Well, the Major League Baseball All Star game was held this evening in San Francisco, and I watched maybe 1/2 hour of it. And I barely paid attention to the brief portion of the game that I watched. I don't know who won, and quite frankly, I don't care. It matters little to me what league wins.

Of course it matters to Red Sox fans because they know that the Sox are all but in the Fall Classic as we speak, so they need to plan for the possibility of four home Series games. They needn't even worry that their two big boppers have combined for fewer home runs than Alex Rodriguez, whose numbers are comparable to JD Drew's. They needn't even worry that Mike Lowell could have an anxiety attack if he's expected to get a clutch hit on the road. This season is over.

Today was all about learning things that I already knew over again in painful fashion. As a general rule, I never go to Cambridge. The city is overrated. The bars and restaurants are no better than what you find on the good side of the Charles River. The people are more arrogant with less justification than Bostonians, and if they knew 1/3 about anything of what they profess to know about everything, then truly each and every one of them would be a Socrates. And to borrow a line from James Madison, Cambridge would still be a madhouse.

I have a corollary to that rule which states that if you must go to Cambridge, never have a specific time at which you must arrive at your destination. Tonight, as I attempted to get from point A to Cambridge, I found myself stuck behind several morons. As you who read this space should know by now, I have a series of tests to tell who is and who is not a moron.

One way to tell who is a moron is to see if they have a radio station sticker on their car. Any person who does is likely to be a moron. If they have a WBCN sticker the odds go up. If they have two WBCN stickers, the odds go through the roof. And if one of the two BCN stickers commemorates the fact that said station broadcasts the New England Patriots, one would need multiple advanced degrees, a Nobel or a Pulitzer or corresponding award for academic or creative eminence to escape the status of moron.

Another way to tell who is a moron is to be stuck behind a column of people who are yielding to Canada Geese on the damn Riverway. I do not endorse cruelty to animals, but if I have a choice between scattering a gaggle of geese and getting rear-ended by some nitwit in a work truck who's been drinking since 3 PM, let's just say I'm going through the geese. Letting them cross the street only encourages them to keep doing it. Canada Geese aren't cute. They're filthy, belligerent and a public health menace. The people ahead of me should have ran them down and dealt with the moral, legal and automotive consequences, leaving me free to go about my business.

And another variety of moron is the Red Sox fan. I was stuck behind a BMW with a Red Sox license plate bracket as I tried to make my way down Broadway in Cambridge. THis person was hell bent on missing every single light possible. The ultimate driving machine was not being driven very well in that instance. And then the last type of moron is yours truly for breaking sensible rules.

And as if Cambridge weren't bad enough, then there is Brookline. After my business among the Cantabrigians was concluded, I went looking for a place to eat in Brookline. Alas, for me, it happened to be 10:00, and one cannot allow restaurants to serve food to customers after 10:00 whilst preserving the curious blend of urban and suburban, academic and blue-collar atmospheres that make up the rich pastiche that is Brookline.

Give me a break. Of course it's my fault for going to Brookline and for being too lazy to get back into my whip and drive to a saner community for a better, cheaper meal. That said, don't go to the Beacon Street Tavern. I spent a week there tonight. First, the kitchen closes at 10, so one must eat off of the late night menu or else go hungry. I wish I had gone hungry.

The sliders weren't bad, but they weren't $14 good either. The service wasn't bad, but the place was beat. First, 3/4 of the menu was inedible, at least from my point of view. They had a lot of appetizers with things I just won't eat. Like beets and goat cheese. I ate more beets as a child than I really needed to, and I only ate the ones my parents forced me to eat. With God as my witness, I will never eat beets again. And if goat cheese were really so great, why would people go to cows for their milk and cheese needs?

But the real problem was the clientele. There was the dude in a Bud Light shirt and a throwback Red Sox hat, drinking white wine and chatting up a blond at the bar while he scratched his back. I'm guessing he didn't get the signal to swing away tonight. Then there was the guy talking about how he did yoga and meditated before he came out for a beer. I want to party with him.

But this is supposed to be a sports related blog, so I thought I would pass on this link sent to me by my man up on the frozen tundra in Maine. It's a freelance piece comparing the most recent edition of the Boston Celtics with the 2002 conference finalist. It basically makes different points to argue that Ainge bites as a GM and ought to be removed from office. It's nice to see someone else feels that way too.

And then, I have to pass this on. Antoine Walker was robbed at gunpoint, again. This time it was in his house, as opposed to on a street in Chicago's South Side at 4 in the morning. No word yet as to whether Danny Ainge and Banner 17 were involved. After all, it does seem like the only way they'll get their hands on a championship ring. Of course I'm kidding about that last part, I just don't see why people can't leave my man alone.

And when the going gets tough in NASCAR, guess whose drivers can't share the limelight as teammates? Would you believe it was Roush Fenway Racing? Apparently, Kyle Bush was edged out of his win by his own teammate, Jamie McMurray. Just one of my many problems with NASCAR is that a sport must either be an individual sport or a team sport. It can't be both. So I don't care what the drivers do to their teammates except for when it gives me a chance to run down one of John Henry's business ventures.