Finishing the facial hair story: On Wednesday night, it was time to shave. Friday was a home game, and I needed to do something ridiculous for Thursday - cheap laughs are the best kind, and facial hair-related laughs are the best kind of cheap laughs, right?

So, I kept the 'stache, a golden brown, down to where the top lip meets the bottom lip. Some might call it a "porn 'stache," though I'm not sure there's any 'stache which does not qualify as a "porn 'stache." (Maybe the Hitler 'stache? The bushy Saddam 'stache? I don't know.)

But what else? Well, I kept the sideburns. Down to the the bottom of the 'stache. And steadily widening, so that there was about two inches of cleanly-shaven flesh between the end of the 'burns and the start of the 'stache. Basically, I looked ridiculous. There's photographic proof, though it's just cell phone photographic proof. I won't be deleting it any time soon.

Thursday morning, I walked into the office and initiated conversation with our merchandise guy. His girlfriend wanted to burn the Gnarls Barkley CD, so I brought it to his desk. He didn't really look at me when I brought the CD in - shuffling papers, confirming orders, things like that - and he initiated Gnarls-related conversation. So I sat at his computer and started poking around for some Gnarls photos, trying to explain that it wasn't just one dude. I'm talking, explaining, poking around, and then he looked at me, and I at him, and he did a double-take, and then we both laughed for a solid 30 seconds. Stopped. Made eye contact again. Laughed again. Belly laughter, too. It was fantastic.

After I shaved on Wednesday, I had the urge to go CD shopping. It had been a while, and there were a few things on the list - nothing specific, but I wanted to see if Borders had the JaMC reissues, and Band of Horses, and Beirut, and I thought maybe I'd look for Loveless and Belle and Sebastian. I rarely go to browse, but I had the urge to browse.

In this case, I was browsing while looking completely ridiculous, of course. And, amazingly, I needed help. The Islands CD, Return to the Sea, was on a listening post. Sadly, the listening post was busted but, happily, I wanted to hear the music. So I asked a clerk if there was any way they could play it for me. While asking for this help, I made direct eye contact; she kept a straight face. The entire time. Amazing. I emphasize, again, that I looked ridiculous.

I made my biggest music splurge in a long time, partially due to her help (once she went through the extra effort, I had to buy as a gesture of gratitude, yes?).

The haul:
Islands - Return to the Sea
Beirut - Gulag Orkestar
My Bloody Valentine - Loveless
Haruki Murakami - The Elephant Vanishes (short stories, not at the library)

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I really, really love the Islands CD. The opener, "Swans (Life and Death)" is this 9 1/2-minute epic that just towers over the entire record. Lots of other songs are pretty great, and they're all mostly catchy, but I don't know if anything can match the forward-moving, piano-tinkling, two dude-harmonizing beauty of the opener.

Other album-openers that are so long, and beautiful, and epic that the rest of the album can't quite ever live up to them:

Wilco - "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart" - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
The Secret Machines - "Alone, Jealous and Stoned" - Ten Silver Drops
East River Pipe - "Shiny, Shiny Pimpmobile" - The Gasoline Age

Those are the only three I can think of, and I don't think the East River Pipe song is that long, but it does tower. Are there others? I'm sure. Let me know.

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Related, somewhat, to the Gnarls Barkley CD. On Saturday, I had about the most fun I've had at a baseball game in a long time. Because our usual guy (son of the owners) was out of town on Saturday night, I was wrangled into the duties of on-field host. On-field host? Yeah, the annoying guy who carries a wireless mic and says things like, "Fans, it's time for Oversized Boxing! I've got Neil and Bullshot with me! It's three rounds. Ready, set, go!"

Usually, the PA guy introduces the host, and he comes out to some sort of game show theme music. Good intro music, that is. I think it's from Wheel of Fortune. Anyway, for days were had been struggling to come up with my stage name...stage names are important, after all. Finally, at about 6:12 (38 minutes to showtime!), we settled on "Crazy Drew." Not really catchy, but it sure is crazy, yes?

The highlight here is that, as I was being introduced by our PA guy, they definitely played "Crazy." Badass.

Highlights of the night:
- One of my responsibilities was to throw a t-shirt over the netting behind the plate. I got it there.
- I had a great conversation with trivia contest winner Jim, an old guy from Branson, Missouri. He was impressed that I knew Silver Dollar City. He nailed the trivia question ("Which of these players is not currently on our roster?" "D. Al Kaline"). He got an Applebee's gift certificate for his trouble.
- We've got a taco race. Kids dress up in taco suits and sprint around the bases. It's pretty funny. Cute, too. I introduced the contestants, a 7-year-old boy and his 6-year-old cousin, as "Senor Joey" and "Senor Austin." It was pretty funny.
- Tyler - an eight-year-old boy who dressed up as a dog for another race, tripped between second and third, and was nearly trampled by his 11-year-old sister (dressed as a cat, of course) - told me that he was at the game on Friday night. I responded, "I know. You told me I stunk at the 'YMCA.'" (I was right. He was wearing the same jacket. He was stunned I remembered. He was also right.)
- I signed three autographs. "Crazy Drew" is what I wrote. I added a crudely-drawn happy face. Crazy Drew's signature looks a lot like our mascots'.
- I had to hang out by our club's bullpen in the ninth inning. Security. Make sure kids running the bases enter on the proper side of the field. Anyway, some kids yelled down to me: "Hey, Crazy Drew." "Yeah?" "What's your real name?" "Andrew." (dejected) "Oh, that's cool." What'd they expect?
- I like to think that I was better than my old friend Pork Chop, and better than the woman that used to yell a lot in the 'Port. My usher friends were highly complimentary, it should be noted.
- There was lots of running around. Lots of Hurry Up and Wait, too. It was exhausting, though.

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As you know, girls are awful people. They stop liking each other. This has been the case at our office, where, of the two promotions leaders (call them, for the moment, M and N) and the three interns (for the moment, D, A, and S), there has been a severe splintering. N, S, and A don't talk to M and D, despite the fact that they're on the same team. Same goals, theoretically, but they avoid each other and complain - to me - about how much they hate each other. I encourage this by listening to them. Not much else to do, especially when the team's on the road.

Despite way different personalities, M and N were pretty much best friends when I arrived here. (Circumstance, not because they're a fit. Like your freshman year dorm friends.) Now, they basically don't speak, though they've apparently cleared some things up lately. A long lunch - a talk-it-out lunch - when the team was on the road over earlier this week.

Anyway, on Saturday night, D and I (that is, D and yours truly) were sitting in one row, preparing to throw t-shirts into the crowd or something, and M and N were sitting in front of us. And, between the two of them, there was laughter, and poking fun at fans, and general happiness. And I tapped D on the shoulder, and I said, "Isn't that great? Friends again, kind of." She agreed.

A nice moment. I felt obliged to relay this moment to S and A, and I had my chance at the redneck bar after the game.

I set the scene, gave them the time of game, and told them what happened. And then I made about the most inappropriate joke I've ever made. I shall detail it here.

Me: "Isn't that awesome?"
A: "Yeah, it is."
S: "Sure. Neat."
Me: "It's like the good old days. Before Daddy started hitting Mommy."

And then we laughed a lot. I felt guilty, but not that guilty, but pretty guilty. Domestic violence is not a laughing matter, friends.

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(Note: This part included for Rico's benefit. Though there's a woman involved, it's not a date. No cuddling. But it is about what I ate for dinner. Chick's engaged.)

I had a pretty fun Thursday night. Team returned from a near two-week road trip on Friday, so Thursday was our last free night until the end of the weekend. (Off on Monday before a three-game series starting Tuesday.) M is one of my top five people here, because she's a goof. And we were doing some menial office task and talking about nothing really, and then I started asking about where she lived for some reason, and she said, "Hey, Pinks, you wanna come over for dinner tonight?" (Wear a ridiculous salmon-colored shirt your fourth day in an office and, voila, a nickname is born.) Well, of course I did.

I had been thawing some chicken during the day, so I needed to cook it that night. I suggested that I buy some more chicken, and we move my Operation: Chicken Cacciatore to her house. And so it was. I bought a pepper and some onions and some wine on the way over, and I brought some pasta and the chicken and some cans of tomatoes. We simmered the chicken for about 90 minutes, and then we made some garlic bread, and it was fantastic.

Nothing really interesting happened, though it was a chance to get to know someone better. We got to talk about our coworkers and our families and The Future and things like that, so it was pretty good.

And there were lots of leftovers; I ate half for lunch today, and plan to eat the rest for lunch tomorrow. I'll be making a CD to give her when I return her tupperware. She'll probably never listen to it, because people don't listen to CDs foisted upon them.

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On the way home from dinner, I got to talk to Dirtbag. You'll recall that Dirtbag got married in April, and you'll also recall that he sent a thank-you card to his wedding impostor.

Dirtbag and I probably talk on about a monthly basis, 20 or 25 minutes at a time. I learned on Wednesday that Dirtbag and I never talk about anything of substance. (Though he's appearing as a reference on my on-the-verge-of-being-retooled resume, which is substantial, I think.) But nothing of real substance.

How did I determine this? Well, on Wednesday, I was talking to The Boy. And Dirtbag rang, so I said a brief hello and promised to call that night or Thursday. And I flipped back to talk to The Boy. "You were talking to Dirtbag?" "Yeah." "Tell him 'Congratulations' about his baby." "What?" "Grandma read in the paper that his wife just had a baby. She told Mom, who told me." "Really?" "That's what she said." "Wow."

So, I mentioned it to Dirtbag on Thursday night. Except, instead of saying, "Congratulations," I said, "Hey man, what the fuck is that?" But in a friendly way. He called it "the worst-kept secret at the wedding," but I guess it was kept pretty well, from me, anyway. Or maybe I was just pretty drunk. Which I was.

Tate Robert. Pretty badass, especially for a two-week old, I think.

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Nemo and Carrie celebrated a one-year anniversary today. I called Nemo to congratulate him. I've made some gay phone calls in my life, but my two-minute "I was just remembering that today is your anniversary" is probably the gayest. Was it the only one he got? Maybe.

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In the R/DS' game story regarding our Saturday night game (the one in which I appeared as Crazy Drew), he referred to a "homerun" that curled "just inside the fair pole." At that point, I wanted to shoot myself.

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Tonight, our second baseman shot a perfect hit-and-run single through the hole on the left side. I remarked that it was a perfectly executed hit-and-run. His comment was, "If I could execute the hit-and-run that well in my MLB 2005 video game, I'd be a lot more successful." At that point, I also wanted to shoot myself.

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WIDiRVoFOW

This Week's Reason: He openly flaunts the fact that he does not properly prepare for broadcasts. Or, rather, when seeing me scribble lots of numbers in my scorebook and large bits of biographical information on my rosters, he's far more comfortable writing down nothing. Like, not even a defensive alignment. He's not particularly good at the whole play-by-play thing anyway, and his desire to not prepare exacerbates the problem.

What's Most Frustrating: I take my preparation fairly seriously. These players all have goofy back stories - some are DI college players, some were drafted out of high school, many played at obscure NAIA schools and require lots of research. I think that's a big part of what makes these players interesting, but he never knows what organization a guy played for or where a visiting player went to school.

So, I'll be in the booth preparing. And he'll be in the booth watching the Tigers. Loudly. (I like the Tigers - a lot - but it's also time to work.) Or he'll be on myspace, and he'll start asking me myspace survey questions. (I don't know how myspace works, for the record.) Or he'll start talking to me about nothing. And it's frustrating as hell, because I just want to do a good job and he just wants to be a lazy slob.

Three more weeks, friends, three more weeks.

That's all.