Clydesdales in the evening sun....

Rounding third and headed for home....

Clydesdales in front of our section.

Fecking Fredbird.

A troop of Mustangs to bring in the players....

The great reliever Adam Wainwright. Please don't let him suck ass in the starting rotation. Thank you.

So Taguchi! Damn my slow camera.

Finally found my Wainwright tee! After six months of looking. This is a Youth Medium. Go fig.

Opening Day for the Redbirds is two weeks from Sunday! Spring has sprung! We are the champions, my friend! And thus my seven months of jubilation, exhilaration, and crippling stress commences. So far in Spring Training, we're at 7 wins/6 losses/2 ties, but what does Spring Training ever really mean?

My favorite and yours, Jason Isringhausen, is unfortunately healthy again and back on the mound. Christ. The report from his first outing went something like this (from StLCardinals.com):

Jason Isringhausen's Grapefruit League debut was eventful but effective. The right-hander permitted two hits, but got out of a bases-loaded, no out jam with no runs allowed.

Yeah ... that's about right. On a good day. I only have two weeks to find a Wainwright tee-shirt that fits me, print out a season's worth of score cards, and learn the details about our new recruits.

Happy Baseball season, everyone!

It's a good thing that I had reserved two vacation days to head down to New Orleans, because much of the last 84 hours or so (85 if you count the bonus "fall back" time) has been dominated by all things Cardinals:

( Read on for more fall-classic ramblings... )

When two fandoms collide.

1. The Cardinals are in the World Series! Yay! They are wining some games! Yay! We have tickets to game 5, at which, if we're lucky, they might clinch! My first World Series game in 32 years! Yay!

2. Duran Duran is playing in New Orleans and blathering has invited us down and even though Andy has fled the scene, it has been 16 months since I've seen them, and Mr. Whirled has NEVER seen them and ... Yay! Plus I'll see my "twin cousin" who I haven't seen in two-plus years, and the rest of my family that I haven't been around since April.

Such is my luck, tonight's World Series game rained out for the first time since 1996, pushing all games forward by a day. FUBAR'D every way but Sunday.

The two rookies who quadruple-handedly won last night's game for us (well, MVP Jeff Suppan shares a little credit as well):

Edit: I know Yadi isn't a rookie. I am dumb. But he's young, anyway, so whatever.



These two may have a combined age less than Julio Franco.

Who knew we'd win the NLDS? Who thought we'd force a game 7 against the Mets, inarguably the best team in the NL?

Here we are ... three outs away from the Fall Classic.

I am so nervous. Way more nervous than an Idol results show with Nikko/Yamin on the block.

Hold me.

Edit: I am shocked!! Shocked and excited and hoping the Tigers are hella rusty. I told girl_about_town to claim Yadier Molina as kin.

Yes, I'm ashamed for my Ye of little faith antics from days past. Because my Redbirds have kicked it into warp speed when it counts (who knew Jeff Weaver, heretofore referred to as a "Poor man's Kid Rock" had this kind of skill in him? And Adam Wainwright? Puts his "mentor" Izzy to shame [and possibly out to pasture]).

Mr. Whirled and I were at the game last night and the crowd energy was amazing. Even the person of indeterminate gender (it was a middle-aged guy but sounded like it could be a cranky lady smoker) who kept screaming esoteric sports references Dennis-Miller style calmed down after about the sixth inning. Fireworks, pinch-hit triples and home runs, and a decent catch from Jim "Jimmy Baseball (tm Mr. W's boss - maybe)" Edmonds. Rally towels in full effect and I think I inhaled plenty of fibrous cast-off from the things.

Hopefully Carp can put the series to bed tonight; I have Pampered-Chef training tomorrow and would be all ancy if game freaking 7 was going on without me in front of the tube.

Sooooooooo ... Taguchi!!

Reds and Mets tied 1-1 in the NLCS. Onto St. Louis! Could sofvckinghot be correct in her prediction that we'll take it in five games? Hee.

For what it's worth, I don't miss Izzy..

A dive-ish corner bar right around the, well, corner from me just changed ownership, or at least changed its name from "Lyle's" to "Paco's Mexican." My question is ... if you serve Mexican food, and the name "Paco" is involved somehow, shouldn't you name youself "Paco's Tacos?" It's so SIMPLE. That's what I'll be calling them anyway.

Elsewhere, letting the lead-off man get on base is never a good harbinger for post-season play. Sigh. It is going to be a long October (or maybe a very short one, if you catch my drift).

Hot damn. Just like that, a double play. My fair-weather rumblings get the job done, it appears.

The curse of the Bambino was lifted from the Red Sox and transmitted via osmosis to our pathos-riddled asses in 2004. I can't live 86 more years!!

BAD MOJO.

Bottom of the ninth ... Preston Wilson hit a home run in the top half of the inning to take a 6-5 lead over the Washington Nationals. Izzy strutted in, walked two batters, hit a batter, got hella lucky on the first out, and then gave up walk-off single that drove in two runs.

BLEW ANOTHER FUCKING SAVE. It's like a joke, this jackass. I can't freaking take it anymore.

Some of this, however, is Tony La Russa's fault ("Yeah, I said it ... it had to be said" - tm Chris Rock). When Izzy's got it (increasingly rare at this point), it is obvious he's got it. When he doesn't, THAT is obvious as well. The first batter walks? The save will be blown. I don't know why La Russa keeps having faith in the guy. I'll come in and blow saves all over the damned place and I won't charge 10 cool mill to do it.

Another blown save. That's 30 for 40. Way to go. Damn Izzy. And on Mr. Whirled's birthday, too.

Okay. After coming home from a depressing Cards game, watched the mind-numbing premiere. I was pleased to see they addressed two previously unbroached topics: homework, and popularity. I could never really gauge whether Kristin and Jessica and etc. were actually the most popular girls in school, or what was going on. So anyway:

Cami: Slightly updated version of Jessica from Sorority Life Season One. Far bitchier than she deserves to be.
Kyndra: Drag queen.
Cameron: Yawn. Certainly no Jason or Stephen. Probably even no Dieter.
Tessa: Waah, waah, waah. Horrible voice for the voice-over role.
Raquel/Rocky: The Rayanne Graf of Laguna? Perhaps not.
Breanna: Riding her sister's fame most unconvincingly.
Chase: Dear Lord, my ears.
Kelan: ??
Lexie: Seriously, did I see these people?
Jessica: Slightly pathetic. And yet the most exciting portion of the program.

In closing, yawn-tastic. We did have some "major drama" at Busch tonight watching an 11-year-old boy and his futile attempt to acquire cotton candy for his friend/girlfriend/cousin. I truly think it was my proximity to them that caused the vendors to blatantly ignore them inning after inning after inning ...

Mr. Whirled and I attended two Cards games last week. Wednesday's "match" against the Indians, where we avoided a sweep (and a 10th consecutive loss) by somehow drumming up some freaky mojo and causing the Tribe to commit two errors in the bottom of the ninth. Next was Saturday's 11th inning marathon of disappointment, where we came back from a 6-0 deficit only to lose. Christ.

The Birds are in a slump to end all slumps, and yet are still first in their division. Interleague play is a fecking embarrassment; as my boss (a Mets fan) asked, what's the point of the World Series at this point? We surrender.

View from the West.

Arch-tastic.

Our section (sort of). We're in 131.

View from our seats.

What happens when your team breaks a nine-game losing streak on seat-cushion night.

Stupidest gimmick ever. Especially since the town is so uninterested in Mark McGwire this millennium.

My Mom's favorite player; the underrated So Taguchi.

By the 10th inning, I was somewhat pissed with our relief pitcher, Randy Flores. And my scorecard bore the brunt of my anger.

I was avoiding posting anything. The announcers were avoiding saying anything. After two absolute fecking embarrassing blowouts Tuesday and yesterday against the White Sox, our rookie pitcher, Anthony Reyes, had a (shhhh!) no-hitter going into the 7th inning. With one out, he gives up a ... home run. To Jim Tome, who I'm fairly certain is 64 if he's a day. So not only is his no-hitter gone, but his shutout is as well. And God forbid we get any offense whatsoever, so the win isn't in sight right now either. Fecking great. Edited: Shit. Anthony thanks y'all for nothing.

Seriously. Seriously? Fuck that fucking (ALLEDGED!) cokehead fucker. Three blown saves in four days. Way to go, my peaches.

Ahem.

If I get any shit from my Reds-fan co-workers tomorrow then ... well ... then I deserve it.

1. Series finale of Everwood tonight. The thought alone sends me into despair. Seriously, y'all. Well-written, risk-assuming, impeccably-acted drama is stuck impotent at the heels of the CW merger, which inexplicably saves 7th Heaven from the ashes it nestled in with Stefano fucking DiMera. I know not many of you watch it, but check out the DVDs whenever you get the chance, for your own wistful enjoyment. Then share in my disappointment. I can't complain too bitterly since they kept Veronica Mars around, but folks! No more fecking Camdens!

2. A new pet peeve is "remix" songs that feel the need to exclaim "remix" in the lyrics. (i.e. "It's the remix to 'Ignition,' hot and fresh out the kitchen"). Most offensive is the Ludacris remix to "What's Your Fantasy," which is mad offensive for other reasons to boot.

3. Was in the car for a total of 7 minutes this morning heading to and from the dermatologist. Heard Daniel Powter's "Bad Day" twice. The camera don't lie.

4. At the Cards' games Friday and Saturday. Saw 23 innings, one injured MVP, and two losses. At least the Birds pulled it out on Sunday, no thanks to He Who Shall Not Be Named. Why do we show no prowess against the Cubbies? It's an ages-old mystery, but at the end of the day I'd rather be first-place Central and losing the occasional pride-swallowing series.

5. OverheardintheOffice.com is masterful. Too bad I telecommute and would rarely have anything to contribute. My favorite so far is here.

Last night I swore to bury the hatchet and give him a chance. I don't like this animosity I have toward one of my Birds. But.

It's the 11th inning. Brewers/Cardinals, 3-3. They bring in Isringhausen. One pitch, and a man caught stealing. Onto the next inning. Fine. Next inning, next pitch? Home run. 4-3.

Fuckringhausen.

Edit: Now a single, followed by a stolen base. Still no outs.
Edit 2: So they pulled him off the mound, and he looked frustrated and dejected and people at Busch actually BOOED, which never happens, and now I'm depressed for him because I'm ultimately a softie, much as I bitch. :-(

No, Duran Duran did not make a guest appearence on some newly discovered, never-aired episode of Arrested Development.

Mr. Whirled and I will be at the ballpark tonight, unable to watch the results show live. Therefore, no blog update. And if someone could leave me a voice mail on my cell or a text message as to the bottom three and the bootee, I'd sure appreciate it :-) Yes, I'm pathetic. I'm okay with that.

And by the way, with 9,000 songs at its fingertips, why must iTunes play "Cherry Pie" by Warrant every other day?

So it's not enough that Jason Isringhausen has to inflict near-heart-attacks 162 times a year. He is now haunting my dreams. This man of whom I speak, for those not in the know or in the care, is the Cardinals "ace" "closer," (late-game relief pitcher) who tends to be awesome at times, and very, very not awesome at other times. Over the past two years or so the ratio of awesome to not awesome is not as it should be. Okay, so he rarely has blown saves, but it's never easy with this one.

ANYWAY ... I had a dream in which he was handing out ice-cream sandwiches or some confection in the stands, and shaking everyone's hand, and everyone was totally excited. But he comes up to Mr. Whirled, and Mr. Whirled is all "What's with walking the bases loaded and serving up a softball for a grand slam? You're worthless!" and so on, and Izzy startes apologizing and thanking Mr. Whirled for the honest criticism.* What? So then I'm with my friend Meg from high school and we run into him somewhere (Target? I don't know) and ask how his weekend was, because at this point in the dream he was fresh from 2-3 good games and he said "ehhh ... I only managed to hook up with three girls." So then I found him despicable as a player AND a human being, for in my dream he was married, and I think in "real life" he may not be, but either way he shouldn't put hook-up percentage ahead of his .ERA because he's not getting paid $10M for his libido. And he's like 37 anyway.

And yesterday was just opening day. I'm wondering if I'm in need of some couch time.

*This scenario must have to do with the fact that everyone greeted Ronald Mc-fecking-Donald outside the park yesterday with a handshake and Mr. Whirled held up traffic to complain about the continued presence of "Big Mac" land. My hubby has no fear.*