some concrete and steel.

Well, it took us about 4 hours to reach mainland Florida. Along the way we stopped in Marathon to walk onto the old railroad, and in Key Largo for some clues as to what to do.

Traveling without a destination is actually kind of funny. Here we are, driving well over a 100 miles, and we had no plan of action. All we wanted was a good bar to hang out at for the night. Our expectations were not too high.

After stupidly driving by some signs that advertised “happy hour” in Ismoralda (which is supposed to be a good party place), we decided upon Key Largo as our town of choice. Hell, if it was good enough for Bogie and Bacall, why not us? So we stopped at (where else) a liquor store for some info on the good bars in town.”

“There are no good bars in Key Largo,” the man behind the counter said.

I couldn’t help but laugh. At that moment I knew how Clark Griswald must have felt when he got all the way to Wally World to find out it was closed. All we wanted was a good bar with some tasty food, but Mr. Liquor Store Guy pissed all over that.

“If you want good bars, go to Coconut Grove. Marino’s, Baha Beach Club . . . that’s where everybody goes. It’s about 45 minutes from here.”

Well, the names sounded good. Coconut Grove. Beach Club. And Dan Marino, although a nemesis of The Pats, is a helluva good QB. So why not? We hopped into the car and hit the road again. We got through Key Largo, buzzed into Homestead, and then stopped into a mall for directions to Coconut Grove and food. T.G.I. Friday’s ended up being the restaurant, and Angela the bartender turned out to be a good source of information. She told us how to get to “CG, the place to go, and you gotta go down to Coco Walk”- and Angela gave us the name of somebody to say hi to at Marino’s Bar.

It was worth the trip.

A town of narrow streets, quaint shops, outdoor cafes, and rocking bars, Coconut Grove is a place I’m glad I’ve seen. Coco Walk, a multi-level plaza with balconies and open air walkways, is the hotbed of activity. White, Spanish stucco combines with corral rock, and there are palm trees and landscaping to please the eye. To appease the body and soul, we hit the bars.

The first place we went was Marino’s, to say hi to Moe for Angela. Moe turned out to be a cool guy who hooked us up with free beer, showed us some bar tricks, and kept us entertained with his Brian Flannagan (Cocktail) impersonations. There were nice looking girls playing pool, a zillion TVs, and good nachos. Overall a great experience.

The next place I give mixed reviews. The Baha Beach Club had one element that I always look for- beautiful women, but the place reeked of pretentious idiots. One the plastic scale I’d rank it a 10 plus. Yes, I can’t complain about the girls- from the half naked bartenders to slutty dancers- but they were the kind of women who’d ask what kind of car you drive . . . if you were even lucky to get that far into a conversation.

Well, I never go into any conversations. I was groggy from the nachos and beer, and weary from the hours in the car. I’ve slung some good bullshit in my time, but it wasn’t going to happen that night. So I just drank my Coronas and did a lot of staring.

I wasn’t the only one. The rest of the crew were in agreement that the day needed to end. I wanted to stay at a hotel, but Dave said he was okay to drive. So we did, and had to combat the hours and miles back to Key West. I was drunk, but couldn’t sleep. I just stared at that white line on the road and got glimpses of the ocean off the streetlights as we went over the bridges. At 4:04 a.m. we had come full circle. I’m glad I went . . . but the next time I’ll be better prepared.

Boston In My Mind

I grew up 10 miles outside of Boston and lived there while I went to school for my undergraduate and master’s degree. I will always consider it my home, and even after exploring New York, Chicago, Denver, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, San Antonio, New Orleans, and Miami . . . I still believe Boston is the greatest city in America.

I recently took a trip there (a 3,000 mile journey from SF) and was very excited to do all the Boston things I love. But my plans were ruined when getting into my Dad’s car I felt as if somebody was jabbing a knife into my lower back. Somehow I had either slipped a disc or pinched a nerve in my back, horrid things I hadn’t done in more than 10 years. How did this happen? Maybe it was a lingering effect from the plane ride, or was related to the 10 lbs I’d gained over the last month, or possibly I did something while throwing a football around a few days before . . . who the hell knows. But regardless of the how or why, I found myself in immense pain.

Although it wasn’t all bad. Because of this injury I got to spend more time with my Mom, Dad, Brother, Sister, nephews, brother-in-law and friends. I love them all and I cherish every moment I get with them.

But it still would have been nice to get a couple days/nights in Boston.

I planned on getting to Fenway last Wednesday, but that was the day when my pain was the most intense. Which was most unfortunate because Big Papi hit a walk-off homerun that night. But I did get to watch it from my parents couch, high on Vicodin.

So other than seeing a Red Sox game, what would have I done in Boston? Last year a co-worker (from Italy) was taking a trip there and asked me for some travel advice. I'm sure I would have only done a handful of these things, but here are the tips I wrote for her (aided by a bottle of red wine and the good ole internet):

• The North End is the Italian section of Boston (sort of like North Beach in S.F.), and here you’ll find cobblestone streets, The Old North Church, and Paul Revere’s House. There are also great cafes and restaurants. My favorite place for an espresso is at Café Vittorio (on Hanover Street) and for a canoli is Mike’s Pastries (a few doors down). I have several favorite places to eat there: Monica’s and Villa Francesca (both on Richmond St), Café Florentine (On Hanover), La Famiglia (On Salem), and Pizzeria Regina (on Thatcher). But what I always loved about The North End is that you can just grab a coffee and wander all the side streets and check out the great architecture and the old time Italians sitting on their steps or beach chairs and get a real feeling of what it was like here 50 years ago. http://www.northendboston.com/visting-map.htm

• If you follow the signs to the water you’ll cross over to Columbus Park, which abuts The North End and The Harbor (It’s next to The Marriot Hotel). It’ll give you great views of The Custom House Tower, the downtown skyscrapers, and the sail boats.

• Quincy Market/ Faneiul Hall (just west of The North End) is pretty touristy, but it’s definitely worth a look. There are shops and restaurants and great architecture. And you shouldn’t leave Boston without having a pint of Guinness at an Irish bar, and you can do that at The Black Rose. If you go at night Eugene Byrne might be playing traditional Irish songs. And if you like oysters, The Union Oyster House across from the Market is one of the oldest restaurants in the country. http://www.faneuilhallmarketplace.com/

• Beacon Hill (just up from Quincy Market and Government Center) is the oldest neighborhood and home of The Massachusetts State House. You can take a tour inside or just take a look at the impressive building. Across the street is The Boston Commons and around the corner you’ll find The Granary Burial Ground, which contains the graves of Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, and John Hancock. But make sure you explore the back streets of this neighborhood and get to Louisburg Square. From The State House take a right on Walnut and a left on Mt. Vernon and shortly you’ll be at the grassy square with the wrought iron and stunning mansions.

• The Public Garden (below The Boston Commons between Arlington and Charles Street, seconds away from Louisburg Square) is a place to just relax with a book or people watch. There are also The Swan Boats here and you can take a ride around the small lagoon shaded by Willow Trees. And if you feel like having a quick lunch and eating outside, I recommend going to Café Du Paris (across the park on Arlington) and taking your food back to a bench. I used to do this a lot when I was in college.

• Newbury Street, which begins at The Public Garden, has a lot of upscale boutiques and restaurants. Although I can’t think of any restaurants there I’ve been to, Sonsie (327 Newbury) is supposed to be excellent. http://www.newbury-st.com/ This is in The Back Bay section of town, and from here you can walk over to:

• Copley Square: The enormous glass Hancock Tower is the first thing you’ll notice, but Trinity Church across the street is one of my favorite buildings in Boston (seeing it reflected in the Hancock’s glass is cool). The Public Library is also an amazing piece of architecture. If you have time go inside and check out all the marble and ornamental ceilings, and then grab a book and relax in the peaceful courtyard.

• Up the road on Bolyston St. you’ll see The Prudential Center, the second tallest building in Boston (Hancock is the first). You can go up top to The Observatory, or even better to the cocktail lounge and restaurant (Top Of The Pru) for a drink. From over 1,000 feet up, it’s like looking at a giant map of the city. http://www.prudentialcenter.com/play/skywalk.html From The Prudential Center you can get on The T (Green Line E Train), which is Boston’s subway, and head over to:

• The Museum Of Fine Arts- It’s one of the best museums in this country, and it’s definitely a must see in when you go to Boston. You’ll find work from just about every major artist here (and one of the best collections of Impressionist paintings outside of Paris). But the only downside is the crowds. Down the road a bit is The Gardner Museum, which has wonderful art (including some great pieces by Matisse) with half the people. http://www.gardnermuseum.org/the museum/introduction.asp

• The above is a good two days of activities, and for day three (when you’re tired of walking) you can take a Harbor Cruise, which will give you different and beautiful views of the city. http://www.bostonharborcruises.com/index.html

• If a boat ride is too long you can take a water taxi over to Charlestown Navy Yard. There you can go on board The USS Constitution (America’s oldest battle ship) or follow the red Freedom Trail and walk up to the top of the Bunker Hill Monument (commemorating a famous battle in The Revolution).

• And at sometime you have to take a walk down The Esplanade, which runs along the Charles River and gives you picture postcard views of Boston. People run, ride bikes, or just lie on the grass and look across the river to Cambridge.

• And once you’ve looked across at Cambridge, you should take The T (subway) there. From Park Street Station (Green Line in Boston Commons) you jump on The Red Line to Harvard Square. You can walk through the campus, check out all the funky characters, and you can even buy an Italian or Russian language magazine at the Newsstand right outside of the subway stop. If you’re up for another museum, The Fogg has great art and is rarely crowded. The Brattle Theatre shows revival films and a couple good places to eat are Grendels (89 Winthrop St.) and The Border Café ( 32 Church St.) http://www.harvardsquare.com/
  
  Here are some other useful websites:
  
  Map: http://www.lib.utexas.edu/maps/national_parks/boston_nhp99.pdf
  
  For taking the subway: http://www.mbta.com/schedules_and_maps/
  
  Historical Walks: http://www.thefreedomtrail.org/
  
  Newspapers: http://www.boston.com/ and http://www.thephoenix.com/
  
  

Random DVD Double Feature- Midnight Cowboy & Marie Antoinette

Although I haven’t seen Midnight Cowboy in years, I couldn’t stop thinking about the film while I was watching Marie Antoinette. How does that happen? The directors’ styles are completely different, one concerns itself with sleaze and squalor while the other displays glitz and glamour, and the stories are set 200 years apart.

Sometimes the inner workings of my brain are a mystery, but I can see how I made the connection. At first glance, and with about twenty more looks, you might not see any similarities between Sophia Coppola's new film & John Schlesinger's classic. But they are tied with parallel themes (youth searching for connection in a world of loneliness) and have directors who take familiar settings (New York City's gritty streets for one and European costume drama for the other) and break all expectations. Both films are also visually exciting and are more interested in character development than plot.

At their most basic level, the plots are essentially about people trying to assimilate and succeed in a strange and hostile place. Midnight Cowboy & Marie Antoinette both show the catastrophic dangers of the arrogance of youth. There’s the risk of aiming for glory and winding up destitute. Then there are the perils of flaunting your fortune and winding up without a head.

Except there is one big difference between the films.

Midnight Cowboy immersed you right into the skin of Joe Buck and Ratso Rizzo. Through dialogue and action you felt you knew everything about those characters. They may not have been sympathetic (which is hard for a gay prostitute wannabe and a squirrelly homeless guy), but by that last frame you had fully bonded with them. You desperately wished they could make it to Florida and start a new life, even if you knew it was impossible.

In Marie Antoinette I felt you were always kept at a distance from the inner workings of the title character. Yes, you felt her loneliness and her despair and confusion and you could understand why The Teenage Queen turned to a life of decadent frivolity. She was a kid, she was rich, and she wanted to have fun. All of that was expressed wonderfully and gave great insight to a historical person that is well known for only one thing- getting her head removed from her body. But I still felt as if I was kept just out of reach from Marie Antoinette, never getting the full depth of her character. And that would have been fine if a compelling plot was driving the film. But there wasn't. Marie Antoinette is a study of character and mood and setting. It succeeds brilliantly with numbers 2 and 3 of that equation, but falls short with the first and most important. I never bonded with Marie and thus there was never any tension over the conclusion. And I think I know why.

In Lost in Translation, Charlotte had Bob. In Midnight Cowboy, Joe had Ratso. But Marie Antoinette doesn't have anybody to truly confide in. Several characters occupy that role fleetingly throughout the film, but essentially Marie is alone (and without even voiceover). And as amazing as Kirsten Dunst is with her performance, you can only push looks and reactions and ambiance so far. It's tough to act in a vacuum. You need interaction and action. And Marie Antoinette is lacking in both those qualities.

But there is so much to like about the film. Dunst is wonderful, the cinematography will entrance you, the soundtrack hooks perfectly into the film’s mood, and Sophia Coppola is the real thing, a sincere director with immense talent and not a trace of pretentiousness. Marie Antoinette, despite its flaws, is original and entertaining and I definitely recommend it.

Midnight Cowboy is a near perfect film, and I will pop it into the DVD player tonight to complete this random double feature.

50 Years of Being On The Road

"And just for a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom dogging its on heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiances shining in the bright Mind Essence, innumerable lotus-lands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven.”

-Jack Kerouac, from On The Road

September 5th marked the 50th anniversary of the publication of Jack Kerouac’s iconic novel On The Road. In preparation for this historic occasion I reread the book (probably my 6th time), took notes, and planned on writing a long blog detailing my analysis and love of Mr. Kerouac’s work.

Didn’t happen.

Whenever I sat down to write something about On The Road it just came off as too technical . . . too stiff. The book is a celebration of spontaneity- prose as well as life. It is something to be read and experienced . . . and breaking down what makes it great is like taking a surgeon’s knife to a joke. You might get a better understanding of why it was funny, but in doing so you would never make anybody laugh.

The story of On The Road is the story of Jack Kerouac. Here was a college football star who gave up his scholarship to travel the world, define his generation, and write book upon book with hardly a penny and with little encouragement by his peers. Kerouac lived and wrote On The Road while he was in his vibrant twenties, but could not get it published until his mid 30’s . . . when he had become disillusioned with the world and had begun his decent into alcoholism. He was prolific and brilliant in obscurity, but unproductive and drunk in fame.

Kerouac’s life is much more complicated than that, and if you want to get a better understanding of the man and his work I highly recommend reading not only On The Road, but also:

The Dharma Bums
Desolation Angels (my favorite Kerouac book)
Big Sur
Kerouac: Selected Letters Volume 1 & 2
Ann Charter’s Kerouac: A Biography

Rest in peace, Jack. Tonight I will drink a glass of sweet port wine (your favorite) and think of the two times I drove across country. I will not only think of that unending stretch of road, but of the interesting towns, buildings, and people I met during those thousands of miles. But most importantly I will conjure up how it feels when you are on the move, ready to experience something new, and can only believe that wherever you are going is better than where you have been.

The Rodney Harrison Blues

Less than a month ago I wrote a column criticizing Barry Bonds for being a cheater, a guy who has used steroids to not only improve his play but prolong his career. But I also empathized with SF Giants fans, and completely understood why they would cheer him when he hit a homerun. If a guy wears the hometown uniform and helps your beloved team win games, you will forgive him for most anything short of a violent crime against another person . . . or animal.

I’ve also never been a person to throw a blanket rule over everybody. Automatic punishment and scorn (without sorting through the facts) is lazy and fascist. We do not live in a vacuum. Circumstances, details, time, and place all play an important part in passing judgment.

Rodney Harrison has been a great New England Patriot, both on an off the field, since he came here from San Diego. He has only wanted to win, and has done everything in his power to make that happen when he’s been on the field. But yesterday Harrison admitted to using Human Growth Hormone (HGH), which is an illegal performance enhancing drug.

What should our judgment be for him?

To begin, I must express my disappointment that Rodney was taking HGH. When I saw the headline “Harrison Suspended for 4 Games” I immediately figured it was from a hit he made. But he hadn’t played the Pats last preseason game. So I read further . . . and got the painful facts.

Then the rational side of my brain kicked into gear.

Although I know steroids and HGH should never be used by athletes, you can hardly blame a professional football player from using those substances. In baseball your chance of injury is minimal and careers are generally long. In football injuries jeopardize players jobs with regularity (according to the NFL players association the average career is 3 ½ years). In any game one hit could end it all.

Over the last two years Rodney Harrison has battled severe injuries, one of which was the result of a cheap hit. The guy is The Ultimate Gamer, somebody who has sacrificed his body at will in order for his team to win. Just remember that Harrison made a tackle in Superbowl 38 with a broken shoulder . . . WITH A BROKEN SHOULDER! He wanted to get back as soon as possible. He was frustrated from his injuries. And he succumbed to the devil’s shortcut.

Was taking HGH the right thing to do? Absolutely not. But if I were in his place would I have done the same thing? Maybe . . . well, probably. There is no test for HGH, and the only way you can get caught is if somebody rats you out. A drug company in Orlando somehow got involved in an Albany NY investigation. Harrison’s name was given.

Now . . . he could have denied it. From what I’ve read all the facts are tenuous at best. Unless there was somebody willing to testify that he saw Rodney Harrison taking HGH then he would have walked. But Rodney obviously felt shame for his actions, and decided to admit to his transgression. While he shouldn’t be applauded for confessing, there is honor in it.

So what now?

Rodney Harrison isn’t going for an all time NFL record. He didn’t use a substance to make him a better player. He gave into a temptation only to get back on the field and help his team win. I’m disappointed that he used HGH, but once he serves his 4 game suspension I will root for him as always.

Does that make me a hypocrite?

Maybe in the eyes of a non Patriots fan, but I do not think of myself as a hypocrite in any way. Rodney Harrison committed a crime. He has already apologized, and once his suspension is over he will have paid his debt to society.

America was founded on the ideal of jurisprudence. We are all individuals, not some common mass that must slavishly obey the letter of the law. The ultimate law should be one of wisdom, not rules. Rodney Harrison made a mistake, admitted it, and life will go on.

No-Hitter!

With a combined 1,512 games started, Roger Clemens, Pedro Martinez, and Curt Shilling have never thrown a no-hitter. Those are three of the best pitchers ever to don a Red Sox uniform, and while they all have many accolades on their resume, a no-hitter isn’t there. To accomplish such a feat you need to reach beyond your abilities (even if those abilities are excellent) and have a lot of luck on your side.

Clay Buchholz threw a no-hitter in just his second major league start.

It’s an amazing feat (there have been only 2 others in baseball this year) that is magnified 1,000 times because Buchholz is only 23, this is September, and The Red Sox are in a pennant race. Every game is crucial now, and before today The Sox had lost 4 in a row. We needed a win, and the kid delivered in grand fashion.

I’d never seen a no-hitter. Not even on TV. This year I watched as Curt Shilling got his shot at glory broken up with 2 outs in the 9th. In 2002 I missed Derek Lowe’s gem at Fenway (I was at work). In 2001 I was at Barney’s Beanery in LA when Hideo Nomo threw his no-hitter. When I first arrived at the bar they tried to get it on one of the TVs, but for some reason their satellite couldn’t pick up the signal. And what was the big deal? They were facing Baltimore in April . . . so I decided to play air hockey for $20 a game instead. I remember watching the ESPN reports afterwards, being happy that it happened but disappointed that I’d missed it (especially since I’d either listened on internet radio or watched in a bar 95% of Red Sox games).

Before today those two no-hitters were the only ones thrown by a Boston pitcher in my lifetime. The last one before Nomo and Lowe happened in 1965, long before I was born (by Dave Morehead). In the 1967 Impossible Dream season (still years before I was an embryo) a rookie named Billy Rohr came within one out of no-hitting the Yankees.

In 42 years of baseball, Boston Red Sox pitchers had thrown only three no-hitters.

Tonight you can make it four.

I had the game on the computer (the WRKO feed from MLB.com) as usual, and since this was a long weekend I was treating myself to a few beers on my back porch while Joe Castiglione told me what was happening at Fenway. Out at the creek I also had a book (On The Road- reading it again for the 50th anniversary of the publication, but more on that in another blog) four leftover buffalo wings from Jersey Joe’s, and a fly swatter to combat the bug situation. By the 5th inning the wings were gone, I was tired of reading, the flies had regrouped with a vengeance, and I needed another beer.

I looked at the box score. Buchholz hadn’t let up a hit. Many pitchers have gone five lousy innings without giving up a hit. But I had a premonition, something sparked inside my brain that said I should go to Sneakers Bar & Grille (my local bar that has a satellite dish). Maybe the wings were bad and sent strange notions into my head. Maybe I just needed some tap beer. But I decided to make the (6 minute) trip to the bar.

When I first arrived I thought I’d have to turn right around and go home. Every TV (probably 20 of them at Sneakers) were either on The SF Giants game or The CAL football game. After much begging they agreed to spare one monitor and I had a chance to witness history. By the time they found the right channel it was the top of the 7th.

And what a great inning that was, topped off with Dustin Pedroia’s amazing play up the middle to rob Tejada of a hit. I still don’t know how the ball ended up in his glove and how he could have extracted it so fast to throw the runner out at first. Insane to think Pedroia is only a rookie, as he’s been one of the most consistent everyday players for The Red Sox all year.

So we went to the eighth. I was joined at the seat next to me by a guy who had grown up in New Hampshire. I filled him in what was going on- but never once using the words “no hitter”. I just said “something special is happening now.” He understood completely, and we watched intently as Moore flied out to center, House struck out swinging, and former Sox Jay Payton sent a stinger up the middle . . . which was snatched out of the air by Buchholz and flipped over to Youkilis at first.

I took a long swig from my Guinness and wiped a bead of sweat from my brow.

9th inning . . . three more outs to immortality.

Now I’m completely aware that a pitcher throwing a no-hitter isn’t the greatest thing to happen in baseball. Any playoff victory is better, and winning a World Series game means so much more. But this is September. The Red Sox were slumping with the Yankees only 5 games behind. A rookie throwing a no-hitter would not only be damn cool . . . it has the possibility of erasing any bad mojo and providing the spark that would carry The Old Towne Team into the post season.

But this wouldn’t be easy. Although Baltimore is a mediocre team, they have some outstanding hitters. Buchholz would have to face Brian Roberts (a veteran hitting .302), Corey Patterson (a scrappy .270), and Nick Markakis (3 hits the night before and who has 16 homeruns and was batting .293).

Buchholz struck out Roberts swinging.

Patterson flied harmlessly to center.

Markakis got down one ball and two strikes. I turned to my new friend and asked what would Varitek call? The rookie had dazzled all night long with off speed stuff, but man . . . you would hate to lose a no-hitter on a weak-reach-the-bat-out-swing on a nasty change-up. We both figured fast ball. A high heater up around the batter’s eyes.

It was a perfect curve-ball, and Markakis stood their with the bat on his shoulders wondering how a rookie making his 2nd start just made him look silly. Called third strike. Clay Buchholz had a no-hitter.

There was no volume at the bar, but on the screen you could see how the fans at Fenway were standing and cheering every single pitch. Craziness in every part of the ballpark. And when that strike three was called and Jason Varitek ran out and hugged Buchholz there were shivers electrifying my body. The rookie was being mobbed by all of his teammates, and I was high-fiving my new friend and clapping and completely digging my first experience of seeing a no-hitter unfold before my eyes.