What base disappointment. Let us make explicit the crux of the season’s beauty: the color of burnt orange. It predominates. Yes, lighter yellows and darker reds exist- as do various shades of cerise and brown- but the general impression, when you relax your tired eyes and let the chromatic spectra blend to a single hue, is the melancholic glow, forlorn and faded, of ocherous autumn.

Photo by msn678 via Flickr.

In the preponderance of temperate climates, it’s possible to enjoy the season unhindered by local surroundings. Not so in Ohio’s dumping ground, where I find myself stationed for the purposes of baseball. Here, all year round, the color predominates. Why? Because the city is overwhelmed by rust. Flaky, sharp, decayed, dangerous rust. Everywhere you look, Cleveland is disintegrating. The industrial infrastructure, which, one assumes, once commanded some grudging respect among superior urban neighbors east and west, now falters into rot. Additionally, grime sloughs itself along a sludgy path describing each twist and turn of the conurbial streets and avenues. A dread mixture of silt, mud, polluted water, and defecation, it too takes on the pigmented semblance of rust.

I trusted Paul Newman. I trusted him because of his movies, and because of his salad dressings, which are all awesome. Everyone knows that. So I thought it would be fine, as I walked through the Tampa Bay supermarket yesterday (we have baseball games here now), to try the new line of “Paul Newman Pickles.” It came in a sensible jar with his face on the front, just like the salad dressing. I love dill pickles, so I couldn’t wait to have a taste.

The minute I left the store, I opened the jar. The pickles were small. I chomped into one, and the taste just about made me die.

It was a sweet pickle. FOR PETE’S SAKE! I didn’t even know these existed. What kind of irresponsible son of a bitch would sweeten a pickle?! Pardon my language, but this really rattles my cage. Only an asshole would love a sweet pickle. An asshole or a con man.

In a blind rage, I dumped the rest of the pickles on the ground and hurled the glass jar across the street. I should have looked first, because it hit a parked police car and shattered the windshield. No cops were inside, though, so I sprinted away.

Back in the hotel room, I decided to contact Paul Newman. For someone to betray my trust that way, the least he could do was answer in person. I got on the lobby computers and went to google.com. I typed in “Paul Newman’s address” and my current town, “Tampa Bay,” because google works better if you type in your location (this is especially good for finding florists).

I just googled myself and saw this story about how I might own the Cubs! Wow!

Photo by D.L. via Flickr

Nobody told me about this, but it’s hella exciting. I guess my agent, Scott Boras, is finishing the deal. I don’t really know the details. Scott takes care of me pretty well, and he gets angry when I ask about specific things. Last time I had a salary negotiation, for example, I planned to sit in on the talks. After about a day, he screamed at me for demanding a few things I didn’t totally need, like a coin fountain. The next morning, though, we made up. He bought me a plane ticket to Phoenix (roller blade paradise!) and a week’s stay at the Royal Palms Hotel and Spa.

I’ve been trying to call him for a whole day, but his secretary Amelia (a rotten-hearted female who I will never ask out again) says he’s busy.

Now I just keep daydreaming about what I’ll do when I own the Cubs. The first thing, probably, is that I’ll move them to Miami. It’s a much better town without all the wind and cold weather. Second, I’d make all the seats in the stadium bean bags. Imagine that! Businessmen in bean bags! What an experience!

Third, I’d hire Melky Cabrera and make him pitch on the regular rotation. It would humiliate him and teach him an important lesson about being a bastard. Yesterday, after the post-game showers, he put a live frog in my locker. It was absolutely terrifying. I tripped over a bench as I was backing way, and everyone laughed. (My towel came off and I think some of them saw my penis)

Last night, in the dug-out during our game against the Orioles, I made a comment about one of my favorite bands, Death Cab For Cutie. Melky overheard me and started laughing. When I asked what was so funny, he said I was “whiter than a Dear Abby column in a Vancouver paper.” A few people laughed, and I was humiliated!

ALRIGHT, MELK-MELK! You didn’t think I could sling some turkey talk? Well prep yo’self for some fo’real jiggety jive, sandpaper! You ‘bouts to get nine kinds ‘a serviced, and a ignorant fool best not worry on no gratuitah!

Ain’t you heard how long I been steppin’ slick? Straight conceived in the ‘Heights, bet yo ass momma don’ raise no friv’luss chile! Work my whole dam life, all de wile dat man be chippin’ at my self-esteems wid rock-hammas and shout-callin’! Corncobs and birch bark stingin’ mah ass if daddy stumble ‘troo da thresh-hole cross an’ liqueured!

Don’t ask me to explain it. It was there when I woke up yesterday. I went to Topps, and they only had the Chocolate frosting kind (four stacks of those, and no regular!). I thought ‘what the hell’ and decided to go for an adventure.

I took the subway up to the Bronx, past the stadium, and stayed on until the last stop. I found myself in a neighborhood I didn’t know, so I wandered around and eventually came to Woodlawn Cemetery. Normally I’m pretty scared of graveyards, but Woodlawn had some white marble mausoleums and huge oak trees. I couldn’t help my curiosity.

At the visitor’s building, an old nice woman named Doris gave me a pamphlet that showed how to take a self-guided tour. I tipped her one hundred dollars.

I walked the paths all day. At first I was nervous about ghosts and everything, but it was daylight and pretty soon I calmed down. I traced the names on the grave stones. I brushed the leaves off if any had fallen on top. All in all, it was probably the best day I’ve ever had, except for some times when I wished there was a girl to be there with me. At those moments I felt sad, the kind of sad you only feel in the fall.

Photo by hugovk via Flickr.

Associated Press

The next month or so will be nonsense. Blech.

We’ve almost arrived at the post-season, which is easily my least favorite time of year. For a time, it looked like we wouldn’t make the playoffs, which was great. But now we keep winning, more and more media and fans are showing up for the games, and it’s just one long headache.

The last few seasons, the only redeeming factor is that the playoffs have been short. Hopefully this pattern continues, and we lose quickly to LA or whoever and have some time to enjoy autumn before winter starts. It’s the prettiest time of the year in New York, and it kills me to have to spend it in Cleveland’s laughable version of a luxury hotel.

Most people can’t understand why I hate the playoffs. Well, picture a stadium full of loud savages screaming and cheering and booing, flash bulbs going off like crazy, television crews following you twenty-four hours a day, and nervous tension in the locker room. Newspapers print headlines with hateful puns on your name, commentators question your mental fortitude, and even the most hideous groupies act like you’ve let them down. Yet despite the chaos and confusion, despite not knowing where you are half the time, despite spending weeks on the verge of a breakdown, everyone still expect you to hit a baseball!

God, another September 11th. What a world.

I’m pretty excited, because my annual tribute is set to be bigger than ever. Every year since 2001, I’ve staged a small re-enactment to honor the victims. It’s been especially poignant since I arrived in New York, and if the media gave the ceremony more attention, it could really endear me to the locals. But, as everyone knows, the media are slobs and cowards.

You might ask if a re-enactment is appropriate. That’s a good, honest question. The answer is yes. It’s one thing to sing songs and wave flags and erect monuments. That’s half the battle, sure. But what stirs the memory, what really brings tears to people’s eyes, is the event itself. You need to actually see some kind of flying projectile crash into two tower-like structures, and that’s where I come in.

The next common question is “how did you come up with this, A-Rod?” Well, I got the idea at a Golden Corral in Tampa shortly after the tragedy, when I was goofing around with a knife and two pepper shakers. When I realized what I’d just conceived, I stood up and made the inspiration known to all the diners. I even pretended to be a newscaster, shocked at the events. Some folks nearly cried. Only the idiotic manager missed the point, and that fat imbecile had the nerve to kick me out. (I still have a wrongful treatment lawsuit pending against the entire Golden Corral franchise.)