The time: 12:52 AM
The low end: "Thip thip thip thip thip thip thip thip thip thip."
The high end: "Squeeeeeeaeeeeaeeeeeaaeeeeeee."
Castiglione: "Abaaba ba ba baaaaa aaa aa daa swing and a miss! he gabaa baaabaa"
The neighbors: "What the hell is going on over there?"
 
Ah, the pleasures of listening to the Red Sox. It's the top of the ninth, another nail-biter. Every once in a while I check back with "Gameday" to see what's going on when the static gets to the point where it's completely overtaken the voice of Joe. But it's no fun to see words come up on a screen. That's no way to experience a ballgame.
 
Speaking of experiences, nail-biting, and things that travel through the air...
 
I'm scared to death of flying on planes. I took four flights in the last week (we connected in Chicago to and from Seattle). I've probably taken 30 or so flights in my life, and instead of getting used to the whole idea, I just get more and more afraid of it.
 
On the fourth and final flight, last night, I stared at the wing the whole time. Except when I went to the bathroom. I feel better standing than sitting on board the plane for some reason. On the way down the aisle, I looked at everyone's face, many of them attached to sleeping people, and noticed how calm they all were. This only scared me more. I feel like if I watch the wing the whole time, I can keep the plane aloft. And it's all my responsibility, because these other fools are just sleeping, or sitting patiently, oblivious to just how close they could be to their deaths. Meanwhile, I feel like if I loosen up just a little bit, I'll blow it for everyone, and the plane will go spinning out of control, and the last thing I'll remember is hearing some Shania Twain song on the two-dollar headphones. It was even hard to look at Lys, because if I smile back at her calm, soothing expression, I'll cost us all our lives. It's like the Kurt Cobain line: "Look on the bright side is suicide". Like as soon as you think everything's okay, all hell breaks loose.
 
During that final flight, I finally figured out that if I moved my knees back and forth rapidly, it would make the seats bounce, and that bouncing was actually worse than the bouncing of the plane. So I'd just think, Hey, that's just the seat, not the plane itself. Needless to say, my legs got quite a workout.
 
This all may sound very familiar to you if you're a Sox fan. Sitting there, staring at one spot, bouncing that leg and not letting it stop. Hoping your girlfriend doesn't come in the room at that key moment, after everything had been going so well, to change the momentum in the room, and therefore at the park, hundreds of miles away. Sounds like the playoffs, right? In that '95 game vs. Cleveland--the Tony Pena game--I remember sitting there, playing the same guitar chords, and doing some arm motion exactly the same way between every pitch in the late innings. There was no way I was going to the bathroom that night. My dad was right there on the couch, but for some reason, he never told me to stop playing that silly tune after every single pitch. Maybe he was sucked into my groove, banking on me and my psychotic methods to get the Red Sox to victory.
 
I don't know how to really wrap up the connection, because my plane has never crashed, while the Red Sox always have. This must be what all these people mean when they say that we Sox fans won't know what to do when the team actually wins it all. Maybe the crash is the safe landing. Maybe --well, another Kurt line comes to mind--"I miss the comfort in being sad."
 
 [As I'm writing, the Sox blew it in the ninth, and we're now in extra innings.]
 
But I still disagree with all those people. When it really happens, I don't see how it could be bad. That's why I'm sitting here at 1:20 in the morning, listening to "Thip thip thip thip thip." That pulsing is going about as fast as my heart was on the plane. I'm not really hearing anything but the pulsing now, just hoping that when I do hear a hint of a human voice, it's happy, not sad.
 
I'm going to go to bed soon, because I have to work in the morning. Going to Seattle, doing so much cool stuff, seeing all the creative people and funky neighborhoods and hearing great music, made me realize that I'm not supposed to be working every day, but that I need to do what I want to do, and write and make music and make movies every day. Writing is cool and amidst all the stupid people, there are lots of awesome people. You can add yourself to the awesome list since you're reading my writing now.
 
Smiley face.
 
Crap. The winning run is in scoring position. That came through loud and clear.
 
I will go to bed now. I will say that I think the Sox will lose. Maybe the baseball gods will read that and think I'm an M's fan who's too confident, and will make the M's lose
Have I become desperate? Or am I just jet-lagged?
 
The magic number is 79 pending tonight's outcome, since the yanks lost to the Rays, thanks to their totally horrible pitching staff. I am not thinking wild card. I can promise you that. Oh wait, for the gods: yankees great; invincible; lineup too good; there, that oughtta give the yanks some more bad luck.
 
I felt like this was a good "piece," ruined by ramblings. So read it again, and stop halfway.