The Score Bard is brilliant. Does anyone know who he is? The random "e.e. gammings" Diamond Notes generator produced this delightful bit of nonsense:

Cliff Politte, torn lung, who used to, throw a watersmooth-silver knuckle-curve, and break onetwothreefourfive batsjustlikethat, heavens. He was a short man, and what i want to know is, how do you like your hero now, Toronto.

Where have I seen that style (not to mention the meticulous proofreading) before?

All I can say about F-Lop is, when you multiply his top-of-the-scale tools by so-called intangibles like attitude and work ethic, you get zero. Credit J.P. for recognizing it as quickly as he did and flipping a colossal disappointment for two stud prospects.

You're too kind to Larry Bowa, Craig. So's Ed Wade.

"Spring is like a coconut (which comes carefully out of Seattle) arranging a grandstand, from which people look (while people stare, there a strange thing and a known thing here) and, while Pat Gillick changes everything carefully (to and fro) and moving (new and old players), perhaps. Without breaking anything."

RE: Rick Ankiel
Do you think they might be disgusted enough to trade him?

I'd offer them a B prospect for him (The Cards farm is on the thin side). A change in organizations could only help him now.

Mini hijack: Jays claimed Scott Service from AZ, optioned Mike Smith.

On the pickup, I can see the headline now after his first bad game: "Jays Victim of Bad Service".

Really, this is worth a shot. Service is old at 36 but has been pretty ok in AAA the past 3 seasons. He's a strikeout guy and should do just as well as Mike Smith or better. One could argue that it's better to invest time in the young guy to see what he can do but Smith didn't belong yet, he was just to be a fresh arm.

The only bad thing, and it's minor, is that Service has a JP/Oakland connection and it's more fodder for those who wish to be critical of Ricciardi.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Roker

Let us go then, you and I,
When the storm front is spread out against the sky
Like a viewer etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain slightly slippery streets,
the meteorological retreats,
of restless nights in the Storm Trak Center's halls,
trying to estimate accumulated snowfalls.
Streets with gusting winds like a tedious argument
of a late February snow event,
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Do not ask, "How many inches is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of light, intermittent snow.

The yellow fog event that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the barometric pressure of the evening,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was the coldest October night since 1975,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow haze that slides along the street,
raising the pollen index outside the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a winter storm warning to meet the winter that you meet;
There will be time for wintry mixes late,
And time for all the weak storm system winds
that lift and drop some hail upon your plate.
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred forecast versions,
And for a hundred wet warm-air inversions,
Before the taking of donuts and Fresca.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of light, intermittent snow.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Humid air?" and, "Humid air?"
Time to return the teleprompter's stare,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-
(Producers say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My necktie from Mens Wearhouse, but asserted by a Rotary pin -
Do I dare
Disturb the 3-D weather graphic?
In a minute there is time
To draw squiggly lines and asterisks and point out jammed-up traffic.

For I have shown them all already, shown them all:
Have forecast snow for mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out precip with coffee spoons;
I know Chopper Seven's rotors dying with a dying fall
Beneath the jazzy weather music of a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the highs already, known them all --
High-pressure centers that fix temps in a formulated phase,
And when I am formulated, with scattered clouds and drizzle,
When I am pinned and wriggling for photo ops at malls,
Then how should I begin
To explain the Doppler Radar's mysterious ways?
And how should I presume?

I should have been a mass of Arctic air
Scuttling across the jet streams of silent seas.

And the rush hour traffic, please drive carefully!
Backed up along Route 95 it lingers,
Leave work early... watch for black ice... it malingers.
Stretched along the turnpike, with freezing rain and sleet.
Should I, after donuts and coffee cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the suburbs to their crisis?

Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the overnight with a smile,
To have squeezed the extended outlook into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "The ozone index can be felt within your head,
I am come to chart the rainfall, chart rainfall" -
If one, flipping channels on the TV by her bed,
Should say: "It is not cold at all.
I should not have bundled up, at all."

It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic weather map threw my nerves in patterns on the screen,
Would it have been worth while
If one, checking the wind-chill outside the hall,
And opening the window, should say:
"It is not cold at all,
This is not the forecast, at all."

No! I am not Willard Scott, nor was meant to be;
Am a local weatherman, one that will do
To tease the 11 o'clock news, announce a school closing or two,
Laugh with the anchorman; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Subjected when the weather is bad to much abuse;
Full of high sentence, but as a forecaster, a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.

It grows cold... It grows cold...
I shall advise my viewers to bundle up and wear their trousers rolled.
Shall I chart the Gulf Stream's winds?
Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and send viewers to the beach.
Sent my resume to the Weather Channel, tried to reach --

I do not think that they will call for me.

We have lingered on warm, humid air blowing in from the sea,
With satellite photos of landscapes green and brown,
Till producers' voices wake us, and we drown.

By John Berger
http://www.individual1.com (an otherwise not-for-family-viewing Website)