Two Steps to Confusion
by Eno Sarris
April 17, 2013
1.) Search for Juan Francisco on Google.
2.) Click on ‘image search.’
Franklin Rabon is a master of confusionism.
Archive for Apropos of Nothing
Dave Bush Fails In Absentia
If Carson Cistulli is reputed for his love of obscure prospects, my own affection has always tended toward the other end of the spectrum, the retired and forgotten ex-player. And as someone who regularly underperforms his own peripherals, the author has always had an especially soft spot for one Dave Bush, Starting Pitcher and Eternal Disappointment.
It may be difficult to recall now, but the mid-aughts were a time of heady optimism: of winnable wars, steady economic growth, people who were or looked vaguely like character actor John C. McGinley, and pitchers with strong strikeout-to-walk ratios. First among these, for the hipster baseball fans, was Dave Bush. Bush was the fantasy sleeper of the fantasy sleeper age, someone whose numbers never quite added up. They still haven’t.
Bush grew older, as did we all, and hope dwindled. It all came to an end the day when he set a major league record by giving up four consecutive home runs to the Arizona Diamondbacks, dropped his glove like a microphone, and disappeared alone into the desert. That’s why when I chanced upon his player page, this line leavened my heart:
The Worst FanGraphs Audio Review – A Composite
As the producer and host of an upstart, scrappy radio/podcast thing, I’ve started paying attention to certain information. Things like download stats are probably important. Another thing that is probably important is how people feel about what you’re making. iTunes reviews are a good way to check in on the latter.
This led me to wonder how people reviewed FanGraphs Audio, a show I enjoy a great deal and of which I have been a past guest. Most were good. Some weren’t. Since I never turn down an opportunity to stick it to Cistulli, I decided to take the best of the worst and make a composite of terrible (totally embiggenable) reviews. It’s the Voltron of unhappy listeners, if you will.
Props to Cameron for getting some good notes.
Today in Baseball-Reference Random Pages
I need something baseball today. I’m jonesing, as addicts may say. I need to feel that sweet horse(hide) in my veins. I’ve called all my regular dealers. I’ve called my friends who have regular dealers. I’ve wandered the less-than-favorable parts of town (i.e., my neighborhood) in hopes of running into someone – anyone – who can feed my hunger.
At my wit’s end, I turned to the “random page” feature of Baseball-Reference.com. I got the results for a person named Tom Parsons, who played all of three seasons for the Pirates and Mets. Tom Parsons, by all accounts, was a bad pitcher. He had an ERA+ of 75. He had 2.8 K/BB ratio. In his final year, he gave up 17 home runs in 90 IP.
I deserve this. When I go looking for solace in the arms of a random stat page, I deserve to be let down. There is no love there. There is only coldness and filth. Making Internet baseball love to a total rando is not how to fill one’s void.
I turn to my old standbys. YouTube clips of Bo Jackson. Tom Seaver’s FG page. Nothing works. I am flaccid. I need a new flame. I need that feeling in my gut you get when you meet a Giancarlo Stanton home run for the first time. I need to be groped and fondled and invitingly abused by a new season.
Baseball isn’t here and life is awful. I’m going to go see if I can pirate the Caribbean Series. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to track down my friend the Talking Junkie.
Quiz: Delmon Young or Delwyn Young?
Take the quiz below to find out if you are ready for the upcoming season!
The Nick Johnson Stories
The phone rang, rattling in the glove compartment, but Nick Johnson did not hear it. He was already halfway to the creek. His boots crackled among the the skeletons of leaves scattered between the upturned roots as he wandered vaguely downwards toward the sound of water. It was cold and dry, and he pinched his ears to warm them.
He reached the water, and scanned the area around him: no evidence of man in sight. The creek had a name, but he did not know it. So did the ground beneath his feet. He was probably trespassing, he knew, but the thought aroused no excitement or fear in him. Everything named is owned by someone, he thought. Am I owned by someone?
With a pocketknife he cut a four-foot branch of a willow and notched an end. Then he pulled out an old tobacco tin from his shirt pocket; it had belonged to his grandfather, and most of the color had worn off. He pulled out a hook and a coil of line, then assembled the pole. Busy hands keep a busy mind, he thought. His grandfather had told him that, or else he remembered it that way. He kicked over a few rocks until he found a worm, nice and thick and pink. It was a good day.
He pulled back the pole and paused. This was the only part that was different now, if he forgot his own age. If he forgot the SUV parked on the dirt road and the agent probably calling him with optimistic words, words he shouldn’t need to hear but did. He cast the line, trying and failing to ignore the pain in his wrist that only lasted a moment but meant everything. The hook landed on the surface and then sank gently into the shallow water.
If Mike Trout Had Won
If Mike Trout Had Won the AL MVP last night, I would have woken up this morning about 11 minutes later than usual. I would have tried to take a quicker-than-normal shower, and failed. I would have put on a pair of brown, almost houndstooth pants with hints of navy blue. My shirt would have been navy as well, with red and white checks. My socks, shoes, and belt would also have been brown. I would have put a dab of gel in my hair, the kind specifically for curly-haired gentleman.
I would have kissed my dogs and wife goodbye (in that order), put on my pea coat, grabbed my small satchel, and headed out the door for my bus stop. About a half a block shy of my stop, I would have seen the 7 bus drive away. I would have sighed, faced east, and strolled to the stop for the 19 bus, which drops off farther away from my office. I would have arrived at work exactly at 7 a.m.
No Baseball, Day 1
So here it is. The Great Hangover. Although, for the 92.8% of Americans who did not care about a World Series matchup between a team from a literally burning city and a team without Brian Wilson, I’m guessing baseball ended about a week ago.
Now it’s time to get back into that great void. No more Ottoneu. No more complaining about sac bunting and intentional walks. No more Mustache Watch. (Okay, maybe a little Mustache Watch.)
Now it is time to turn languidly our blackened eyes back — back to the jobs that grieve us, back to the families we have postponed, back to the cold, gray stones of the breaking sea.
Former Rays outfielder Fernando Perez shared this image from India on his tumbler account:
This is the world to which we are returning. This is what the Internet will look like for an infinity of months until Spring Training. IS THIS WHAT YOU REALLY WANTED, SAN FRANCISCO?! A FOUR-GAME SWEEP?! A HASTY TO RETREAT TO THE BURNING VILLAGE THAT IS REALITY?! WELL I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY. BECAUSE THE PEASANTS ARE DEAD.
Collage Most Murderous: Dave Parker
From the depths of newspaper morgue and the dead-letter office come this Collage Most Murderous …
Dave Parker is not on the loose on the streets of your town, but that’s only because Dave Parker’s call is coming from inside the house.