To My Wife...Again.

People are starting to get concerned.

As a minister, it is understood that you have to exhibit some compassion from time to time, but today marks two years and you still seem to um....what is the word I am looking for? Oh yeah...care.

Your dad's visit in a couple of weeks? It isn't just to hang out. I am fairly certain that he is going to try and talk some sense into you. After all, he only gave us 3 years, so he's probably getting a little antsy.

My dad's visit next week? It's not just to have dinner with us. I am fairly certain that he is going to tell you in person that the monthly checks are being cut off, that you have done your time and are now free to go.

Year 2 was a good year. You went to Israel and lived to tell about it; we saved a lot of money and subsequently blew most of it on the down payment for the Infiniti; you finally spent a few days in my Holy Land; and, most importantly, we welcomed the new love of our life to the family: Vegas, the world's dumbest dog.

Who, by the way, is infinitely more easier to live with than I am.

And yet you continue to put up with me, for reasons that only you and your God know. Maybe it's because I stayed true to my vow from one year ago - to let you pick the pizza toppings. Sure, we now get separate pizzas, but you always get exactly what you want. Even when you insist on ordering from the 3rd best pizza place in town.

So while I remain confused as to your true motives, I could not be more appreciative of all that you do. To say I married up is a gigantic understatement. Here's hoping that the day never comes when you figure that out.

Happy 2nd anniversary, honey. I love you.

Pissing off Lou Gorman

So the consensus is that I am a wuss. Most excellent. I've always needed an identity and while I would have preferred tall, charming and handsome, that would have been an outright lie. However, on the scale of identities, wuss definitely ranks above overly talkative, boring, smelly and bad poker player...so I'll take it. Thanks again to all who chimed in.

And speaking of being sensitive, former Red Sox general manager Lou Gorman, who ran the team from 1984-1993, has had one or two Jon Siegal moments in his career. How do I know? Well, it just so happens that Lou sent me and my friends a very inappropriate letter while I was in college. Sure, his inappropriate letter was a response to an extremely vulgar and ridiculously inappropriate letter that we sent him, but that is besides the point. He was a grown up and should have known better.

What did we say to poor Lou? Well, glad you asked. To set the stage, it was November 1992. The Sox lost a very promising prospect and their starting 2nd baseman in the expansion draft that was held to stock the incoming Florida Marlins and Colorado Rockies. At that point, the Sox were spiraling down from a contending team in the late 1980s to the dregs of the league in the early 1990s.

Here we go. Warning: the following letter contains very strong language, numerous grammatical errors and may or may not be funny after all of these years:

Lou,


We just want to tell you that you really suck balls and we are demanding your immediate resignation. You've been gradually screwing up the organization for years now but the Eric Wedge fiasco is the latest, and hopefully the last, of your asinine moves concerning personnel.


Would you like us to refresh your memory?


The following dickhead moves are just a minute sampling of many fuck-ups you have been responsible for:


1. The signing of Matt Young for a multi-year, multi-million dollar contract. In some countries you would be executed for such displays of ignorance. You couldn't manage a Dairy Mart, let alone a Major League Baseball team. You signed a pitcher that can't throw to first base without shitting his pants. He belongs in the Ronald Reagan Hospital for the Mentally Insane, and you should be his roommate.


2. The signing of Jack Clark. Another winner on the Boston sports scene. Next time you see him could you tell him to forget about the five bucks he owes me, I'll let it slide. Jack needs it more than I do anyway. The guy must love you, Lou. Without you he wouldn't have been able to make an extra few million to sit on his ass and cry about how much his life sucks. Lou, I heard Dave Kingman wants to make a comeback, how about 4 years and 10 million, does that sound fair? We need someone to hit it over the monster, you know?


3. Lee Smith and Jeff Reardon. You gave up a reliever who is in his prime and replaced him with a shitbum who blew more saves that Margo Adams has {bad word for penises}. Yeah, he does hold the all-time save record, until Lee Smith passes him early next year.


4. Dennis Eckersley for Bill Buckner. "Little roller along first..."


5. Releasing Dwight Evans. This is the equivalent of the Bruins releasing Ray Bourque or the Celtics releasing Larry, Kevin and Robert. You don't treat a man that has done so much for the team the way you did. That was classless and personifies the differences between a top-flight organization and the Red Sox.


6. Releasing Dave Henderson. You suck, bad.


7. How about all the careers you've ruined? Kevin Morton, Mo Vaughn, Phil Plantier, Tim Naehring, Mike Gardiner...


8. Finally, the expansion draft. We're you drunk, baked, on acid? What the fuck were you thinking? Was your mother on crack while she was pregnant with you? Are your parents also brother and sister? I can't explain this. Jody Reed? Eric Wedge? That's all we can take, we hate you.


After the draft, we held a trial in room 329 Patterson Hall at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. We found you guilty of 43 counts of general stupidity, 10 counts of attempted stupidity, 18 counts of career murder and one count of not having a penis. As punishment we ask that you resign as general manager of the Boston Red Sox. We hope that this will end the needless suffering that millions of Red Sox fans experience this year.


Needless to say, a good portion of our arguments in this letter - namely points 5, 6, 7 and 8...so about half - turned out to be wrong. This is mainly due to the fact that we were young, stupid and immature. Plus, I was involved and I am usually never right about anything. That said, we didn't know at the time how good Curt Schilling and Jeff Bagwell would become, two players he traded away for precious little.


Here is Lou's response:

Gentleman (and I use the term loosely):

To take the time to respond to a bunch of illiterate, ill-mannered vulgar jerks like yourselves would be a total affront to my intelligence.

I would hope that you morons don't represent the true educational level of students at the University of Massachusetts since you do nothing but "disgrace" the University with the ignorance and vulgarity of your letter.

Some day when you all grow up, if ever, I might take the time to reply with an intelligent response.

Sincerely,

James "Lou" Gorman
Senior Vice President/General Manager

It is worth noting that less than a year later, Lou resigned, replaced by the infamous Dan Duquette. Clearly, our letter took a heavy personal toll on the man. It is also worth noting that his letter made no sense: he claims that he won't respond to us, but isn't the letter itself a response? I am confused. Maybe this is just Lou being Lou.

So is Lou Gorman also a wuss? Maybe. But he was also a decent general manager and from what I hear, a very kind soul. Still, he should thank his lucky stars that the internet, Facebook, Twitter and countless other social mediums weren't around during his tenure. Seeing that I am big on apologies these days, perhaps I should track him down and send him another letter....

Next blog post: The NBA also showed its sensitive side. Like, for instance, when I declared for the NBA draft in 1993.

Am I a wuss?

As I enter the "golden years," I've noticed several distinct signs of aging:

• The graying of facial and chest hair.
• A shrinking bladder that results in trips to the bathroom every 45 minutes.
• Falling asleep on the couch by 8:30. On Fridays.
  
• And, oh yeah, potentially turning into an oversensitive, thin-skinned pus*y.

For the majority of my life, it has been virtually impossible to offend me. I embrace my self-deprecating sense of humor and I not only encourage, but I demand that my friends get in on the action.

And they have not disappointed. Through the years, I've been subjected to jokes about my religion, my upbringing, my ex-girlfriends, a startling inability to count (most often seen while gambling) and bouts with abdominal overhang, among others. I'd like to think that nobody laughs harder at these jokes than I do. After all, if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?

By and large, I am not an emotional person. I tend to roll with the punches. In fact, my wife would be thrilled if one day I climbed a couple of notches on the emotional response scale to the level of "your soul is an empty void of all humanity."

An example: a year ago, I was driving on the highway when an SUV in front of me lost control, flipped over a couple of times and came to rest upside down in a shallow ditch off the road. I pulled over, ran down to the vehicle, helped a very shaken (but uninjured) driver out of the SUV, called police, waited with her and once the cops arrived and took my statement, I left. Not unusual, right?

Here's the rub: Not once during the entire episode did I ever think about the fact that the woman could have died, the truck could have erupted in flames or exploded while I helped her out, or that the out-of-control SUV came within a couple of feet of hitting my car. And by the time I did think about these things, I was already on the way home and realized that none of these things happened, everyone was OK and that was that. I didn't lose sleep over it. I didn't dwell on it for days. I was over it.

Strange? Probably. Do I require intensive psychological evaluation? Almost certainly. But that is just how I function. I am about as sensitive as a pet rock.

And now that I've spent 421 words setting the stage, it should surprise absolutely no one that my reaction (over-reaction?) to a Facebook comment recently started in motion a string of events that culminated in the end of a friendship.

Yep, that's right. I was, for some reason, put off by a handful of words that somebody typed online. Somebody shoot me. Now.

It isn't necessary to divulge the identity of the other person. He is not a regular reader or contributor to this blog and does not live anywhere near me.

It also isn't necessary to go into a great deal of detail about what happened. I will say that I expressed my feelings to this person and tried to resolve the issue a few different times. However, he did not believe the comment was offensive, refused to apologize for it, and by not doing so, ultimately decided that it would be best to part ways.

As someone who says whatever is on my mind, I have inadvertently offended people on numerous occasions. I often find myself apologizing, even if I don't understand why the other person was ticked off, because to not apologize would send a message that their feelings are irrelevant. "Hey, don't be so sensitive. If you don't like it, too bad." Sure, it would be nice to take that approach, but I am reasonably certain that if I did, the only person I'd have left to speak with is my dog.

Although she is not much of a talker. I wonder if it was something I said.

Now that this falling out has concluded, I found myself in a very strange position - trying to deal with um, I believe they are called...feelings:

• Bewilderment
• Sadness
• Frustration
• Anger
• Amusement (at the absurdity of the situation. After all, if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?)
  

So this is what it's like to feel emotion? Odd....

I have no regrets. Did I overreact to a mostly harmless Facebook comment? In hindsight, perhaps I did. But in my view, this quickly transitioned from bitching about a Facebook comment to an issue of principle. Sure, I don't have many principles - besides always hitting on a soft 18 and never ordering a drink with an umbrella - but as cheesy as it sounds, I've always tried to treat others the way I would like to be treated (with the notable exception of my sister). If that includes apologizing for something I said, even if it is mostly as a goodwill gesture, then so be it. In this case, this person choose not to offer a similar level of reciprocation.

Still...a Facebook comment? Really? What in the world of Hallmark is wrong with me? Is this the beginning of the end? Will I soon be crying over those cheesy inspirational features that will be televised at the next Olympics?

"21 year old bobsledder Mike Jones may not be the favorite to win a medal, but just getting to Vancouver is a lifetime accomplishment. His story starts with a bizarre skee-ball accident involving his pet hamster that happened when he was 6..."

Jesus. I feel the need to apologize to anyone reading this. Just for the hell of it.