Yep, that's yours truly delivering eggs to Dot. The director, camera operator, and the rest of the crew did a great job.
Spec RED SOX commercial; directed by Paul Van Wart (Werk Bros., LA)
Casting by Kevin Fennessy, Kevin Fennessy Casting, imdb: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm...
Category: Comedy
Tags: Red Sox Yankees Suck comedy Dot Dwyer John Grenier-Ferris Jae-Omo Zubhuza Rob DiNinni Bradley Van Dussen Avery Hatch
Showing posts with label Boston Red Sox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boston Red Sox. Show all posts
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Mike Lowell's still a Sox
Finally, a major league ballplayer who isn't greedy and goes for the most money, although $37 million for three years is a pretty big chunk of change.
Mike Lowell re-signed with the Sox, turning down an estimated $50 million over four years with the Phillies. He said he considers himself more of a baseball player than a businessperson. He likes playing baseball in Boston. His wife likes Boston. He likes the Red Sox organization.
Good for him. Major league sports is just that: a business. And the players are entertainers just like Madonna, who just signed a contract with Live Nation that includes all aspects of her business including t-shirt sales. I can't imagine that even Madonna, when she was younger and thinking up songs in her head, considered t-shirt sales in the mix.
Forgetting the core reason they do what they do is what businesses all over the world do, concentrating on the bottom line rather than the art or the sport or whatever it is they do. And the almighty dollar just sullies the reason we all got into whatever it is we do, so we chase the dollar. Health care is no longer about healing, but it's about running a profitable hospital. Baseball players forget about the joy and grace and beauty of turning a double play or lacing a hit into right and instead consider endorsements.
$37 million more than enough for anyone, and I honestly believe people can have too much money. It changes them, mostly for the worst. $37 million is probably the GNP for a lot of small countries. It's an amount of money that most of us can't even comprehend, and it's nice to see that Lowell can keep his sights on his values, just like he can keep his eye on the ball on the playing field.
Mike Lowell re-signed with the Sox, turning down an estimated $50 million over four years with the Phillies. He said he considers himself more of a baseball player than a businessperson. He likes playing baseball in Boston. His wife likes Boston. He likes the Red Sox organization.
Good for him. Major league sports is just that: a business. And the players are entertainers just like Madonna, who just signed a contract with Live Nation that includes all aspects of her business including t-shirt sales. I can't imagine that even Madonna, when she was younger and thinking up songs in her head, considered t-shirt sales in the mix.
Forgetting the core reason they do what they do is what businesses all over the world do, concentrating on the bottom line rather than the art or the sport or whatever it is they do. And the almighty dollar just sullies the reason we all got into whatever it is we do, so we chase the dollar. Health care is no longer about healing, but it's about running a profitable hospital. Baseball players forget about the joy and grace and beauty of turning a double play or lacing a hit into right and instead consider endorsements.
$37 million more than enough for anyone, and I honestly believe people can have too much money. It changes them, mostly for the worst. $37 million is probably the GNP for a lot of small countries. It's an amount of money that most of us can't even comprehend, and it's nice to see that Lowell can keep his sights on his values, just like he can keep his eye on the ball on the playing field.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Red Sox victory parade
I guess I should say something about the Red Sox World Series victory parade since it was right here in my backyard. I guess I went. Rather, I was sort of drawn to it, was standing there for awhile, then left. I went out to catch some air at lunch, and then thought I’d check out what I knew was going to be madness. But there’s this urge in us…me, at least…that wants to be part of the greater world, though more and more I know through experience that I really don’t fit into that greater world. As was the case on Tuesday.
I eased up to the crowd standing up where West Street and Tremont meet. The crowd was thick there, maybe ten people deep, but I figured the players would be up on the ducks so I’d see something when they passed. But I couldn’t handle the crowd.
There were four construction workers sitting there on the bumper of a UPS truck, and the scene was such a cliché. One big loudmouth and his three little lapdogs. The loudmouth was named, Paul and he was from Medford. Now there’s something unique to the adult male Irish population here in Boston that they add a –y or an –lie to their names. Hence, grown men who look like they’re probably suffering from such adult maladies like advanced hemorrhoids and really nasty, smelly feet call each other little boy names like Bobby or Tommy or Billy. Their “maws” probably still thump them on the heads with their index fingers when they do something wrong, like use the tablecloth for a napkin.
So this guy was Paulie, and because he was from Medford, it was said with that regionally slurring of words unique to that particular city: Puaulie, from Mefah. He brayed like mule with a speech impediment. To passing police officers, all of whom he seemed to know, young girls with whom he flirted. Everything was punctuated with this loud, horsey bray of a laugh. That pretty much set the tone for that particular corner, and I know Boston well enough now that I knew that was pretty much the tone all along the entire parade route.
When I was more in love with this city, I thought guys like him colorful. And I suppose they are, to some degree. Harmless, really, just a guy enjoying himself and the world. But he’s rooted in this city, and I’m not any more, and I feel as disconnected to him as I do about everything else around here.
Which brings me to the Sox. I am long past hero worship, or at least hero worship of sports figures. Funny, the cube in which I’m typing this right now has pictures of Lucinda Williams, Jimmy Hendrix, and Ernest Hemingway pinned to the walls. I don’t think I worship them as much as I’d like to emulate them. I don’t want to be them. I want to be me, with their qualities. So I’m long past standing on a street corner to wait for a glimpse of an overpaid entertainer, which I think all sports figures are. Manny and Schilling are the same as Michael Jackson or Mick Jagger in my mind. If I go to a game, which I rarely do because I can’t afford to, I root for the Sox, but would rather see a good game rather than a sloppy win. And I’ve long since stopped tying my self-worth to the won-loss record of any sports team.
So, the Red Sox won the World Series. Good for them. They all seemed happy. The crowd seemed happy. I was happy, too, because when I turned around there was one of my favorite bookstores right in front of me, the Brattle Bookstore, and I went in and found a birthday present for Sue.
I eased up to the crowd standing up where West Street and Tremont meet. The crowd was thick there, maybe ten people deep, but I figured the players would be up on the ducks so I’d see something when they passed. But I couldn’t handle the crowd.
There were four construction workers sitting there on the bumper of a UPS truck, and the scene was such a cliché. One big loudmouth and his three little lapdogs. The loudmouth was named, Paul and he was from Medford. Now there’s something unique to the adult male Irish population here in Boston that they add a –y or an –lie to their names. Hence, grown men who look like they’re probably suffering from such adult maladies like advanced hemorrhoids and really nasty, smelly feet call each other little boy names like Bobby or Tommy or Billy. Their “maws” probably still thump them on the heads with their index fingers when they do something wrong, like use the tablecloth for a napkin.
So this guy was Paulie, and because he was from Medford, it was said with that regionally slurring of words unique to that particular city: Puaulie, from Mefah. He brayed like mule with a speech impediment. To passing police officers, all of whom he seemed to know, young girls with whom he flirted. Everything was punctuated with this loud, horsey bray of a laugh. That pretty much set the tone for that particular corner, and I know Boston well enough now that I knew that was pretty much the tone all along the entire parade route.
When I was more in love with this city, I thought guys like him colorful. And I suppose they are, to some degree. Harmless, really, just a guy enjoying himself and the world. But he’s rooted in this city, and I’m not any more, and I feel as disconnected to him as I do about everything else around here.
Which brings me to the Sox. I am long past hero worship, or at least hero worship of sports figures. Funny, the cube in which I’m typing this right now has pictures of Lucinda Williams, Jimmy Hendrix, and Ernest Hemingway pinned to the walls. I don’t think I worship them as much as I’d like to emulate them. I don’t want to be them. I want to be me, with their qualities. So I’m long past standing on a street corner to wait for a glimpse of an overpaid entertainer, which I think all sports figures are. Manny and Schilling are the same as Michael Jackson or Mick Jagger in my mind. If I go to a game, which I rarely do because I can’t afford to, I root for the Sox, but would rather see a good game rather than a sloppy win. And I’ve long since stopped tying my self-worth to the won-loss record of any sports team.
So, the Red Sox won the World Series. Good for them. They all seemed happy. The crowd seemed happy. I was happy, too, because when I turned around there was one of my favorite bookstores right in front of me, the Brattle Bookstore, and I went in and found a birthday present for Sue.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Manny says team has no reason to panic
From the AP on the MSN site:
With the Red Sox just one loss from elimination, the star slugger was asked about Game 5 of the AL Championship Series against Cleveland.
"Why should we panic?" he said Wednesday in a rare clubhouse interview. "We've got a great team."
And then, this: "It doesn't happen, so who cares? There's always next year. It's not like it's the end of the world."
Gotta love Manny. He isn't afraid to tell it like it is. To be himself. It isn't the end of the world. For the fans who live and breath the Sox, get a life. For the players, we've known all along, just like Justin Timberlake, Madonna, and Mick Jagger, you're all just a bunch of entertainers who get paid a helluva lot of money. Instead of strutting the stage, you strut the ballfield. It isn't mom and apple pie anymore, and probably never was. That's marketing. That's branding.
With the Red Sox just one loss from elimination, the star slugger was asked about Game 5 of the AL Championship Series against Cleveland.
"Why should we panic?" he said Wednesday in a rare clubhouse interview. "We've got a great team."
And then, this: "It doesn't happen, so who cares? There's always next year. It's not like it's the end of the world."
Gotta love Manny. He isn't afraid to tell it like it is. To be himself. It isn't the end of the world. For the fans who live and breath the Sox, get a life. For the players, we've known all along, just like Justin Timberlake, Madonna, and Mick Jagger, you're all just a bunch of entertainers who get paid a helluva lot of money. Instead of strutting the stage, you strut the ballfield. It isn't mom and apple pie anymore, and probably never was. That's marketing. That's branding.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Boston Red Sox: Opening day
A big group of young people on the train today going in Fenway Park for opening day.
My big question: It isn't why aren't they in school? It's, Where the hell do they get the money to do something that expensive? I can't afford to go to see the Red Sox.
My big question: It isn't why aren't they in school? It's, Where the hell do they get the money to do something that expensive? I can't afford to go to see the Red Sox.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Boston Red Sox opening day
I guess I should make some mention that major league baseball season starts today. Baseball is ingrained in me as much as Catholicism. It was such a big part of my life. I grew up in Cincinnati during the days of the Big Red Machine with Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, and Tony Perez, with the three "Bs": beer, baseball, and brats.
But last year, I didn't go to a single baseball game. I just can't afford the price of a ticket, though maybe that's not quite true. Just today I spent $60 on a concert ticket. Over the years I've just gotten ot the point where I think the players are just a bunch of overpayed babies.
Hopefully this year I'll be under the stars with maybe a bucket of chicken watching the Cape Cod League.
Now that's baseball the way it's meant to be watched. A warm summer night, sitting on a blanket on the grass on a hillside with your sweetheart, maybe your kids. They pass the hat instead of charging for tickets.
But last year, I didn't go to a single baseball game. I just can't afford the price of a ticket, though maybe that's not quite true. Just today I spent $60 on a concert ticket. Over the years I've just gotten ot the point where I think the players are just a bunch of overpayed babies.
Hopefully this year I'll be under the stars with maybe a bucket of chicken watching the Cape Cod League.
Now that's baseball the way it's meant to be watched. A warm summer night, sitting on a blanket on the grass on a hillside with your sweetheart, maybe your kids. They pass the hat instead of charging for tickets.
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