Long time no talk!

Greetings to any and all from our recently concluded creative writing class. I miss you guys. In lieu of fiction fragments or synopses, here is a brief list of 10 things that you might not know about the Texas Rangers' (horrific) pitcher, Koji Uehara—plus some Haiku that puts the "poo" in poetry. Enjoy!

P.S. I plan on completing the rest our assignments in the next few days and will put them up on this bad boy of a blog for anyone to check out (or not). I hope all is well with everyone!

Things you didn’t know about Koji Uehara, and bad poetry

Last night’s drubbing of the helpless Boston Red Sox by a score of 18-2 (Koji Uehara’s happen too frequently to count anymore…) was a thing of absolute beauty!

Well, except for that little appearance by the batting machine with sideburns with his infamous splitter that doesn’t split and world famous hanging fastball.

When Koji pitches, it’s like the first time you got dumped. Sure, in a few hours you won’t care anymore, but at that moment you’re moved enough to write some epically bad poetry.

Here are three episodic Haikus followed by some things that you didn’t know about Mr. Uehara. Enjoy.

Koji Uehara

Enables opposition

Four-hundred foot blasts

*****

Koji Uehara

Needs to take his uncanny suck

To another team

*****

Anaheim Angels:

Koji Uehara might be

A great fit for you

*****

1. According to Elias Sports Bureau, when facing Koji, it is three times more difficult to NOT hit a home run than it is to take him downtown—or, as they say: “deep into the heart of Dong City.” Okay, only I say that.

2. Fellow Japanese import, Yoshinori Tateyama, was a High School teammate of Koji. Back then, Koji was an outfielder. Now, if you’re HS coach won’t let you pitch…Just sayin’.

3. During last year’s ALCS against the Detroit Tigers, Koji pitched 1 1/3 innings while surrendering 3 home runs…HE ONLY GAVE UP ONE FEWER HRs THAN OUTS RECORDED.

4. The whole “it ain’t over ‘till the fat lady sings” thing is tired and cliché. A better rested, new cliché should be: “It ain’t over until Koji Uehara gets an out.”

5. Forget number four. Realistically, if Koji is in there, the ******* thing is already over.

6. In Japan, a popular pitch is named “shuuto.” When Koji throws it, it is referred to as “shit throw.”

7. Throughout his Major League Baseball career (2009-Present), Koji has had an excellent walk rate. This is not due to his outstanding location or control. This is due to a basic baseball philosophy: Why walk when you can hit a home run?

8. Koji’s English translator isn’t even bilingual. Hell, he’s not even “bi.” He’s simply a tape recorder with a pre-recorded message that says: “I am sorry. I did not have my good stuff today. I wish to go back to Baltimore where the team is bad and expectations are low. Thank you.”

9. Fellow Japanese pitchers Yu Darvish and Yoshi Tateyama actually speak in English anytime Koji is near.

10. Balls thrown by Koji Uehara accumulated 3,000,000 frequent flyer miles last year. Koji’s balls cashed in the miles and, like, totally vacationed in Puerto Rico—where they were held, but not for ransom. Booya!

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Writer-Cize #3(Tim Howell)

It is challenging to keep my thoughts of Katy Perry's hotness—be it audibly, intuitively or writtenly—on the PG tip. This photograph, lovely as it is, was chosen intentionally by myself because it keeps my mind out of the gutter.

Sort of.

Well, at least it highlights the beauty of her face rather than other (ahem) more obvious physical attributes such as...

Cue the internal dialogue.

Don't think it Tim. Dude, just shut it down. And for God's sake don't say it out loud!

KATY PERRY'S GOT A GREAT BODY! GREAT BODY! LARGE, LARGE KNOCKERS! I COULD EASILY CUT OUT RED MEAT IF THOSE MELONS WERE EDIBLE.

My apologies. I'd feel even more sexist right now had this exercise not been about describing beauty. So I guess a little blanket objectification is par for this course. Besides, who knows, she may be a downright disagreeable person.

Okay, if I was writing about a woman that resembled this picture, I'd try not to put my entire impression of her down on paper. Obviously, this is the type of look that I like, but as we talked about in last week's class, unless I'm making this woman the antagonist, I'd better hold off on the super-hot attractive talk or every reader will hate her.

Also, of course, you don't want to overdo the character descriptions. If you do so, you stifle one of the best things about reading versus watching a movie. We love forming how a character looks—in our mind's eye, not someone else's—as we read. Now when I read and a woman is written as attractive, this may be how I picture her, but that's a digression as this assignment isn't about my own weird psychological makeup.

Okay, for real, here goes:

Dude this chick was smoking. The End. You see? We all can come up with a very different picture of this woman in our own minds, no?

Just kidding. Here's my no BS attempt:

I took my usual spot in the restaurant nearest the street-side window. The adjacent road was dark with a drizzled slickness. Drop by drop, the doldrums of my day drifted through with the same easy rhythm of the rain's soft patter.

I watched as an umbrella-less woman used a newspaper for protection. She ducked down low, arched her shoulders and scurried into the restaurant.

The muted jingle of the door's bells had just ceased as she removed the newspaper, shook it out, and then shivered dramatically. I hate to see a good newspaper get soaked...it falls apart, and becomes generally unreadable. But I enjoyed watching her shiver.

One look at this young woman, and I'd gladly run into the New York Times headquarters with a fire hose set to stop-the-riot-level.

Her hair hung low, but was frazzled with the unkemptness that only damp hair drying can provide. Her face held a soft glow that was just as intimidating as it was inviting.

Her age was a tough call. She could be 22, or 42. She had that type of easy, no hassle elegance that masquerades age effortlessly. We all know plenty of people willing to kill for that quality.

Her deep green eyes flashed towards my table. It was then that I realized I had been staring. I slammed my eyes down and rushed a sip of my coffee. It went down the wrong pipe and I started to choke and cough, while generally feeling like a total dumbass.

I felt a firm slap on my back, and when I looked up, there she was. "Are you okay?" she asked in a voice that purred soft as a kitten, while sounding just as dangerous.

Who is he?

Who is she?

Synopsis for "The Designated Hitter" (Tim Howell)

Barry “The Bolt” Holt woke up from his dream of becoming a major league pitcher a while back. Occasionally a day or two go by when he doesn’t even think about it.

Holt was a “closer” in the minor leagues before he finally called it a career due to various arm ailments. The closer’s role requires a short-term memory to block out negativity. It also requires a kill or be killed mentality, as the game of baseball can be cutthroat.

Holt later learned that these unique gifts could also be handy in a different type of endeavor. Holt has been a contract hit man, or “designated hitter” since he left the game of baseball five years ago.

When Holt’s boss called him up with an assignment that required him to report to a minor league training camp disguised as a minor league hopeful, he was all over it. All Holt had to do was pretend to be on the team for a week or so and then get his man.

It sounded easy enough. Play some ball, do his thing, and then get paid. The only way this gig could go wrong is if Holt actually made the team. No way the sore-armed thirty-something could pull that off.

Little did Holt know that he still had some lightning left in that right arm of his.

Two weeks into minor league camp and his intended target is just as alive as Holt's baseball career. His velocity is up and he’s been lights-out. He's been so good in fact that he has been offered a different type of contract—one that might fast track him to the major leagues.

Finally, Barry Holt is within an arm’s length of fulfilling his lifelong dream. That is, if he can stay alive long enough.

Holt's boss is getting antsy, and if he doesn't produce soon, he will become a target himself. Is Holt's lifelong dream of becoming a big leaguer worth dying for?

Writer-cize #2(Tim Howell)

When I'm scanning the Internet for a baseball-related article, what turns me off is too much front-loaded sabermetrics talk. I'd rather read: "A.J. Burnett's acquisition provides excellent upside to the Pittsburgh Pirates, as he brings statistics that in some ways are better than Philadelphia's Cliff Lee—for a fraction of the cost."

I'd rather not read: "FIP (fielding independent pitching) converts a pitcher's three true outcomes into an ERA-like number. The formula is (13*HR+3*BB-2*K)/IP, plus a constant (usually around 3.2) to put it on the same scale as ERA. (I think I just threw up a little).

Sure, that's an extreme example. I guess it just boils down to personal preference, as the "sabermetric" example is a "hook" to those looking for that type of analysis.

When it comes to a short story, I'm a sucker for really quirky openings (i.e. Raymond Carver) and am turned off by rambling wordiness (some Agatha Christie).

Here's an awesome opening line by Carver:

"A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house."

—from "Viewfinder"

For me, the Carver hook works on multiple levels. For starters it's clear and concise. It throws you into the story immediately with a ton of questions—impressive since the sentence is only 16 words long.

How does a man without hands knock on the door (or does he scratch)? Who buys photographs of their own home? I'd like to see these demographics. Why/How did this man lose his hands? What senses are compensated if you lose your sense of touch? Carver was a master, and perhaps his excellence is at least in part derived from his ridiculous ability to "show" and not "tell." This opening line transports us into the twisted world of Carver, and what a fun ride it is.

The Last Dance of the Donkey

Freelance Investigator, Jack Windsor, was having a pretty solid weekend. He had an insult-free conversation with his ex-wife on Friday night. On Saturday he beat his good buddy Brian O'Mare on the links.

Windsor didn't have much time to savor his victories, however. On Sunday while at a Benton Burros baseball game, he got a phone call from the Chief of Police, Windsor's recently defeated golf friend, Brain O'Mare. And this phone call didn't have anything to do with sports. Unless you count murder as an extracurricular activity.

The baseball team's mascot, Buddy the Burro, had been murdered—found on top of the fireworks launch station with a bullet in his head—and there was no shortage of suspects—one of which was Windsor's ex-wife, Gabby, and possibly her new boyfriend, the Centerville Centaur.

Can Jack Windsor help his old friend O'Mare find the murderer? Follow Windsor as he learns if he's got what it takes to solve a murder in a town where no one is who they seem.