Take Off Your Rainbow Shades

The San Francisco Giants can go wait by the curb with the Brewers and the Royals (not our direct concern, but all of humanity was let down by those bargain-basement bumblers Saturday) and the rest of Sunday's baseball detritus. They lose two of three to the Phillies but beat us two of three? Some nerve. And whatever generous ground I was willing to give Armando Benitez from a historical perspective…it's all over now, baby blue.

On the other hand, the Diamondbacks disbursed their competence in a pleasing fashion, losing four straight to us then wisely winning over the weekend. Their sense of fair play allowed us to stay a game-and-a-half from the WC, ensuring that come September 1 we'll actually be playing a meaningful game. I haven't felt this good about Arizona prevailing at the BOB on a Sunday night since November 4, 2001 (as if that date's glory isn't self-explanatory).

You can stop looking for television's worst advertising campaign, particularly as it regards unfunny, unmoving, unavoidable spots that run in nauseatingly frequent rotation during baseball games. Lee Iacocca and Chrysler: If you can find a worse commercial, air it.

Word, regarding those hideous “Brooklyn” uniforms worn by Los Angeles on Sunday. I don't think I ever saw a picture of the Brooklyn Dodgers wearing white uniforms with their borough/city in script. That's a road thing, but I guess it's appropriate in that the whole idea of L.A. celebrating 1955 is wrong. Double word, regarding the Milwaukee Braves nonsense the other night as well. Do the Brewers have to fail at everything except beating us?

As long as we're meandering on ancillary issues, how about the 2006 Mets wear 1986-style uniforms a few times next year? Surely there will be a 20th anniversary celebration at Shea. Racing stripes all around!

Or maybe orange jumpsuits. Good Ol' No. 16 appears to have interminably delayed his induction into the Mets HOF given his designation for assignment by the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Department. Plastering 05054577 on the outfield wall — the formerly great one's most recent booking number — might serve as a cautionary tale or something for somebody.

Then again, I can't imagine a current or future Mets relentlessly fucking up his life the way Dwight Gooden has. A former Shea Stadium tour guide (“To your left is where Anthony Young sucked with regularity so dependable that he was one loss away from getting an endorsement deal from Ex-Lax. And if you look to your right, you'll see one of the many spots from which Bobby Bonilla stole money.”) brings a truly unique perspective to one of the several previous times Doc broke our hearts. I thought I was done feeling for him in 1994, but it's impossible for any Mets fan who absorbed 1985 as thoroughly as so many of us did to ever quite get Gooden out from under our skin. Twenty years ago, all I wanted to tell him was “DOC! WE LOVE YOU!” Now if I could send him a message, it would be, “Get better, Stupid.”