Cathryn (formerly catslash) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remindmeofthe) wrote2006-10-23 08:13 pm
remindmeofthe) wrote2006-10-23 08:13 pm
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So I went to Best Buy to pick up an antenna for my TV, in hopes of getting more than just CBS, in hopes of watching the rest of the World Series in my house (as well as finally getting to watch Veronica Mars as it airs).
Guess what every single TV in the television section was showing?
Albert Pujols's fatal at-bat in Game Five of last year's NLCS.
Dozens of Pujolses, large and small, fouling off pitches. Dozens of Lidges, trying to get that last strike to win the series. The worst postseason moment I've ever experienced in every shape and size a TV screen can be. (Yes, I'm including Aaron Fucking Boone in that estimation. Yes, I'm serious. Aaron Boone, oddly enough, made me a Red Sox fan. Albert Pujols made me want to throw up.)
Luckily, I had time to flee. I hid amongst the computer games until I was sure the worst was over.
The baseball gods do like to torment me. I hope they're not trying to drop me a hint about the rest of the Series.
Or worse yet, to warn me off buying that antenna.
See, I'm superstitious. My superstitions dictate certain aspects of my behavior during the playoffs. For the first game of the Division Series this year, I stayed home to listen to the game, and dabbed myself with the BPALs I deemed luckiest (in case you care: Hungry Ghost Moon, because good things seem to happen when I wear it, and Bengal, because it's called Bengal).
We lost.
The next game I went out to watch - I was planning to minimize my game outings and the amount of money spent, but this was a Justin Verlander start, and every chance to watch Justin pitch on a big TV must be taken. The BPAL of the day (of course I wear a different BPAL every day, don't be silly) was Kumiho, which happens to be a favorite, and I paired it with Menthol lip balm, which is not but goes well with Kumiho.
Needless to say, I spent the rest of the Division Series and the whole of the Championship Series in a bar, tasting Menthol and smelling of Kumiho.
But. A little thing I forgot. World Series mojo, it's a little different. I was in the bar with the Menthol and the Kumiho, and boy did we get clobbered. And . . . ugh, I hate to admit it, because I always try to stick around till the final out no matter what the score, but I had this Cardinals fan in my ear blathering alternately about Albert Pujols and my perfect skin (no, really), so I fled in the eighth. And Craig Monroe hit his home run sometime after I walked into my bedroom.
Okay, I can take a hint. So yesterday, I wore whatever perfume (a different company's Vaniglia del Madagascar dupe) and lip balm (Red Velvet Cake) I damn well pleased, and I stayed home and listened.
So I'll stick with the VdM and the Red Velvet Cake. And if this antenna works, I'll hope like hell that the clip of doom was not a hint from the baseball gods, and that being at home was indeed the key factor. Because I'd really like to watch this series.
Oh, and I'll probably mute the TV if I can get a radio broadcast, because from what I understand, being stuck with Joe Morgan last night was a stroke of luck. Now that's just sad.
Guess what every single TV in the television section was showing?
Albert Pujols's fatal at-bat in Game Five of last year's NLCS.
Dozens of Pujolses, large and small, fouling off pitches. Dozens of Lidges, trying to get that last strike to win the series. The worst postseason moment I've ever experienced in every shape and size a TV screen can be. (Yes, I'm including Aaron Fucking Boone in that estimation. Yes, I'm serious. Aaron Boone, oddly enough, made me a Red Sox fan. Albert Pujols made me want to throw up.)
Luckily, I had time to flee. I hid amongst the computer games until I was sure the worst was over.
The baseball gods do like to torment me. I hope they're not trying to drop me a hint about the rest of the Series.
Or worse yet, to warn me off buying that antenna.
See, I'm superstitious. My superstitions dictate certain aspects of my behavior during the playoffs. For the first game of the Division Series this year, I stayed home to listen to the game, and dabbed myself with the BPALs I deemed luckiest (in case you care: Hungry Ghost Moon, because good things seem to happen when I wear it, and Bengal, because it's called Bengal).
We lost.
The next game I went out to watch - I was planning to minimize my game outings and the amount of money spent, but this was a Justin Verlander start, and every chance to watch Justin pitch on a big TV must be taken. The BPAL of the day (of course I wear a different BPAL every day, don't be silly) was Kumiho, which happens to be a favorite, and I paired it with Menthol lip balm, which is not but goes well with Kumiho.
Needless to say, I spent the rest of the Division Series and the whole of the Championship Series in a bar, tasting Menthol and smelling of Kumiho.
But. A little thing I forgot. World Series mojo, it's a little different. I was in the bar with the Menthol and the Kumiho, and boy did we get clobbered. And . . . ugh, I hate to admit it, because I always try to stick around till the final out no matter what the score, but I had this Cardinals fan in my ear blathering alternately about Albert Pujols and my perfect skin (no, really), so I fled in the eighth. And Craig Monroe hit his home run sometime after I walked into my bedroom.
Okay, I can take a hint. So yesterday, I wore whatever perfume (a different company's Vaniglia del Madagascar dupe) and lip balm (Red Velvet Cake) I damn well pleased, and I stayed home and listened.
So I'll stick with the VdM and the Red Velvet Cake. And if this antenna works, I'll hope like hell that the clip of doom was not a hint from the baseball gods, and that being at home was indeed the key factor. Because I'd really like to watch this series.
Oh, and I'll probably mute the TV if I can get a radio broadcast, because from what I understand, being stuck with Joe Morgan last night was a stroke of luck. Now that's just sad.
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Oh well, in the grand scheme of things, I still love the Tigers. I still hate Kenny Rogers. Nothing's changed.
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That homer was the first thing to make me start hating him. Then the way he talked about it in an interview earlier this season was the second thing. (Basically he seemed to enjoy the fact that he'd done such a job on poor Brad Lidge's confidence. Arrogant fuck.)
As you know by now I wish he'd spontaneously combust. So I feel your pain at seeing that awful awful moment on so many TVs. For me, something similar would be me seeing the J*****y M***r incident from 1996. *spits*
Man, I don't have any real superstitions. Not watching games in order to avoid jinxing the team I want to win is the closest thing...