Shady Grove, my little miss, Shady Grove my darling

My alarm jarred me out of, nay, rescued me from, an odd dream this morning. I was at a Beastie Boys show at my old junior high school auditorium and, in the dream, the Beasties weren't very good. To get the crowd, such as it was in that small venue, into the show, each of them jumped off the stage and ran up the aisles.

I groaned as they began calling out the names of audience members who were to get on stage and enter an undetermined contest. I groaned because I knew in my gut that I was going to be picked, however slim the odds were.

Sure enough, I was picked. I dutifully ran up onstage. There were about seven of us up there, including Lebron James, whose presence I took note of, but in my surly state, dismissed as being not much of a big deal.

The Beasties came back to the stage and assembled us in a horizontal line. Our challenge was to do the Macarena without messing up. If we performed it successfully, one of us would be chosen to drive Kevin McHale to the airport. That was the prize. No wonder I was surly.

My alarm went off just as we started dancing. For a change, it worked in my favor.There is justice in this world.
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Marcy gave me a bunch of stuff to do with five minutes left in the day. She didn't realize what time it was, she told me later, when everyone else had left. She apologized, but didn't need to; I'll take any over time I can get.

I got tied up in traffic on the way home and, consequently, got home quite a bit later than I usually do. I listened to WEEI during the ride and was dismayed at all the Red Sox talk. I was hoping for some Celtics or Bruins, but it wasn't to be. Well, there was one Bruins call, but it wasn't very interesting.

What I hate about Red Sox talk is all the people calling up talking out of their asses. From what I can determine, they're usually comprised of older folk with a lot of time on their hands and nothing very interesting to say. Here's a taste of what I'm talking about.

Host: Here's Roger in Everett

Roger: (slow, thick New England accent) I wanna talk about Ellsbury. I think we should trade him for A Rod.

Host: Roger, there's no way you can do that..

Roger: I know, but he stinks so bad. I was thinking about that time last year in spring training when we were playing Tampa -- I think it was the second inning -- and Ellsbury was at the plate with a full count. Do you remember that?

Host: No, but continue.

Roger: Well, I saw him look into the other team's dugout and I think he winked at 'em, like he was trying to say, "Hey guys, I'm gonna hit a home run". I'm pretty sure he winked.

Host: Roger, what does that have to do with trading him?

Roger: Well, he didn't hit the home run. A Rod woulda hit it. That's why we should trade for A Rod.

Host: That's ridiculous. That will never, ever, ever, happen. No one, not even a three year old, would make that trade. Even if A Rod lost the use of his left hand and could see out of only one eye, no one would make that trade. Do you seriously believe that trade can happen?

Roger: I didn't say I think it could happen. I'm just sayin' I think it should happen. Ellsbury's a bum!

Host: Actually he's been... (insert favorable stats) ..... He's actually playing pretty well.

Roger: Yeah, that's what I'm sayin'. Ellsbury's doin' well for us.

Yeah, and that's another thing: these callers have no back bone. Here's a tip: even if the premise of your call is absolutely bannanas and doesn't reflect reality in the slightest, at least stick by it. It's the least you can do for wasting every one's time.

I guess it's not fair to declare that only Sox callers are like this, but whatever, it's my blog and I can say what I want. Got a problem with that?

Ok, I'm off to watch the rest of the Celtics game.