So, I'm on my laptop and in the middle of the San Jose State library, trying to figure out how to make a comparison of Steve Kline and Mike Stanton interesting. I finally decide that I am but a mere mortal, and this task is not within my realm of possibility. I go to sfgiants.com to see if I can glean some ideas from news stories there. Nothing but the Mailbag with Rich Draper feature, which is always a blessing ("Hey Rich, can Tim Lincecum hit at all, and if so, do you think he should start at first base next year over Chad Santos????/") but rarely fodder for a column.
I switch back to the word processor, and start writing a brilliant satirical piece that imagines Kline and Stanton as the titular characters in Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, featuring a surprise appearance of Jim Poole as Hamlet. My god, how this piece would have defined me. It was the logical culmination of every piece of writing I had done to this point: all of the lame analogies, all of the pop culture references, all of the bathroom humor, yet it would have been tempered with some of the most astute observations ever recorded about left-handed relievers. It was mapped out in my head so perfectly, so magnificently.
Behind the word processor program, the sfgiants.com page open. That was a mistake. The sound was up fairly high on my computer, and a delayed ad started playing behind it. The ad, if it is legal to transcribe it in its entirety:
Just venting. I'm obviously still bitter about the Giants being blacked out for MLB.tv in Ashland, Oregon, which was Mariners country on the television and A's country on the radio. And I'm still a little bitter about the seek-and-destroy mission against my Jason Schmidt YouTube video. And I also didn't feel like writing about Steve Kline or Mike Stanton today.