Even the great ones strike out

I think I've spoken before about the irony of blogger life. When you're busy and have things worth blogging about, there's no time to blog, but when your life is boring, you have all kinds of time to complain about 6th grade little league infields and pay-before-you-pump gas stations. I have a lot of catching up to do.

On Thursday night, Jill and I accompanied Jaron, Sarah, and Dave to the Paradise for another Supergrass show. Christ, they wail. Gaz and the boys had some fun with the crowd, changing tempos like guitar pics and shocking the regulars with an acoustic set halfway through. As Stephen Thomas Erlewine said in his review of "Life on Other Planets", the world is a better place for having Supergrass.

Friday night was a rare Boston bar outing for Jill, Jason and me. We hit up the Wonder Bar for some classy cocktails and baked brie, and stayed out into the wee hours (11:00, to be exact, just in time to watch Juliet and Virginia get ready for their night on the townn, which would begin a half hour later.

Saturday night was a different story altogether. Jason and I took the shiny new Saab to the East Village of Manhattan, where Pat and Rob treated us to a night on the town, complete with Yuenglings al fresco, four straight versions of "Living on a Prayer" or something (the others might have been AC/DC or Def Leppard or some tripe like that) at the Alphabet Lounge, the most awful American bar I've been to in my three plus years of legal drinking, and a German bar where I learned how freeing a urinal trough can be when you're alone (you just can't miss!). We stayed out until last call at 4 (as I have every night I've spent in New York state this year) and went to bed around 5:30, a quarter of a day later than I could force my eyes open in Massachusetts the night before.

Today brought the real prize- the last Montreal Expos game ever, live from Shea Stadium. We got decent seats in a stadium whose parking lot could fit 75 Fenways, enjoyed $2 sodas and hot dogs, and watched the Mets crush the Senators-to-be, 8-1. QHS hero Brendan Harris succumbed to our merciless heckling, going 0-for-3 with a walk (while he will always be known as the last Expos batter ever to reach base), with a web gem, a 150-foot throwing error, and a strikeout. Any sense of pride I felt in watching a hometown boy (beside whom I played on 5 All-Star teams from '88-'92) take the field in a major league uniform was trumped by the surprising thrill of watching Brendan strike out for the first time ever. Good luck with the school board on that one.

After joining throngs of melancholy Canadians bid adieu to their baseball team with signs and chants, the ride back to Boston with JJY was as gay a four-hour span as I've ever been a part of (yes, Darry's wedding included). Beth Orton's voice is no match for a couple of half-red-faced goons from Brookline. Get in the pit!