Bobby Valentine, The Sequel (And The End)

About a year ago, I blogged about my misgivings with the Red Sox naming Bobby Valentine manager.

Now, as the Sox completed their worst season since 1965 and Valentine got his walking papers, I give Bobby Valentine credit for at least this -- he tried to change the culture.

Personality-wise, the 2012 Red Sox were pretty much the same as the 2011 Red Sox: a bunch of spoiled prima donnas who thought they were entitled to do whatever they wanted.

Valentine tried to instill more discipline. The problem was that Valentine lost the team from the first few days of spring training. His way if instilling discipline was to berate Mike Aviles in front of the whole team for not running a cutoff play the way he wanted (which is prety ridiculous. This isn't football, where offenses and defenses are always evolving. The cutoff play has been pretty much unchanged for 100 years.). He lost the team before they even played a game. And that's not to defend the players, who are still spoiled brats and playing as poorly as they did this year is inexcusable.

But this speaks to exactly why I didn't want the Sox to tap Valentine as manager. He comes across as an arrogant jerk. Bobby Valentine would hate to manage himself. He thinks he's never wrong, which means that Bobby Valentine The Player would be just as much a prima donna as Adrian Gonzalez, Josh Beckett or Carl Crawford. Boston Blobe columnist Bob Ryan once wrote that Bobby Valentine has never told a story in which he wasn't the hero, and it's true. Bobby Valentine wasnted to manage the Red Sox, but he also wanted to be the star. 

Worse, Valentine is horrible with the media. He argued with everybody, from Glenn Ordway to Buster Olney. Sports media can blow things way out of proportion, particularly in Boston, but the problem is that the media always gets the last word. And when Bobby Valentine threatens to punch Glenn Ordway in the face or answers questions about whether his coaches undermined him with a third-grade-esque, "No," then he looks like an ass who quit when it became obvious that the Sox were doomed.

Sometimes I hate to be right. Unfortunately, this is one of those times.

Directions

I was down in Bridgeport today watching the first Patriots game of the season with a friend. I was outside by my car, wearing my Wes Welker jersey, when a car slowed beside me and the driver rolled the windows down.

This is bad news. I'm in the part of Connecticut where there are more Giants fans than Patriots fans.

There's a big release of tension inside me when the driver asks, "Can you tell me where [some local street in Bridgeport] is?"

Still, I'm looking down at my Pats jersey, leaning against my car with its Massachusetts license plate. Somehow, I feel like it's obvious that I'm the wrong person to ask.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not from around here," I say.

The guy drives off.

Hey, worse things could happen. Sometimes in Bridgeport when someone rolls their car window down, it's because they want to shoot you.

Traffic Stop

I currently have 10 boxes in my car.

I can't discuss what's in them, but I assure you they contain nothing illegal. It's all legit. I actually have 20 of these boxes right now, but only 10 of them fit in the PT Cruiser. Barely fit. There's practically no room for me in the car. I can just see the rear window, rear-view mirrors, etc. In that sense, I feel like I've done a perfect job loading them in my car.

Of course, this exact moment (coming home at 11:45 at night, with 10 boxes in tow) would be when I get stopped by a statie.

He claims I cut him off, which is total bullshit -- he merged into my lane. But it's not a good look to have 10 mysterious boxes in your car when you're being stopped. (Clearly, this is why he stopped me.) Also, it's really tough to get into your glove compartment to hand him your registration when it's being blocked by a big box.

"Where ya comin' from?" he asks.

"Hopkinton."

"You make any stops along the way."

"No."

He asks what's in the boxes and I tell him. Then he asks, "When was the last time you were in court?"

(Really? When was the last time I was in court? What kind of question is that? Who do I look like, Lindsey Lohan?)

I muscle my registration from the box blocking the glove compartment and hand it to the officer, who goes back to the cruiser and does his thing. This is not what I need right now -- or ever, really.

Two minutes later, he returns and hands me my license and registration.

"You're free to go. Next time be more careful when you switch lanes."

Fine. Maybe I'll only keep 7 boxes in the car.   

Sharp: A Memoir

I'm a little late on this, I know, but my MFA colleage David Fitzpatrick's book Sharp: A Memoir was just published. Here's the blurb from Amazon:

"Sharp is the story of a young man who began his life with a loving family and great promise for the future. But in his early twenties, David Fitzpatrick became so consumed by mental illness it sent him into a frenzy of cutting himself with razor blades. In this shocking and often moving book, he vividly describes the rush this act gave him, the fleeting euphoric high that seemed to fill the spaces in the rest of his life. It started a difficult battle from which he would later emerge triumphant and spiritually renewed.

Fitzpatrick's youth seemed ideal. He was athletic, handsome, and intelligent. However, he lived in fear of an older brother who taunted and belittled him; and in college, his roommates teased and humiliated him, further damaging what sense of self-esteem he still carried with him. As he shares these experiences, Fitzpatrick also recounts the lessons learned from the broken people he encountered during his journey—knowledge that led to his own emotional resurrection.

Sharp also demonstrates the awakening of a writer's instinctive voice. With prose that is tough and gritty, profound and insightful, Fitzpatrick takes us inside his head while he manically cuts himself, but these episodes are presented with a dignity and insight that has never been seen before. His writing also possesses a lightness of touch that brings humor to a subject that doesn't naturally provide it.

Above all else, Sharp is a tale of hope, a soul-baring quest of a lost man who returns to himself, overcomes his demons, and reclaims his life. It is destined to become a classic memoir."

David's a nonfiction guy and I'm fiction, so we never really crossed paths in workshop. But I know people close to me who have cut themselves. So this story, in particular, piques my interest.

If you haven't done so already, go get Sharp. I can't wait to read.

Timeline

It finally happened.

Since December I've been avoiding Facebook's new Timeline setup -- largely because I felt like I was always being subjected to a Facebook Wall redesign every couple of months, and partially because some of my other friends who had converted said they had spent a week deleting many of their embarrassing comments from Facebook statuses past. It all seemed a little intimidating.

As time went on, and more and more of my friends were converted, I stuck with Old Facebook. Why change until you have to? As fewer and fewer people had Old Facebook, I started to enjoy being a rebel, wearing the old Wall proudly like a badge of honor.

Last week, Facebook finally got tired of my rebellious ways. I got the word they were converting me to Timeline. It went live Sunday night.

As I've seen other folks' Timeline, I've gotten used to it. There are some nice features to it. I like having a profile pic and a cover photo, or whatever the hell they call it. I'll miss being a rebel, but I think I can get used to being a Timeline cyborg.

I just don't want to see Facebook roll out a whole new format next week. 

Appeal For a Former Mentor

My former mentor during my grad school MFA program, Porochista Khakpour, was one of the best things that ever happened to my novel-in-progress. (The novel was my thesis and she was the second-reader for it.) She's also a great personality. Once I dressed up as her for a "talent" show and she was a great sport about it.

I bring this up because she's sick and facing mounting medical bills. I won't go into the details here because they are better presented by her in the Web site she's set up to appeal for help.

She set the site up a few days ago and I status-updated it on my Facebook Wall. I blog this now because she's crossed a noteworthy and impressive plateau, but is still short of her ultimate goal and I want to see her get there so she can get the help she needs. I'm of limited means myself right now but I did make a contribution, and I'm writing this in the hopes that others will consider doing so, or if they've already done so consider donating a few more dollars ($5, $10, $15, every little bit helps). I don't want to see the initial flurry of support die down.

I can't truly do her justice in a blog. She's bigger than that. But ask me offline and I will tell you how fantastic she is.

Thanks for your consideration.

An Apology, Or, If You Hate My Blog, Bad News

Dear Followers,

I have failed you.

It's been (roughly, I'm too ashamed to calculate an exact figure) a couple of months since I blogged. It's been nagging at me for most of that time. Many of you think I died. Many more wonder what the hell happened.

Here's what happened: It's been a bat-shit-crazy summer for me. I've been overwhelmed with stuff, both personal and professional. Some good, some not so good.

I won't get into specifics here, and some of it I won't talk about for awhile. But life is finally beginning to slow down for me. Still busy, don't get me wrong. I can't promise that I'll return to my old blog-a-day pace. But I feel like I can blog much more frequently in the coming weeks. And I have plenty of material.

Sorry it's been awhile. I'll try to do better.

Thank you for all your support.

Sincerely,

Phil