I'm a monster

by Tracer Bullet, Staff Writer

It's true. I've become that most loathsome of things. I've become . . . a bandwagon fan.

Gahh, avert your eyes! Hide your children!

It's not entirely my fault -- how can anyone living in Philadelphia avoid becoming a Phillies fan this week? It's not that I want Phightins t-shirts (I just bought my second) it's that my job keeps letting us wear jeans and Phightins t-shirts and as much as I love playing the office fashion plate in my designer gear (purchased exclusively at Ross Dress 4 Less because I'm pretty but I ain't rich) I love laying in bed for an extra 20 minutes instead of ironing a whole lot more.

Really, though. There is a buzz in this city that I haven't felt since the Eagles went to the Super Bowl in 2004. As we all know how badly that ended, and because nobody does fatalism like the City of Brotherly Love, the excitement is tempered by a strong sense of, "I'm refuse to get too excited. It's the Phillies; they'll find a way to fuck this up somehow." The screeching you heard when Howard fumbled that grounder was the sound of millions of rectums clenching in unision.

Secretly of course, Bandwagon Fan is the best kind of fan to be. All of the emotional uplift of victory, none of the misery of losing. Before I moved the Illadelph, I followed the Dodgers to the extent I even followed baseball and that was mostly because of Jackie Robinson. (Though I did thoroughly enjoy watching Kirk Douglas giving the A's a good hard buggering.) If the Red Sox hadn't been so stupid as to pass on Willy Mays I might have become, Spaghetti Diety help me, a Boston fan.

But I refuse to apologize, dammit. I'm gonna rock my throwback powder blue and maroon (style in all things and all things with style). This is my home and my team -- at least until 1 p.m. Sunday because that's when the Eagles game starts.