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.

This post was delayed because of the announcement of Theo's engagement.

MUSINGS ON THE RIVALRY RENEWED

I guess sooner or later everybody who writes about the Red Sox has to write on the Yankees rivalry. I've mentioned it a time or two myself. Unlike most people who comment on this circus, I have no emotional attatchment to either team. I do have a profound antipathy to the Red Sox, as you might have noticed if you'd read any of my earlier posts.

I'm not thrilled about using the word musings, but it seemed like all the good titles were taken. I think only people with multi-colored soul patches feel comfortable using the word musing. Even then, I bet they only feel comfortable using the word when they talk about outsider art, or the one person shows that they produce to show their loser friends that it was truly bleak to go through their puberty in a suburb where they were tortured by jocks, stuffed into lockers and forced to undergo swirlie after swirlie for the heinous crime of having a bohemian soul. A run-on, I know (actually, I think it might even be 2 or 3 run-ons running onto one another), but how do you break up a sentence like that without ruining the insanity. But back to the point, if there is, or ever was, one.

I am not, or at least I was not, a Yankees fan. I've always hated the Red Sox, but for a long time I hated the Yankees too. Their fans are just about as bad as Red Sox fans. I went to school with a lot of Yankees fans, and if I heard one more person talk about the inferiority complex Bostonians feel toward New Yorkers, I was going to start doing backflips and giggling like Woody Woodpecker.

I don't think Bostonians should feel inferior to New Yorkers for any reason. I've been told that New York has the best museums and theater and culture in the country. I don't care. I don't go to museums. If I feel the need to be bored, I have a number of people I can talk to about how Josh Beckett will easily surpass Cy Young's career stats and how Jim Rice's 1978 season can only be compared to DiMaggio in 1941. Plus, how many times can you really go to the same museum? As for the theater and the rest of the things people with too much time and money on their hands and a morbid desire to torture their fellow man consider culture, I am all set with it.

There is one area in which Bostonians (not me, but you know who you are) feel inferiority to New Yorkers is when it comes to baseball. Red Sox fans are jealous of Yankees fans. And they should be. The Yankee organization is a model for how a franchise should operate. I don't mean Big Stein spending 200 or 300 million to buy a title. I mean the little things that people don't necessarily notice at first.

When the Yankees win a game at home, they play Sinatra's version of "New York, New York" over the PA system. That's pretty classy. It's a great song, it celebrates the city and Sinatra is Sinatra. And then there's the Red Sox organization. When the Sox win a game at home, what plays over the PA? Love That Dirty Water by the Standells. The Standells have nothing else of note in their songbook. Not only that, but the song was written by a guy who got mugged on the MIT bridge. To top it all off, the song sucks.

Like I said a few days ago, this blog has been evolving into my own version of the Festivus Airing of Grievances, and like Frank Costanza, I have a lot of problems with you people. The playing of this particular song is one of them. Surely, in the 370 years since Boston was incorporated as a city someone must have done something worthy of commemoration in song beyond show appalling contempt for the cleanliness of our watershed areas.

Much more will be written in this blog about the pathetic fixation Red Sox fans have with the Yankees. Some of the themes will touch on a website devoted to the hatred of the Yankees, and how much of a fraud it is. For the record, there are many reasons it is a fraud, and none of them relate to their attacks on the Yankees. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I am not a Yankee fan, nor have I ever been a Yankee fan. The Yankees are merely a convenient foil to my mortal enemies in Red Sox Nation.

Before I sign off this evening, I have an follow up to my recent post in which I railed against Mark Cuban. I didn't watch tonight's game, there was a movie I'd really wanted to see for a while now on cable. So I watched it, but after the fact, I tuned in to TNT's postgame show because I'm a big fan of Charles Barkley, as you might have noticed if you read my earlier work.

To make a long story short, as it's Memorial Day and I've had a beer or two, I noticed that the Mavs were the benificiaries of at least two missed calls down the stretch. Since I've heard that Mark Cuban has sent game tapes to the NBA offices to highlight missed calls or bad calls that hurt his team, I assume that he will send this particular tape to the commish so that these mistakes do not occur again. Only a colossal fraud would point out the officiating errors (and I admit some mistakes must occur as long as there are human beings officiating games) that hurt his team while remaining silent on the missed calls that benefit the Benefactor.

I wonder though whether I will be disappointed in that afformentioned hope of mine. Perhaps the Benefactor is too busy auditioning for the role of Clyde when the studios remake the Clint Eastwood classics Every Which Way But Loose and Any Which Way You Can. I assume that's what he's doing when he watches a Mavs game. Otherwise I can't come up with a plausible explanation for his behaior in the stands.

There is always the possibility that I, for my part, might have bit off more than I can chew in trying the Benefactor. It will, however, be somewhat difficult for him to have a problem with my calling him a fraud when he doesn't send that game tape to the league office. Good night, and good luck to you, Mark Cuban, if ever you decide that this site might have libelled you in the last week or so.