You know how I get through the offseason?

Two words. Scarlett Johansson.

The way she laughs in Scoop. The way she smiles in The Prestige. That in-your-face opening shot of her impossibly awesome derriere which is the first thing you see in Lost in Translation -- and, for my money, the best part of the whole film. Of any film, for that matter. Not that I've had it freeze-framed on my widescreen and taken 174 consecutive meals in front of it throughout the winter months. But if I did, well... I would consider it time well spent, wouldn't you?

But now the guys are back. Tonight. Big Curt's on the mound. And although I'm sure I'm taking years off my life by saying this, there are some things that are just more important than Scarlett Johansson's ass. Actually, only three things. But one of them is the Red Sox.

I know it's just a Grapefruit League game. We'll get Curt for a couple innings, then a soft parade of wannabees from the local Kinkos. But the thought of seeing baseball -- new, never-before seen Red Sox baseball -- on TV again is just too much to resist. I gotta get the foam hand out of storage. Restock the liquor cabinet. Tap the keg of Maalox. Remind the neighbors and nearby women of this terrible, terrible thing that I become when under the infuence of cheap beer and Remy.

It's been a good run, Scarlett. Well worth the carpal tunnel syndrome I've developed. But the guys are back. And I'm gonna need my space.

Late to the party with this one, but really enjoyed some of the Cakeman's commentary on our fair city in Sunday's Globe.

"Loved that team," said Wells. "Those guys were phenomenal. I had a lot of fun at the ballpark.

"Outside the ballpark, it was hard. You can't go anywhere, especially if you're not pitching well. You get the business from [fans]. You can't enjoy your family time. Your alone time is gone because you're subject to photographs nonstop. It was the worst. You go to a mall with your kids and you have people always wanting to take pictures. They should call it 'Picturetown' not 'Beantown.'

"Listen, I know the people are Red Sox-friendly. They love the Red Sox. I understand that. They have to understand that when we're not at the ballpark, we're not subject to autographs and pictures and we need to be able to enjoy ourselves. I don't think they see that and don't get it."

New York, where Wells spent four seasons, "is a cakewalk compared to Boston," he said. "But you know what? Boston is a great town. When I was playing against them, it was great coming in. Great stuff in that town. Great restaurants and nightlife. Historical stuff."

First things first. "Picturetown"? I refuse to believe that that's the best any friend of Tom Arnold's could come up with. Further, you gotta love the laundry list of things Wells dug: "Great restaurants... historical stuff." Clearly the guy didn't spend enough time walking up and down Commonwealth Ave., where there's so much hot college chick eye candy per square inch you almost feel like you've been transported to some sort of Russ Meyer fever dream. Once they lift that restraining order on me, motherf-ker, you can bet your sweet ass I'll be back down there, leering with the best of 'em. Because that's what I do. Leer.

Anyway, I dug having Wells around. He'll always have a friend here in Picturetown.

Put down that croissant and go to the Phillies' website. Check out the commercials they've created for the 2007 season. Specifically, "Locker Room" and "Doctor." Funny stuff.

This is the sort of thing the Sox need. Come on, we've got David Ortiz, Mike Timlin, Matt Clement, Terry Francona and Hazel Mae. That's practically an episode of The Office waiting to happen. Or at the very least an impossibly disturbing softcore porn flick. Sure, there's not a single centimeter of ass space to sell in the entire park from April through to October, but why not promotion just for promotion's sake? Or just so we can dig on some 30 second spots featuring Mike Lowell in a stovepipe hat and apron, a shirtless Kevin Youkilis wrestling a guy in a bear suit, or Curt Leskanic discussing the importance of self-administered testicle exams. Yes, I know Leskanic's a few years gone, but work with me here. We could have something.

We've already got those awesome player billboards all around the Park. Howzabout some commercials as well?

I don't typically pay that much mind to the Oscars. When Scorsese didn't win for GoodFellas and Pacino won for Scent of a Woman -- a performance that is near excruciating to watch today, and ranks among one of his lesser efforts -- I gave up the ship but fast.

Yet for some reason I was hanging on the Best Supporting Actor category this year, as it represented the only category in which I'd seen all the contenders. And again, Oscar didn't fail to disappoint me. Anyone who saw 'em all would have to admit that the best performance of the lot was by Jackie Earle Haley in Little Children. Yes, it was an admittedly creepy role -- a recently-released sex offender coming back to his hometown to live with his mom -- but one that Haley infused with equal parts horror and humanity. It was a f--king brilliant performance, and while I can't begrudge Alan Arkin -- who I still say was robbed when he didn't get nominated for his work as the punchdrunk-on-suburbia dad in Edward Scissorhands -- the guy was on screen in Little Miss Sunshine for like, what? Ten minutes? That's not to say that one can't make an impact in a few moments; think Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross or the guy who got kicked in the balls in Ernest Goes to School. But Arkin's work just didn't have the impact of Haley's, or a lot of his competiton, for that matter. A win for Haley -- he was Kelly Leak in Bad News Bears, for chrissakes! -- would have awarded what was truly the best performance by an actor in a supporting role.

::Gets off soapbox::

Okay. Now. Brendan Donnelly's ready to rock the house.

Oh, and Mariano Rivera will have nothing to do with us. Somebody cue the sad music.

In no particular order...


The Haze. The Captain of My Heart. Always a classic. Always in style. Always inspiring that twisted dream with the 16 metric tons of vanilla ice cream and a Slip'n'Slide. It's a simple fact that when we're kissing our women, we're thinking of Hazel. We're all just dogs like that.


Tina Cervasio. When Tina C first entered the scene, she seemed kinda like, y'know, Hazel's innocuous roommate; the one you saw everytime you came over to their place to try to make time with Haze. But then, after a while, you realized you had so much more in common with Tina since you both love Everything But The Girl and Hal Hartley's films and Rushmore and you notice over your fifth can of Old Milwaukee that she looks damn fine in her low-rise jeans and her "Sox Fan 4 Life" T-shirt and before you know it, the two of you are snuggling up in the bleachers, bookended by shirtless frat guys from BC and dazed on eight dollar drafts. And you realize it was her. All along it was her. At least until Hazel shows up again in her leather pants.


Amelie Benjamin. Boston.com blogger extraordinaire. Beat writer of my dreams. Believe me when I say that my plans for world domination involve Amelie riding shotgun in my Reliant K, sharing her strawberry soda with me as my army of killer robots decimates the countryside.


Jerry Remy. Where the Rem is concerned, man crushes are not only allowed, they're encouraged.

Curt Schilling confirmed on WEEI this morning that he will indeed become a free agent. His decision was made final when he was informed by Theo that there would be no contract offer until after the season. And you thought Manny was a distraction?

There are two ways to look at this. To get Curt Schilling for $13 million is a bargain, or, to be held hostage by the demand of a 40-year-old pitcher with an ankle held together by silly putty and paper clips might not be good business.

Personally, I'd give him the deal. But it gives me secret pleasure to see Red Sox brass not buckling to Sir Schilling. He has done everything that his predecessors have been massacred for, but the adoration by fans and media is higher than ever.

He "retired" then changed his mind.
He showed up to camp out of shape by all accounts.
He is negotiating through the media.
He gave the Sox an ultimatum.

There have been a couple of other great pitchers in Sox uniforms who have dabbled in these areas and been crucified - see Pedro and Roger for example. Not Curt though. There is genuine outrage that the Red Sox won't bow down and start throwing money at this guy. Why?

I'd love to see him have another great year and come back to finish his career in Boston. It's the "Curt can do no wrong" mentality that bothers me. As far as distractions go, I'll take Manny any day.

Count me among those who actually look forward to Manny's annual Spring Training story. This year he's gotta tend to his sick mom and/or be at a car show and/or, as has been reported nowhere but still deserves consideration, put the finishing touches on the Carlos Baerga robot.

Next year, it'll be a wounded gazelle that needs some rehab. The year after that, he'll have to be in Madrid to co-sign an auto loan for his cousin Pepe who's just out of the clink and trying to straighten himself out, so can't a guy just give a little something back to his family for chrissakes.

See, this is what makes Manny so much fun, at least in my opinion. Because once the season starts, we know what we're getting. Big-ass home runs. Hits comin' at ya like a bullet leaves a gun. RBIs by the truckload.

Predictable, really. Almost boring. But the Spring Training excuses. How he's gonna top last year. How hot and bothered Edes & crew will get as they attempt to prove to us -- using algebra, sliderules and fancy Powerpoint presentations -- that Manny doesn't deserve our adoration. That's the stuff that keeps me coming back.

In a couple more years, his contract's up. And he'll probably be gone. And we won't have to dedicate page after page of newspaper real estate and hour upon hour of precious radio airtime trying to chart his course to Spring Training.

And suddenly Spring Training will be all "Oh, there's Timmy Wakefield with a sack of balls. And there's Jon Papelbon with a new haircut. Hey, here comes Ortiz in his truck. Great. Yeah. And, yes, ma'am, I will have another Corona."

And it's gonna be boring as all f--k. And we'll miss these days. Mark my words.

Here's a parlor game I like to play with some of my ex-con friends. We sit around, get liquored up, and then name players who "would have made great Yankees." The theory behind the game is quite simple; as Red Sox fans, we view the Yankees as the Joker to our Batman. Yet there are always those players for whom we have so much distaste, it is almost as if they were Yankees, even though they never actually donned the pinstripes. Hence, these players "would have made great Yankees," because we already didn't really care for them that much, and being part of the Bronx Bombers would have simply made it "official."

Anyway, I always go with Shea Hillenbrand, AKA the Most Punchable Face in Baseball. I can totally see him getting in some cheap shots during a Sox-Yankees brawl, then jumping into the arms of Giambi or Posada.

Anyone else?

Also, they play baseball in Ireland, laddy. They really do.

So I'm looking at the photo above and all that I keep hearing in my head is that theme song from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And it totally fits here. I mean, it could totally be his theme song. Sure, you'd have to change the line "it's you girl and you should know it" to reference "Papi" and maybe add something about how "he's gonna stick his cleat up your ass, but good." I'll leave it to the lyricists to figure this one out, but I believe we're on to something.


On another note, as we get ready for the 2007 season, I begin another age-old ritual: trying to chart the best parking places around Fenway. Sure, the best way to get there is the T (or via jetpack, natch, if you're lucky enough to own one), but I'm one of those guys who likes to drive in, get gridlocked on Brookline Ave., then complain to anyone within earshot that "this is total bullsh-t, man" and "the car is going to overheat and we're going to die here."

My big thing used to be refusing to pay for parking; I'd drive around for hours trying to find a free meter on Beacon or Comm Ave or any of the surrounding side streets. But I finally gave that up after that one opening day that Dad & I drove around aimlessly until about the third inning. Sooner or later, we all just bend over and pay up to the man.

That said, free is always my first choice. Which is why my first stop in the quest for parking is the area behind Boston Latin School (Evans Way, Palace Road, etc.). That one-block stretch has plenty of metered spaces, plus I get to relive the magic of being a BLS student back in the day and getting wedgied within an inch of my life. It's a pretty quick walk from the Park to the car -- no more than fifteen minutes each way, perfect for burning off those Fenway Franks and Heinekens. More importantly, to repeat, as the meters are only in effect until 6:00pm, it's free.

Those days when I don't wanna f--k around in traffic, I typically just head to the Landmark Center. This place was better when it used to be the old Sears building -- now you're fighting for space with moviegoers, restaurant patrons and the "Fresh City" crowd -- but it's pretty reliable and quick to get out of. It also allows you to bypass most of the Brookline Ave/Boylston Street post-game crush, which can claim even the strongest of bladders with its painfully slow lights and throngs of fans walking blindly into traffic.

Clearly, the best deal is knowing a doctor or BU professor -- anyone with a laminated pass that offers unlimited access to the many "private" lots around Fenway. I once went to a game with my man Rich, who at the time was teaching at BU, and his parking pass got us so close to the action I thought at any minute Hazel Mae would be coming by with a squeegee to give our windshield a scrubbin'. That's not a euphimism, by the way.

Any spots we should know about? C'mon, don't be afraid to reveal 'em. We'll be too drunk to remember any of this come April.


Dude, who's happier than Curt Schilling at Spring Training this year? Camera-friendly Curt shows up in Florida to find wall-to-wall media and microphones. That's like a metalhead waking up to find Yngwie Malmsteen and Ronnie James Dio jamming in his foyer. I love the fact that he just shows up and starts stoking the fires with stuff like how we may have the best rotation in baseball and that the team is World Series-calibre. Because that's the way it should be; get the troops into it and get the baseball-hungry fans at home clamoring for it. Either way, it's better than, say, Jose Offerman showing up and asking where the f--k his cheese tray is.

This is me putting my hands over my ears because it's Spring Training and we all know that Spring Training brings a barrage of "where is Manny when is he coming and why can't he just show up on time like everyone else and it's a travesty and an insult to the game and he never really liked you fans and he's just a money-grubbing child who is petulent and indifferent to you, the ticket buying public, and why, oh why, won't you all just see through this and start hating on him because we write this stuff because we want you to hate on him and when you refuse to do so it gives us the feeling that we actually have no influence over how you think or act or feel and that bothers us to no end so can't you all just see Manny for what he is -- a guy who doesn't care about you or baseball or democracy or starving kids in Africa or the importance of our space program?"

The "when's Manny comin'?" watch has already started. In today's Globe. And I just don't wanna hear a word of it.

As I've said before, I don't care if the shows up with two minutes of Spring Training left to go, visibly drunk, wearing no pants, and stubbing out a cigarette on my forehead.

He gets the pass. 'Cause he's the Manny.

Former Red Sox closer and 2004 post-season hero Keith Foulke decided to hang up the glove yesterday, citing nagging elbow pain as the reason.

Whether you were a fan of Foulke or not, his performance in October 2004 was something to behold. Foulke pitched in 11 games for a total of 14 innings. He gave up just 7 hits and one earned run, striking out 19 batters.

Me? I was never a fan. His attitude sucked and I'd prefer a fireballer for a closer. But I will always appreciate what he did in 2004 to help secure the elusive World Series title for Boston. Good luck, Foulkie.

It's quite simple. When reporters ask if you'd play for the Sox, simply reply: "You never know."

Nicely played, Mr. Rivera.

The 2007 Sox will be loaded with question marks -- What if Schilling's ankle falls off? Who's the freakin' closer? How long until the government whisks Mike Timlin off to Monster Island to end all this Gamera bullshit once and for all?

But Manuel Aristides Ramirez is one of our sure things. Before a single Spring Training pitch has even been thrown, we can put Manny down for two "hey, where'd my pants go?" moments in the outfield, at least one self-imposed trip to the DL, endless mugging for the NESN cameras, plenty of grab-ass with Ortiz and Lugo, about 40 home runs, 160 hits, 120 RBIs and a handful of send-'em-home-smilin' game winning moonshots.

Honestly, I couldn't be happier with that.

It's Valentine's Day, and we're giving the love to Coco Crisp. If there's one player on the Sox' roster primed for a comeback year, it's Coco. I mean, sure, the guy could do worse. But in his case, doing worse would involve putting on a fake beard and robbing families at knifepoint throughout Kenmore. The dude showed up here to fill Johnny Damon's shoes; a pretty tall f--king order, if you ask me, especially when you ain't bringing us no Mrs. Damon. And while he seemed to really, really want to live up to the hype and expectations -- all smiles and gladhands and funny commercials with his Dad -- he never did, particularly in the leadoff department. And that finger injury didn't exactly set the tone, either. But that's cool. Because it's a new season, baby. And we've got bigger stuff to focus on throughout April. Like how Drew and Matsuzaka adapt. And where Roger's gonna end up. So Coco will have plenty of space to get his sh-t together and claim that cult hero outfit we've been holding for him.

Of all the stories that will come out of this year's spring training, none will top the good vibes I feel seeing Jon Lester throwin' the pill with intensity.

Also, apropos of nothing, if the good guys didn't win World War II, growing up in America probably would have looked and sounded a lot like this:

Today is truck day. Which means we're all one step closer to nights with Remy and DO. Afternoons with Timlin and Tavarez. Breakfast with Coco and Papi. Checking scores on Sportsdesk and staring just a bit too long at Hazel's cleavage and swearing this is the year I finally grow a 'stache like Eck's. Begging for tickets and refusing to leave the house before the final out is recorded and taping up my knuckles for those nights when we just can't push that winning run across in the ninth. Soundproofing the apartment and fire-proofing the furniture and re-installing that layer of bulletproof glass over the TV screen. Leafletting the neighborhood so they know that the bloodcurdling screams they'll be hearing from my place are nothing to worry about. Unless it's in October. And we're playing the Yankees. And I've got my gun permit.

It all begins with a truck. With a convoy. And we're ready to roll once again.

He's a young, strapping, goodtime-seeking, sorority-house frequenting professional athelete who also plays the guitar. And now, as if that wasn't enough, he's got 25 million bucks.

Men of Cincinnati, simply surrender your women to Bronson. Like now and sh-t.

Just when you thought you were going to escape a New England winter unscathed, the temperature plummets and here we are in another frigid February. What better way to add some warmth to the day than to take a look back at one of the greatest games in Red Sox history: July 24th, 2004 against, who else, the Yankees. By strange coincidence, I was in New York City with the family for the weekend. We spent the day wandering around the city and ended up at TGIF in Times Square to grab dinner.

As luck (or skillful planning on my part) would have it, the game was on in the bar. Between bites of whatever below-average meal I was having, I would run out to check on the game. The Sox were down early, but battled back to take the lead. The next time I checked, the bad guys were in the process of putting up a 6-spot in the top of the 6th. I could delay no longer, and we left to wander the city some more, with me feeling like the game was lost.

The night ended up in Rockefeller Center, where I saw the final score flash across a sign: Red Sox 11, Yankees 10. What a game it must have been. I had no idea. When I got back to the hotel and put on ESPN, I could not believe what I had missed. A-Rod calling out Varitek? Big mistake, and the result is perhaps the turning point of a championship season. The glove sandwich, the ensuing brawl, and the eventual comeback. Great foreshadowing to the ALCS, although none of us knew it at the time. And the rest is history. Feel better?

LOST returns tonight. I got on the train late -- got the first two seasons on DVD and watched 'em over the past couple months -- but I'm good to go. In the meantime, the above clip is a "Red Sox invading popular culture" moment for the ages.

Notice how Jack seems excited to hear Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. That's how we know it's make-believe.

Dirt Dogs and the Globe are doing a Most Beloved Red Sox Players of All Time thing, and it got me thinking... is there anyone who has been on the Red Sox for a shorter period of time yet is more beloved than Dave Roberts? If the guy was kept in Boston for the 2005 season and beyond, he'd have been living in a world of "free rounds for life." Seriously, what kind of a man would ask Dave Roberts to pay for a pint of beer? No kind of man at all. And it wouldn't stop there. Applause in the streets, wherever he walked. Unlimited complimentary steak-n-cheese at D'Angelos. Open invite to every sorority house bash across the city. Carte blanche to hit on any guy's wife, mom or sister.

Sure, he wanted to be on the west coast. To play everyday. And we obliged. But as a much, much weaker man, I would have angled to stick around here for at least a year. To enjoy being the king of all I surveyed.

'Sup. Remember us? Now that this Super Bowl horsesh-t is over, we can focus on what's truly important. We'll be back before you know it, and we're gonna be filling up your nights and weekends. So clear some space on the calendar. That guy you started seeing this winter? Tell him to f--k off; you've got two much more important guys who demand your undivided attention. Grandma's in the nursing home? Hope the old bird hangs in 'til October, 'cause that's the next time you'll be free to tend to her. Big business trip planned for April? Your boss may need a lead pipe reminder that there are bigger things at work here than just some sad-ass "job." We're coming back, motherf--kers. To help you forget about everything else in your life. Because we know that's how you like it.

This is it, folks. We've just about survived another off-season and now it's the stretch run until Truck Day, pitchers and catchers, and Spring Training. Until then, news is slow. There is some big football game tomorrow, the Celts just set a team record for consecutive losses, and...I guess that's it.

My senses crave seeing the warm Fort Myers days, the crisp uniforms and green grass, and of course, the sound of Rem Dawg calling the game. Every winter seems longer than the last, even as mild as this one was in New England. And every spring, we look at the team with the highest of expectations and an unflappable sense of hope. This season is no different.

The acquisition of Matsuzaka tops my list of reasons for thinking of October when it's barely February. Manny being Manny in a Red Sox uniform helps. Lester working out is a huge bonus. Break-out years for Wily Mo and Beckett? Maybe. Right now, it's all good. I even scored some tickets last Saturday after my sentence in the "virtual waiting room."

Who's on truck watch?

If you ever needed anything to get you psyched up for the start of the 2007 season, look no further than this Japanese beer ad featuring Daisuke. In his Red Sox uni.

Folks, there's a new word for awesome. And that word is this video.

I've watched it about fifty times since NV posted the link in yesterday's comments. And I gotta say, it fills me with the happy feeling.

I think what we need -- what America needs -- are more ads featuring Red Sox players chugging brewskis. I mean, check out the way D-Mat handles his man-sized thirst. Cool, right? You bet your ass it is, white boy. I'd love to see something similar with Ortiz pulling from a 40-ounce Haffenreffer. Or Tavarez guzzling Night Train. Or Timlin sucking the blood from a fresh-killed bison.

Look alive, folks. Baseball is coming. And we're always ready to drink to that.

The Mooninites almost single-handedly shut down Boston yesterday.

I find this sickening and hilarious all at the same time.