Summer Goals for Everyone

Flipping your calendar from May to June feels good in the same way crossing something off a to-do list does; while largely insignificant, its highly psychologically rewarding. June means summer and that means girls in sun dresses, the meat of the Red Sox season, Sam Summer on draft, the lowering of inhibitions, and if you're lucky enough, wearing shorts to work. Here's the thing about summer, it goes by quick if you don't make the most of it. You can fly through June-July-August like pitchers fly through the Ortiz-Varitek-Lugo part of the lineup, so lets set some goals (we can keep the bar low) in hopes to get the most of the time of the year. 

1) Drink and eat outside as much as possible. The main reason: Everything tastes better outside. Whether its a tailgate, a bbq, an outdoor table at a restaurant, a patio or rooftop bar, or a picnic (do girls read this site?) a breeze and fresh air really goes a long way. Poetically, there's definitely something serene about the absence of walls, and more practically the people watching is stellar, especially with ogle-hiding sunglasses. 

2) Catch up on a past series of television (or three). All the good stuff is over by now so take the time to pick up on something you've missed. Thanks to On Demand and DVD's there are a couple ways to make up for lost time. Some often overlooked series: AMC's Mad Men, Showtime's Californication, and my deep deep sleeper, Starz's Party Down. But by all means if you live in aWi-Fi configured cave and haven't tried Lost, Arrested Development, or How I Met Your Mother (start with season 2), now is your chance. 

3) Get active. So maybe its hot out and a run isn't feasible, but there are still lots of choices from a beer softball league to shooting hoops to playing golf without a cart. I'm gonna get preachy here for a second: I happened across the ole high school yearbook last week and we're all noticeably fatter now mainly because our outdoor activities are becoming increasingly seldom. Summer is our chance to get in better shape, maybe get a tan too. Like they say in Knocked Up, "We didn't say lose weight, I might say tighten. Just like toned and smaller." Look, this isn't an intervention but dont sleep on summer's opportunities to get out and play.

4) Go away. Ideally a road trip is the best bet because it incorporates seeing somewhere new, bonding with others, inevitable problem solving, and blasting Summer of 69 with the windows down. Miles logged are far less important than the journey itself. Road trips be themed as in ballpark tours, reunions with college buddies, golf trips, beach weekends, the Shawshank Redemption trail or sporadic, haphazard stops. Road trips work because the process is usually greater than or equal to the results and like when the pizza guy shows up on late night Cinemax, the possibilities are endless. 

5) Knock out the summer staples early. Lightning round: A lawn concert, a beach trip, a few games of cornhole, a baseball game at a new stadium, a new set of flip-flops, a summer fling (nobody likes a prude!), a messy meal of crab or lobster, a top-40 song you like wayyyyy too much, a book that wouldn't sniff a scholastic reading list, and a last-minute day off from work.

Not Not Untitled Field Trip: Heckling Manny at Nationals Park

Sometimes you gotta be careful what you wish for. I learned that when I said that I wanted no part of Jason Bay and that the Red Sox were waving a white flag by trading Manny. I also learned that again last night when I went, with a few friends, to go heckle Manny Ramirez and Dodgers when they came to DC to face the Nationals.

It was a grand plan. A buncha beers, front row seats in left field, and a list of Spanish swears were what I was counting on, to try to get into Manny Ramirez's head. I knew realistically that penetrating Manny's mind would be a difficult task without pegging him with a javelin from the stands (a measure I wasn't willing to take for the sake of Sox pride). What I had forgotten though was Manny's propensity for playing drastically shallow in left field, so shallow that our left field box seats were not close enough to reach him with our voices.

And we tried. We tried when he came back to the wall to watch homeruns go over his head, we tried when he hustled over to snag a line drive in the gap, we tried when he was playing catch between innings. Thanks to some Miller Lite confidence, we shouted and shouted and I dont think he heard much, if anything. Instead of letting him know we didn't miss him and that he was a ducha perezosa (lazy douche) or a mierda arrogante (arrogant shit) we were forced to heckle Dodgers' bullpen members like Jason Johnson and Joe Beimel who probably haven't spoken more than four words to Manny either.

What Manny did do was homer in our faces, and make a couple nice plays near us. The sole satisfaction (besides seeing Christian Guzman hit for the cycle) was that the Dodgers got shelled by the lowly Nats and are on the outside looking in at the playoffs. It would be nicer though if I thought that Manny was actually disappointed.

Not Not Untitled Field Trip: Red Sox at Camden Yards

On Friday night I was presented with a choice. It wasn't exactly Grady Little deciding between Pedro or the bullpen, but it more substantial than boxers versus boxer-briefs. This particular decision was between going to Baltimore for a Red Sox game at Camden or staying in and watching the Celtics potentially punch their ticket to the NBA Finals (and the Red Sox game).

The Quick Pros for the Sox Game made the decision easy:
+Josh Beckett pitching
+Manny Ramirez sitting on 499 HRs
+Great weather for a ballgame (80 and sunny)
+I still look 18 and can use my college ID for discounted tickets
+I'm starting to dislike watching these schizophrenic Celtics

Anyway the "decision" was made and I left work a little early to get on a train to the Chesapeake State. By 5:20 I was in Baltimore, had thrown on my Papelbon WS07 jersey, and quickly got a ticket. (Not so quick Tangent- So I am standing in the ticket line and a man in a Red Sox jersey comes up to me holding a ticket. Assuming he was trying to scalp me a ticket, I sorta shrugged him off. However he persisted and explained that his family had an extra they were gonna give away and figured since I had a Sox jersey on, I was the best candidate. He didn't want any money for it, and just said to stop by the seats during the game, buy him a beer and we'd be cool. Yadda yadda yadda, I wound up pretty buzzed by first pitch and fully drunk by the 3rd inning, enough to completely forget about my thirsty comrade. Totally a mistake on my part and I still feel horribly about it. Here's a family man with enough faith in people to give some guy a ticket, and I blew it. This is not an excuse; it was totally inexcusable and I hope karma isn’t as fickle of a bitch as fate is. And yes that is plagiarized from Lost.)

So here's the thing about Red Sox games at Camden, they're basically home games. The crowds are equal part red and orange, but the red is louder, prouder, and stays til the end. And the place where this is most evident is the pregame party.

Three bars in a line with full service outside and a temporary suspension of open container laws, Red Sox shirts and beers as far as the eye can see, and tents with freshly grilled ballpark meats. It feels like it could be Yawkee way if it Yawkee was more fun. Its three parties in one; three songs blasting from three stereos, three beer specials, three places to spit game at cute girls in Sox caps, three places that feel more like home than anything else in a 500 mile vicinity. For good measure today, there are lots of Celtics jerseys in preparation for the Game 6 closeout.

You can easy lose perspective of the scene when you’re standing in the middle of it all. To step back out of the mob is to admire the colossal glory and the magnitude of the event. Somehow only blocks away, we are emotionally miles away from the Baltimore portrayed in The Wire. Different grills, different hustles, different corners.

I met up with my friends here and walked back into the huddle that smells like barbeque and beer, looks like the party you always hope your party turns into, and sounds like R's disapperaing from vernacular. (It also sounds like a mix of Kanye’s Stronger and Guns N’ Roses’ Sweet Child o’ Mine, a surprisingly complimentary mix.) A few more beers each, a couple hot dogs, and a great game of trash can jenga later, and we’re ready for the game.

Inside the still-young Camden Yards makes your mind wander to the 8th circle of daydream hell: why a new Fenway might not be so bad. Tonight we’re sitting in the 200s, which is the first overhang along the third base line. We have the option of a waitstaff (unused), better food (used), and shorter beer lines (used and used). I wont continue with the boring details of the game (by far the lamest part of the night) and skip to our 10th inning decision to leave the game and head back to the pregame bars so we can watch the ending of the Celtics at the same time as the end of the Sox.

I don’t have to tell you how this one ended. Karma didn’t strike for my lack of good-will reciprocation and within the hour, the bar was chanting "Beat LA." I could have convinced myself that I had stepped through the Lost wormhole and returned to 1984 Boston. These were followed by some R-rated cheers, a round of Sam Adams pints, and some of the most inspired chest bumps I’ve ever witnessed from white people.

And that was my night in Baltimore-upon-Boston. I felt at home in a relatively strange city, stared down karma and didn’t blink, and enjoyed a male on male chest bump a little too much. Pretty memorable night.