After seeing this cluster of posts on boston-online.com, I have to say this year was pretty disappointing.

One kid reached into the bowl and took more candy, after I had already tossed some into his bag. Shit, when I was a kid, if anyone was that greedy there would be hell to pay. I can’t even imagine what Pat’s reaction might have been, but the retribution would be swift and not silent.

There were a lot of adults or pretty freaking old kids knocking on the door. In one group of people, the three guys had fucking goatees. Not peach fuzz, mind you, but serious, full-on, groomed facial hair. I gave them shit for going door to door.

Someone else, who was in that weird Hillary Duff kind of groove, so she could have been young and trying to look old, or actually old, didn’t take her cell phone away from her face to provide a cursory “Trick or Treat.” That one was particularly weird, because someone opened my front door and stepped into my hallway, where the candy was, but I hollered and the door shut again. When I opened the door and said something, the cell-phone chick said it wasn’t her and proffered her plastic pumpkin’s opening toward me.

A few non-English speaking people came by who were clearly adults. I dunno, maybe that was just a weird cultural disconnect not greedy begging behavior.

Halloween and Daylight’s savings begins or ends or whatever happens when you get your robbed hour back. It’s a two-fer holiday. So far, only one porchful of begging youth. I hope there are more and some actual children in costume.

Other than that, I’ve been customizing this layout and thinking about how I want it to look. I haven’t decided. The only thing I know for sure is that all of the content and pics should be original and created by yours truly. Right now, the background tiling is from Photoshopping a stonewall from a photo I took in the Ukraine. And the banner, subject to change, is sunset of the Grand Tetons, which I snapped after making my sister stop the car way out west.

On the trick or treat front, I just had my wish above granted — Some actual little, little kids with cute costumes. The little Robin boy was very cute, but unfortunately I don’t think anyone can pull of the Robin sans Batman look without appearing uber-homo. Actually, I guess Robin is more gay with Batman.

Speaking of gay things, I really hate seeing teenage boys in drag on Halloween. There was some kid working at K-Mart when I went to buy candy all trannied out. I don’t think I hate the drag costume, because of a homophobic, anti-queen, transvestite streak. I think it’s the opposite. Suspicion that the drag boys of Halloween are all future (or present) frat boys who think their homophia is awfully adorable. The closet frat boys are all probably dressed like construction workers or bikers.

Still letting the thought of optimism sink in from the metaphoric embrace of the Sox not losing. I don’t know. It kind of messes up 40 years of, “yeah, well we tried, what are you going to do?” behavior.

Now I’ll just concentrate on not jinxing the future president.

Meanwhile, come on down to Toast in Union Square, Somerville. It’s brought to you by the Somerville News and their Friday night series, and it should be tons of fun with the low, low cover price of zero dollars (that’s $0 U.S.). Thanks to Baratundefor booking me and let’s hope his medical ailments don’t keep him down too long. (We got an election to win.)

With a line-up like this one, what could go wrong?

Host: Erin K. Judge

Korte Yeo
Dee-Rob
Tim Fenn

I’ll be doing a long-ish set (actually to mess up Tim and Erin, maybe even longer) and we’ll all get to discover the answer to what kind of wind does the old gal have.

The picture below is bad phone camera bullshit of the total eclipse of the moon.

Yeah, the Red Sox take the series and the planets align, and the moon is shadowed by darkness. What the fuck is next?

In my lifetime, I have seen Halley’s Comet (from a prime site on Barbados). I have seen Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons and most of the Rockies and Crater Lake and “Evita” in its London run, the Mona Lisa, the Thinker, a Gutenberg Bible and the Ramones in a college gym. Awesome sights, ones that make you wonder how shit all comes together. But, the Red Sox winning a Series in a SWEEP, no fucking way?

Nothing prepared me for this metaphor. What do I do?

While watching “Dog” (warning obnoxious theme song), I realized something. I will never repeatedly call the man in my life “Big Daddy.” It’s creepy and annoying, especially when uttered about 10 times in a minute.

Sorry, Big Daddy M., I guess I’ll be using your name.

While not watching baseball or performing comedy this week, I dedicated myself to shredding. In all, just shy of a decade’s worth of old bank and investment statements, pay stubs and once important papers that had outlived their useful lives.

Here’s my living room as the sorting began and the shredding was a far off goal. Several boxes had been empty and every surface is coated.

Here’s the after shot (poorly lit). Six large, grocery bags of confetti and the empty boxes stacked up. I’m still working on what will ultimately get packed and what tossed. But, taking those six bags to the curb tomorrow night for recycling will make a dent.

Here’s a similar shot with the flash (D’Oh!)

Sunday evening I walked around Fenway Park before Game 2 and took pictures.

Mostly, I took pictures of the security. Unbelievable.

I thought the number of cops during the Democratic National Convention was noteable. That security seemed low key and relaxed compared to what was around Fenway. Lots of paramilitary looking, high-booted men with belt-loads of plastic handcuffs. I only saw a few of the basic blue city police force, and I noticed only one woman among them.

At the DNC, the city police were everywhere and relative to Fenway, the diversity of gender and race meant they were a friendly face for the city.

The Red Sox jamming the Yankees. Now, three games taken over the Cardinals. It seems so very possible, this idea of winning.

And, in the midst of the national games, M. calls. He spent the day at a seminar, in which they gave away an IBM Thinkpad. The winner? M., the man, the winner.

Unfuckingbelievable. Can I cross my fingers and hope and dream that the colossal embarrassment of a leader, GWB, may very well be unseated?

Anything is possible in this the best of all possible worlds.

Something seemed to be going on where my menu on the right would just disappear. I narrowed it down to something to do with the poll, but I couldn’t figure out how to fix its PHP versus the weblog’s. Ah well, I just ain’t no stinking programmer.

I found a better looking poll instead. (Actually, I tested three or so polls and then just stopped.)

Meanwhile, I’ve been watching baseball, making some appointments and shredding, shredding, shredding. I’ve gone through every single scrap of paper in my house, and I’m throwing everything (almost) away. Once my living room doesn’t look like an explosion at a paper warehouse, I’ll post a before and after. Right now, it’s just to fucking frightening.

If I were a giant hamster, I would have a happy nest. As a grown human, it’s more psychotic than nest-y.

In the karma wheel of life, I have some mixed feelings today. Apparently, my dental poisoning was the catalyst for the assistant chick’s heave ho. I called to follow up on getting the crown finished. (it just don’t feel right half done.) And, in the when it rains/pours column, since the poisoning, another chunk of formally living enamel cracked off another boulder of silver amalgam holding my mouth together. So, the side I was newly favoring to make up for the half-done crown is now sensitive to cold, heat, movement, light, sound, political upheaval, wind, joy, autumn, the tides, hope, despair. I’ve been mainlining Sensodyne.

Because much as I love a warm bowl of oatmeal, I decided I had to call them back. I called the office, and at first a younger woman answered the phone and started taking the information. I gave my name and said I was looking to have my crown finished. She put me on hold. There was a bit of a wait, and an older woman got on the line to tell me that they shitcanned the suction failing assistant and they really had hoped I would call back, return and let them not poison me anymore.

While I do think saying that you know how to assist a dentist but not revving the suck wand up like an amateur and then acting rather unaffected by the chick retching up burning saliva and bile right next to you might indicate some work deficiencies, I’m not psyched to be a party to a firing. Maybe if I weren’t so close to the job loss thang, I might embrace the justice a tad more.

Really, though, I think she should have at least said good night when she left the night of the poisoning. I think I would be cordial to my victims.

Watched game seven. I had to, for history, for posterity, for my childhood, for my people, for the fact that I used to say Tony Conigliaro was my favorite player, I think only because I liked say “conigliaro.” It’s weird the name still resonates in my brain, but the Tony C. I remember must be post-ball to the face. I was only three when he was hit, but maybe that’s why I heard his name.

I was home, and M. called at the end of the ninth inning so we could watch the Yankees lose together. Even though we weren’t physically together, it was better than watching the Red Sox blow it last year, which we watched in the same room on the same couch. I think I’m going to have to go down to Yawkee Way and see if I can get him a championship hat. Although, since he’s so “thugg,” he wants a ski cap not a baseball cap. Gansgta M.

Baseball always surprises me at the end of the season, because you find out who has been paying attention. My friend Liz called after it was over to find out if I was hanging out anywhere crazy. I called my sister in Wyoming, she was PUMPED. Apparently, she’s been wearing her pink cap into work and writing inspirational notes like “Go Red Sox,” on the white board every morning.

(As an aside for why I think working in health care is essentially flawed and I may never go back, my sister had a story. So, she’s been writing pro-Sox propoganda at work (in Jackson, WY) during the playoffs and since there are a lot of transplanted Northeastern folks, it’s fine. However, yesterday, one of the most senior doctors was coming in, so one of the nurses (I think she said nurses) ERASED the board, so he wouldn’t see such frivolity. When my sister asked why, she said something about appropriateness or professionalism or something of that ilk.

The ruling class doctor, who my sister knew to actually be a baseball fan, I think of the Cubbies, no less, ergo knowledgeable about sports heartbreak, came into the place and the first thing he did, was draw a giant pair of sox on the whiteboard and “Go Sox.” That one remained on the board.

What this story illustrates about working at a healthcare or research facility, as does this story, is that there is always someone up your ass trying to prove he/she knows more or better than you. In many ways, while touting the benevolence and overall wonderfulness of working for a “good cause,” hospitals are the sickest fucking places to work. The employees are as miserable and self-serving and craven as in any Fortune 500 business, but what is worse and more dishonest is they pretend they are not. So, as your back is stabbed, the violent thrusting penetration of your rended flesh is presented to you as a worthy, laudable necessity. Yeah, you’re all open-minded and generous, and I’m the fucking Queen of Sheba.

Hmmm. I guess I’m still a tad angry.)

Anyway, back to the title of this post. When exactly did we all become a “nation,” as in Red Sox Nation? That has to be at least as goofily over-reaching as calling NY the “Evil Empire.”

Another question I have is why do people congregate near Fenway (or any other sports stadia) at moments like last night’s? From my back porch, I watched the squadron of helicopters hugging the sky above Kenmore last night, while simultaneously tuning in to the local channels news coverage. I, personally, have never had a moment where I thought, “HEY, I’m going to go over to that now empty place the team would have been at, if the game wasn’t just in a whole other city.” Are there any other events besides sports where when something good happens you mill around where it didn’t happen?

While I talked to my sister for a while, gradually the honking, random cheering and helicopter noises from the outside world gradually subsided. I like living in East Cambridge, where you can hear and keep an eye on Boston without actually being there.