With the irony being that this time, it is just that for which we were ranked: ANGER.  And even more ironically, we weren’t first or last.  So now we can’t even get mad.  But that’s “Burlington, VT”-talk.  We need a little “Detroit, MI”-spirit if we want to make a big deal out of this.  So let’s pretend that nobody lives in our city anymore and we had to wait for Chevy to make a commercial featuring an old hotel valet nodding along with an Eminem song before anybody remembered we were here. (more…)

Although, I don’t know why I’m bothering to write about this, seeing as how tomorrow it will be likely again.  Or Roy Halladay will say the word “Philadelphia” and blogs everywhere will explode.

But, now we know that Chone Figgins is the frontrunner for third base.  Ruben Amaro is putting on his bib and eyeing the Angels 3B with that same dangerous hunger Cliff Lee (and to a lesser extent, Ben Francisco) fell victim to.

I’ve decided, since anything I could type here would be reiterating what I told you yesterday, to instead bring you the first of a series of ongoing, inter-apartmental turbulence.

Philadelphia, PA

Wednesday, 8:46 am

“What the hell is this shit?!” I cried, standing in the doorway to the bathroom.  I rubbed my eyes.  ”There’s a Yankees towel on the towel rack.”

20 minutes later, when I deduced that Roommate had already left for the day and my complaints had been heard by no one, I came to the conclusion this was an undeniable act of war.

It’s morning.  I don’t need this crap.  I’m busy with brain-churning inquiries like “For what reason are the construction workers outside screaming?” and “Why is my upstairs neighbor moving around a hope chest full of bricks and wearing high heels?” in the AM hours of the day.  The last thing I need is a Yankees logo the size of a world map punching me in the nose.

So, I went into his room and started hurling Phillies hats at his bed.

This was even less satisfying than it looks (That's what she said).

Which makes no sense, because again, he wasn’t in there.

"HEY COLD FRONT I SAW YOU MOTHER LAST NIGHT AH HA HA HA HA"

Oh god, I think my fantasy team’s going to be kidnapped and thrown out of a moving truck tomorrow.

But none of that matters, as the “What Will Chase’s Arm Do Now?” show rolls into town for its first Philadelphia appearance.

If there’s consolation to be had about Friday’s stroke-inducing baseball, it’s that we handed the Dodgers the game in a neatly wrapped gift box, curtsied, and went on our merry way.

Errors, walks, and screaming led a 2-1 Dodger win, evening the series and making all of us on the freezing side of the country a little sicker.

Charlie Manuel, without a ton of ammunition in the bullpen, began firing wildly at the advancing Dodger horde in the eighth inning, and wound up with five different pitchers hitting the mound.

"Changing pitchers constantly is a good way to distract the hitter. I also jump and up down in the dugout, wave my arms, and scream gibberish."

And nobody could stop the bleeding.

Well, Cliff’s starting Sunday, so that gives you a confidence boost right there.

And Joe Blanton goes in Game 4.

Joe’s nothing to be worried about.  He was the most consistent guy on the staff this year, and like I’m always blabbering, the dude throws strikes.  He’s a machine, and a workhorse, and for a team like us whose bullpen gets a daily smattering of put-downs on blogs and syndicated sports programs alike, a guy throwing into the late innings would be a great help.

Wouldn’t want Charlie hemorrhaging pitchers all over the field again.

Against us tomorrow is Hiroki Kuroda, the only guy on the Dodgers to beat us in the NLCS last year.  8-7 with a 3.76 ERA is nothing to be shaking about in the batter’s box.  Also, he’s coming off a neck injury that might have kept him off the Dodgers’ NLCS roster.

Heads should be high for both of these games, as long as clutch hitting becomes even more prominent (Talking to you, Feliz) and Chase gives his arm an inspiring enough pre-game pep talk.

"No one is interested in your excuses, arm."

But then again, all of this may be completely pointless, as a white squall seems firmly intent on storming into the Philadelphia area and laying a blanket of cold, wet, misery all across the Northeastern United States (a little factoid that has seen ticket prices collapse like the Angels).

Either way, hold onto your hats and strap on the dumb-looking ninja head warmers.

Because this isn’t L.A. anymore.

It’s Philly, where we’ve awoken to nature spitting in our faces for the past week; where instead of screenwriters we’ve got crack heads, and instead of palm trees we’ve got anger.

Twitter–GetYourPhil