Seamus's Almost Birthday

Kirby Puckett's life story could be written in two acts. In the first, he survived childhood in the Federal Street projects and became a hero. In the last, he grew massive and died. It's ultimately a sad tale, but I suppose not if that's how he wanted it. Judging by the way he packed on the weight in recent years, I think it's pretty safe to say that he never expected to live into his 80s anyway.

Short of stature and oddly shaped, he was surprisingly quick and agile. Turns out his quick, compact leg action translated well to moving around a baseball field. This ebullient guy, the one who looked least likely, somehow managed to gain 137 stolen bases and eight Gold Glove awards for center field. His production was nearly as strange as his physique. He barely ever walked (never more than 57 times in a season), but he didn't strike out much either (never more than 100 times in a season). His high on-base percentage (.360) would lead one to expect a high overall OPS, but his slugging percentage was surprisingly low (.477). Puckett hit a ton of singles and chipped in the occasional home run--the two foundations of the prototypical hitter. When you have a name like Kirby Puckett, your name complements the legend--memorable, endearing, unique.

See ya later, Kirby.


In honor of Seamus's birthday, which is actually Tuesday and not today (Monday), a bunch of us went to Ron of Japan for dinner, before venturing to the Wrightwood Tap for some music. At Wrightwood, we reclined on the leather couches in the back room, and battled against the food comas resulting from massive amounts of Japanese food. Our conversation (read: muttering about food coma and Japanese food) naturally led to a discussion of MSG, what the debate was all about, and the reasons why it's so bad for you. While Seamus shed a little light this mysterious substance, I kept thinking to myself, "Does MSG have anything to do with my innards' uncontrollable twitching?" I ended up resolving the immediate problem in the lockable of the two women's rooms, because the men's room was missing its stall door, despite the massive renovations undertaken a couple years previously. Ten flat screens, but no shitter door; MSG-burdened weak sauce.


Only Jerry Jones would think, "I'm holding a serious press conference about the labor agreement; I'd better take a cheerleader with me." ESPN News ran clips of this travesty all night. That link contains the only photographic evidence of the event I could find, because NFL.com is a bunch of bastards with regard to copying its images.

Screw football anyhow. Spring is in the air.


I found myself sprawled out on Matt's couch, half-listening to Puckett memorials on t.v., but more intently gazing out the window--a wonderful aspect of being drunk in Chicago. I was struck by the realization that our skyline views are reminiscient of sweeping cubist paintings--all of these unique squares and rectangles and spires, the variety of colors, dancing lights and odd shadows, the swaying domes of the treetops, and stretches of open sky. My gazing was rudely (and wisely) interrupted by a gutteral instinct that exclaimed: "Home!" Once I finally got there, I continued to stare out the window, this time at a different example of the Chicago cubist form. Then I passed out fully clothed on my bed.


Happy real birthday, Seamus!!!