Today started off with two unpleasant surprises. First, I opened the Globe to the Sports section and almost choked on my damn cereal. The Boston Celtics are trying to lure Reggie Miller out of retirement. I understand that the youth movement of the last two seasons has left a bad taste in the region's collective mouth. But skewing ancient isn't the right answer.

In Pulp Fiction, Marsellus Wallace reminds Butch the boxer that people who think they age like wine are gravely mistaken. Unless, of course, by that those people mean that they spoil and turn to vinegar. Reggie Miller is looking much more like vinegar than Dom Perignon at this point. And throwing him out in a crunch time lineup with 2 other defensive liabilities (it's kind of hard to be a defensive stopper at that age) and Rajon Rondo doesn't seem like a nice thing to do to Kevin Garnett.

I know the plan is not to have Miller playing 35-40 minutes a night, but something more like 15-20. Nevertheless, it's still like relying on that little donut spare tire to take you out on the interstate. He's 42. He's not playing 20 minutes a night for 82 games, let alone the playoff run we are told to expect from this bunch. That little spare tire will get you to the gas station in one piece, but when you put all your hopes into a two year window and a 42 year old jump shooter is the missing piece... well that's just depressing. Depressing enough to make me mix metaphors as though I were the CHB.

Speaking of every body's favorite newsman who bears an unnatural resemblance to Dr. Who, he made a funny today. That's how bad this panic move to lure Reggie Miller out of retirement is. Even the CHB can crack a joke about it and have said joke be moderately amusing. Shaughnessy asked: "Why not just see if Cooz wants to lace 'em up one more time?" That's not half-bad. Hell, for the CHB that's pure comic gold. And that was the second unpleasant surprise of the morning.

My final unpleasant surprise came this evening watching the first preseason game on FOX. Troy Aikman cautioned fans not to expect DeMarcus Ware to put up numbers reminescent of Shawne Merriman's 17 sacks from last year under new coach (and former Charger defensive coordinator) Wade Phillips. There I was anticipating that exact type of performance. And even if Ware should get 17 sacks, they shouldn't be measured against Merriman's uncanny performance from last year as Ware will (I hope) play all 16 games this year. And before I move on, let's not forget the little problem of Merriman's 4 game suspension for the use of illicit performance enhancing drugs. But good work on the call, Troy.

And before I sign off, as tomorrow is Friday, and I've really been trying not to post after I've had a few, I've been doing some thinking about my proposed candidacy for the Presidency of Red Sox Nation. I think part of my problem in the initial phase of my campaign has been a lack of statements to clarify my positions on issues which must be addressed.

I propose that a more dignified song be found to celebrate (or in my case, grieve) should the Red Sox continue their disgusting habit of winning home games. "Love that Dirty Water" is beat (from an aesthetic standpoint), it glorifies a shameful lack of respect for our regional waterways on the part of our ancestors and it is no longer the case. In fact, Boston Harbor is now so clean that the EPA and state officials have finally gotten around to banning boats from dumping sewage within three miles of the Harbor.

Look at the Red Sox chief rival. The Yankees feature "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra. Granted Frank Sinatra doesn't enjoy the stellar reputation among music lovers that has made the Standells the darling of the nation these many years, but he's still somewhat recognizable. Good grief. Sinatra has a song book; the Standells have spark notes. Surely there must be some artist with some song that has roots in the community and just a bit more dignity. I'm not looking for Rachmaninoff, here. Just something that isn't a one hit wonder with a lame hook that has somehow dug into the collective psyche of morons in New England like a tick.

I would also do away with the 8th inning tradition of singing along to Sweet Caroline, which is another beat song. If you really want to listen to it, I have it on Coco Crisp's authority that New England's official Sweet Caroline Station is WROR (105.7 for those of you wishing to tune in at home). Singing along to Sweet Caroline, especially with the slight adaptions inserted by Red Sox fans at Fenway is no better than bringing a glove to the game if you're a grown man or doing the damn wave.

I am also not a huge fan of the pink shirts. I realize that a small portion of the proceeds goes to benefit breast cancer research. But let me let you in on a little secret... you can donate money to breast cancer research without buying a Red Sox shirt. I know this. I know people who do it. You could even donate the money you spent on the shirt or the hat or whatever other pink souvenir you purchased directly to the good people doing the cancer research. Granted you wouldn't have the pink souvenir, but maybe the satisfaction of donating all of your money to cancer research and none of your money to the "John Henry's getting divorced, again" fund could keep you warm at night.