I just flew back from Kauai, and boy, are my arms tired.
What? I don't stare silently at you when you make jokes.
Anyhow, now that two-thirds of the Catfish Stew authors are now safely back in their villages -- enjoy that tour of the European Union, Ken -- here's a brief, just off the top of my head summary of what happened to the A's during my eight-day jaunt around the Pacific:
The stick of chewing gum holding Milton Bradley's hamstring together needs to be replaced.
Oh, and the A's went a very middling 4-4 during my travels, dropping two games in the standings to the hated Angels of some indeterminate Southern California municipality.
And yet, I am unconcerned by the way the A's are treading water or the mysterious ailments that seem to plague every player who steps on the desecrated burial ground which the Oakland clubhouse was apparently built over or the fact that Jason Kendall and his mighty .444 OPS and glass throwing arm are still a fixture in the lineup. Why am I unconcerned by these things?
Because if you spent eight days looking at this, you wouldn't care much about such trivialities either.