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!