Luis Ayala is the Mets Closer?

Alright, posting immediately after posting is very lame (or, maybe that's the point of blogging; who knows?), but it needs to be noted that Luis Ayala has inexplicably become the Mets' closer in Billy Wagner's absence. Huh? How did this happen? When am I due for my angina?

Please click on this link to see tonight's box score -- a 5-4 win over the Florida Marlins, thanks to Carlos Beltran's grand slam in the top of the ninth, and no thanks to Ayala's ninth inning of work, perhaps the ugliest line ever for a save: one inning pitched, four hits and two runs.

Being a Mets fan and being anxious go hand in hand. I guess that's why I love them so. How they make the playoffs with this bullpen is beyond me.

Now, Wolf Parade Probably Deconstructs Its Summer

Only the greatest of the greats follow impeccable albums with impeccable albums: "I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One" into "And The Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out"; "Girls Can Tell" into "Kill the Moonlight"; and "If You're Feeling Sinister" into "The Boy With the Arab Strap" are examples that come to mind immediately. Other bands, including the Arcade Fire, the Trail of Dead and Broken Social Scene, run out of breath just short of the finish line. Add Wolf Parade to the latter category.

There's an odd dynamic in the band's new record, "At Mount Zoomer." I read in the promotional material the songwriting was apparently more collaborative between its leaders, Spencer Krug and Dan Boeckner. Yet it was the debut album, "Apologies to the Queen Mary," that had seamless transitions between the two songwriters. This time around, Krug's songs sound like leftovers from Sunset Rubdown, replete with wandering, frilly keyboards, while when Boeckner gets lead vocals, he sounds like he's trying to sing passionately enough to carry a band that's somewhat listless behind him.

"Apologies to the Queen Mary" had this buzzing exigency to it -- when the songs kick in, they're right here, right in your face, and aren't afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves -- while "At Mount Zoomer" gets lost in soft psychedelia. I also read in the promotional material that Wolf Parade promised a "no singles" record after one filled with them, and they certainly delivered on that front. Even the album art consists of scary renderings of cartoon nightmares that are somehow incomplete.

OK, OK, I still like the record; it's grown on me, in fact. But life is often about expectations, and I had high ones for "At Mount Zoomer." Let's end on a high note, with the band playing "This Heart's On Fire" at CMJ in 2005. It includes one of my favorite lines (that might summarize my life): "Sometimes we rock 'n' roll / Sometimes we stay at home."

Because The Hold Steady Doesn't Deconstruct Its Summer

The Hold Steady's new album, "Stay Positive," shouldn't be good. It quickly sounds like the band and label, Vagrant, realizing they were on the cusp of (relative) stardom, wrestled with infusing their music with expensive production qualities and diluted hooks, while staying true to who they are. There are some very weak moments on the record and the keyboards can be mixed too loud.

But the band's lead singer, Craig Finn, really saves the whole thing, through sheer will. He won't take no for an answer, whether the question is "Are we going to like this song?" or, most especially, "Are we going to have a good time?" I love the previous record, "Boys and Girls in America," because it sounds like a ridiculously stereotypical college party, with joy, ecstasy, a knowing wink, and a huddle of girls trying to console their friend who's inexplicably crying in the corner. "Stay Positive" doesn't really get there (maybe the Hold Steady isn't trying to get there), but Finn gives it plenty of mantras, such as "We're gonna build something this summer," and when in the first single, "Sequestered in Memphis," there's the cheesy drop-out with chorus over drums, he cuts right through it with a sneer of "I went there on business." Overall, Finn reminds me a lot of Wilco's classic, "Being There," as both always think about a life of rock & roll. (The horns and chorus' vocal melody in"Sequestered in Memphis" also sound a lot like those in "Monday.") But while Wilco ponders the ambivalent, trying parts of it, Finn rushes through it, treats it like it's always a party. Oh, and he's charming because he somehow creates a full album of vocals when his range only spans five notes.

My two friends who've liked the Hold Steady for long before I don't like them much anymore. One says they're "out of clever." The other, from Minnesota, misses all the Minneapolis references -- much of the Hold Steady, before they moved to Brooklyn, were in Lifter Puller out there -- and says he's noticed the crowd really change at their shows. They're both right (while I haven't been to a Hold Steady show, that's turned me off to bands before, too; we're such snobs), and the next Hold Steady record will probably be dismal. There are only so many times Finn can rescue everything on sweat equity. But, for now, as I'm sure he'd say, Who cares? Quit agonizing and analyzing every little detail and worrying about two years in the future, and enjoy the moment.

The Olympics, But Not the Equestrian

Two weeks ago, I couldn't have cared about the 2008 Summer Olympics. But it's been on NBC a lot, which means it's been playing in my newsroom a lot, and I've come to appreciate it more than I ever have.

Circa 2008, I find the nationalistic undertones that used to drive the interest antiquated, if not hokey, though Russia has timed its effort to revive the Cold War perfectly with Beijing's games. What fascinates, in a deeply profound way, is how the Olympics premier events -- swimming, track and field, gymnastics, figure and alpine skiing -- are all about the marvels of the human body.

While America's four main professional sports have athletes of unparalleled skill, their success has much more to do with hand-eye coordination, e.g.. putting a ball in a whole. In the Olympics, it is elemental and raw. There are no bats or balls, just: How high can you jump? How fast can you run? How far can you throw this? How hard do your legs kick and arms propel? Can you throw your body into the air for two somersaults and then stay balanced on a three-inch thick beam? Even though aerodynamic outfits have replaced the naked body, the body is still naked. It all depends on your muscles, bones and biological systems.

This isn't meant to discount traditional U.S. athletics -- in fact, swimming, et al could never be interesting enough from a storytelling perspective to sustain a full season -- but there's something thrilling about watching this and thinking about what our bodies are capable of. Elaine Scarry would do a much better job than I delving into this further, but I'll try: Bodies are often thought of as our limitations -- "I hate the way my chin looks, I wish I looked like him"; "I'm fat, I'm tired"; "My back hurts, my arm aches" -- or as something we want to alter, pluck, embellish, cosmetically enhance. But here they are a liberating force, there is nothing they can't, hypothetically, do. Tonight I watched one man run 100 meters in 9.69 seconds, another swim for eight gold medals, and a 41-year-old woman win two silver medals in swimming. Incredible! The message: Eliminate mental fear, focus and train, and the body overcomes and accomplishes. (I think Nike would insert here, "Just Do It." How marketing rules our lives.) In the Olympics, the body trumps all, the body runs free, the body is hallowed. If only it were always so.

Farewell, John Edwards, Part II

Is there any sleazier excuse for trying to justify an extramarital affair than "the cancer was in remission"? This sets such an unseemly precedent that it's incomprehensible to foresee now how this could develop. How about, "No, no, no, Tim. I only killed her when her arms were already pulled out of the sockets"?

I fall squarely into the camp of those who care about our politicians' private sex lives, particularly for those who are running for president. While philandering and intellectual and policy excellency are not mutually exclusive, not only do we, the voting public, hope politicians will offer some sort of moral compass, on the campaign trail, they, including Edwards, impress upon us that they are that moral compass. And then they lie about it, over and over and over again. This is a valid, profound insight into who they are as a person, including professionally.

Six months ago, when Edwards dropped out of the race, I wrote it was unclear what political future a one-term senator and twice-failed presidential candidate could have. Now the answer is most emphatically, None. Is there any office, in the U.S. or internationally, he could win? I suppose he'll just slink off to North Carolina for years (the rest of his life?) and stay on Fortress' payroll as an "adviser" to robustly supplement his trust fund from the trial-lawyer days.

You Know You're Right

At my beloved gym, the staff has thankfully changed the radio station from the Top-40 iPod-like station to a '90s and contemporary rock station. While this means lots of middling chaff that permeated my teenage years (the Web site says it's "Puddle of Mudd week"?!), there are plenty of appreciated nuggets, most especially the Nirvana songs that are played about once an hour.

I only own "In Utero" and "From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah," and frankly, missed much of my Nirvana's titanic impact by a few years -- I was 10 years old when Kurt Cobain killed himself (though this doesn't seem to stop from most people exactly my age from placing themselves in the "Generation X/Transformed by Cobain Circa 1992" category). Nonetheless, it's hard to miss his and the band's brilliance, taking, albeit briefly, culture for a hard left turn. I've always loved their performance (and story behind it, described in the band's above Wikipedia link) at the 1992 MTV Music Video Awards, where Cobain opened with a few bars of "Rape Me," to the executives' shock, before heading into the single and ending with Krist Novoselic bleeding when his bass crashed into his head, Cobain destroying all the equipment and drummer Dave Grohl calling out Axl Rose. Here's the video:



Nirvana's original label, Sub Pop, celebrated its 20th anniversary last month, which is remarkably impressive for an independent music label. The label makes its money these days from a roster far more eclectic than the Seattle grunge that catapulted it to fame, but Nirvana's "Bleach" is still, by far, the best-selling record. Perhaps it's allowed Sub Pop to create a long-term financial plan and contemplate existing in perpetuity; a friend told me the label even makes small charitable donations. Good for them.

Really, what I think Nirvana's success proves is that people are not afraid of art that challenges them and there is a broad, broad swath of the public at large who knows that art is not an easily consumed product, pristine, compact and easily resolved, because life is not that way either. Since Cobain's death, popular music took a few weird turns, mostly to a destination of overproduced, overly packaged songs that rely on style rather than substance, and has now landed in a hybridized, ultra-niche world where there's lots and lots of good music (perhaps even too much of it flooding the market), but also fewer people listening to it and in a much more compartmentalized way so there's very little semblance of a common denominator of great culture that brings people together, which is thoroughly disappointing. But someday, some great band (multiple bands?) will unify it again because people will want to be unified over something enlightening, intriguing, compelling and complex.

OK, OK, Jason Bay's Had a Hot Start

But Manny's in L.A. has been even better! In one week, he is 13-for-23, with four home runs and nine RBI. And he's wearing number 99 (he says he doesn't know how he ended up with it) and wore gigantic blue shades before Saturday night's game while giving an indoor interview. Despite his assurances to manager Joe Torre he would cut his dreads, he hasn't one week later. Manny is incapable of going corporate.

After talking with several friends about the trade, I've learned there's really no way to win an argument defending Manny. What he did off the field in Boston the past month trumped what he did on it. In the end, the Sawx had to trade him (and Bay is a more-than-capable replacement). But this column by Charlie Pierce, Globe writer, Slate contributor and general funny man of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," is the best summation of I've seen anywhere: Sawx management effusively blamed all the team's late-July woes on Manny and the Boston press was more than happy to follow along. How does Jason Varitek's .220 batting average hurt the team any less than Manny's off-the-field antics, especially considering Varitek's average will be even worse next year, when he'll again be requesting an even more undeserved $10 million? And Peter Gammons claiming Manny's "disrespect" of the game rivals Mark McGwire's steroid use? How could a man so unequivocally do that while naturally being one of the best players of his generation? Get a clue, Gammons.

Last weekend was a rough one for me, with both Manny and my girlfriend heading to the West Coast. Thankfully, one of them returned. It's been a perplexing week in Boston, as everyone is ecstatic with the 5-1 post-trade record, but incapable of leaving Manny behind; it's all anyone wants to talk about on WEEI. Rooting for a sports team is often a romantic struggle, but Manny seems to take it to the Nth degree.