Ichiroooooo! Number fifteeeeee ooooone!

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ichiro

Ewee asked about Ichiro’s “stance” (not “wide” as far as I know) and I ended up spewing a bunch of Ichiro trivia. Want to know what he eats for lunch every day? Is he a dog or cat person? How his brother make’s a living? What he does in the outfield while not chasing down fly balls? Read on…to commemorate Ichiro’s clutch performance in the final WBC game against Korea, here’s my partial brain dump of Ichiro facts.

Like many professional athletes, Ichiro exhibits obsessive compulsive tendencies.

  • Ichiro eats curry rice (the Japanese variety) Every Day. I watched an Ichiro documentary where his wife talked about how she used to try variations of the dish. You know, add more carrots or leave out a potato, but nooooo, Ichiro wants it to taste exactly the same every day.
  • Before every at bat, he tugs his uniform at the shoulder and arcs his bat arm towards the outfield.
  • Ichiro constantly stretches in the outfield (and before each at bat). You’ll see many outfielders adjusting their sunglasses, shifting their weight, grabbing their crotches or whatnot. Ichiro does all that while stretching.

    • Ichiro believes he is a baseball diety.

  • Ichiro asserts that if he wanted to, he could be a big home run hitter, but he chooses to be a small ball, top of the batting order hitter. In the same spirit, Ichiro believes he can pitch. There were rumors he would be on the mound in the WBC and he’s asked the Mariner’s to let him pitch a major league inning or two.
  • We know Ichiro can hit, run, field and maybe even pitch. But did you know he can design clothes too? In a celebrity designer showdown, Ichiro created his own outfit and a panel of random Italian fashionistas declared him the “winner” over a professional designer. I must admit his suit was pretty nice looking. Maybe it runs in the family, his brother is a fashion designer.
  • Ichiro is his first name, but somehow it’s on his uniform and is what he’s been called his entire professional career.
  • Ichiro’s cocky celebrity status has caused some tension in the Mariner’s locker room. Probably doesn’t help that he makes a bajillion dollars in endorsements on top of his salary. In Japan, he’s done ads for Pepsi, Nissan, NTT (cellphone carrier) and countless other products.
  • Ichiro is a dog, not cat or people person. So, no kids, but he dotes on Ikkyu, a shiba-inu. In a WBC interview he joked about wishing he could bring Ikkyu to Petco Park.

    • His supreme confidence bordering on complete assholeish-ness is appealing for its honesty and serves him well as a professional athlete. Lance Armstrong, Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal exhibit the same quality. I’d want them on my team, but don’t really want to hang out with them otherwise. Not that I’d refuse the chance if it presented itself…he has been known to eat ramen at Ichiriki while in the Bay Area. My vote would go to Tampopo, but hey, to each their own.

    What are your Ichiro facts?

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    Hama-pee…

    ≡ Category: Nyanko, Rants, Semi-daily thoughts | ≅ Leave a Comment

    Hamachi, master of the projectile cat pee, hates me. Why do I put up with this ungrateful feline? I stayed home this weekend to minister to her oozing sore. This entails cornering her twice a day to lock her in a towel-straight jacket, squeeze a syringe full of antibiotics down her throat and apply a stinky topical ointment to her leg which she promptly licks off. Sound torturous? Very.

    At the vet’s recommendation, The Monkey even got her this fancy 89 cents/can cat food. It’s SO fancy than in some parts of the world, it qualifies as fit for human consumption. I’m worried that Hamachi’s neurotic worrying of the wound will prevent healing. My own neuroses evoked images of an amputated limb (or worse).

    In an alternate pet universe, Hamachi would intuit my fears and purr in my lap while I applied soothing salves to her mystery wound. Tamu the Terror would fold laundry while graciously offering Hamachi his share of kibble. Zowers would direct deposit her 6 figure paycheck from modeling for Fancy Feast. However, this being my real life, when I come at her with the meds, Hamachi scurries behind the TV or to some similarly unreachable haven. This morning she clamored on her bed–which happens to be right on top of My headboard. My pre-caffeinated synapses managed to fire off, “Wait, this isn’t a hiding place.”

    That’s right, Hamachi is done hiding. She’s a fighter. She’s going to put me in my place. She turns to look at me and proceeds to launch what looks like 5 gallons of cat pee against my bedroom wall and onto the floor. We then have a cat pee Orinoco Flow (hi, Enya–yes, it was that annoying) running under my Malm Ikea bed (read, made of highly absorbent particle board). Can you fucking believe this? My cat has created a cat-pee soaked bed frame –before 8:20AM.

    I get the message and conclude Hama-pee has reached the Apex of her Hurt (I’m a fan of Colson Whitehead) and needs her space. I make her bed, clean her litter, top off her cocktails and let the the other cats know they are not welcome in her penthouse/the Master Bathroom.

    I hoped to come home to a grateful cat, but no, Hamachi just left more cat pee items for the laundry. Oh and she managed to remove the cone from around her neck and deposit it in the litter box.

    Well, I’m just happy she’s feisty and the sore looks a bit better than it did last week. She appreciates any and all well wishing comments, but cannot guarantee a non-cat-pee thank you note.

    Why, why, why, do I have so many cats?!!!

    Hey, feline projectile peeing, another day in my windowless cube, catching up on The Wire and the arrival (finally) of my long-awaited 35mm f/1.8 lens. All in all, I say that makes for an on par Monday. Japan’s World Baseball Classic VICTORY makes it an eagle Monday!!!

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    Tokyo Sonata: a real review

    ≡ Category: Books, fliks, tunes..., Semi-daily thoughts | ≅ Leave a Comment

    A little plug for film, eyeballs, brain, a place for smart, well-written reviews of all sorts of movies. Here’s the post about Tokyo Sonata.

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