...In The USA. Damn Right.

From the How Far Have We Come? department:

I've often thought that my Precocious Daughter is an old soul in a young body. That may be because she is a 21st-century human but also is among the last people born in the 20th century. Or maybe because she has always seemed smarter and more perceptive than her years - I'll never forget the day she complained that she was bored because her teacher kept repeating the same things over and over...in kindergarten.

Or maybe I simply admire the grace and tolerance with which she puts up with me on a daily basis.

One more way Hillary Clinton let me down.

Yet for all her poise, strength, and general shit-having-togetherness, she is still just a teenager. She doesn't know everything. I don't care how many A's show up on her report card, she is the product of her environment, and her environment at this young age is (blissfully) limited in scope.

Case in point.

Tonight we were watching TV, and a commercial came on for...I don't know, some damn pickup truck. And the soundtrack to this commercial was John Mellencamp's "R-O-C-K in the U.S.A.," which was a big hit when I was just about PDaughter's age. Because apparently I'm now the target demographic for buying big ugly pickup trucks, even though I'd drive the old dilapidated 1984 Subaru hatchback I owned in the 90s for the rest of my life before I'd drive a goddamn pickup truck.

The story of how I came to drive this sweetheart
will totally be in the book, I promise.

Anyway, PDaughter asked me, in all seriousness, "Why is it called 'rock' music? Where did the 'rock' come from?"

She wasn't kidding. She really didn't know.

WHOOOOOOOO!

Now, PDaughter has, um, been deflowered. She's experimented with certain medicinal herbs. She regularly explains memes to be that I had no idea were scandalous and/or salacious. She's no wallflower.

Yet she lacked the slightest clue how rock and roll got its name and reputation.

So, being the mom I am (DON'T JUDGE), I explained that the prhase originated in the blues community, for example, with the Trixie Smith song "My Daddy Rocks Me (With One Steady Roll)."

Eventually, black R&B culture, and subsequently white America, adopted "rock and roll" as the pet name for the new, raw musical movement that engulfed the country circa 1955 and later the world in later years.

To this day, the greatest rock 'n roll songs are about sex. And sex. And also sex.

But we owe it all to R&B and blues of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s,

John Mellencamp, bless his heart, is both entirely relevant and woefully behind in his attempt to influence young (car-buying) culture.

One steady roll?

Your opinion is more than welcome, Drunkards.

Baseball Zen

I'm not ready to talk about baseball.


Photo borrowed from middlethirds' Flickr page.

 My Texas Rangers lost the World Series. *choke* They collapsed at the feet of the Cardinals. *sob* It's still very painful to talk about. *kicks a squirrel*


Sorry, Mr. Nibbles.
(Photo borrowed from http://bobtres.blogspot.com)

 But I can't let this morning's news go unremarked upon (upon which it is unremarked...damn prepositional phrases). According to MLB commissioner Bud "I Was Abner Doubleday's Little League Coach" Selig, the Houston Astros are going to become an American League team in 2013.

Did you hear me?


HELLO???
(Photo borrowed from Harpo42's Flickr page)

 Texas has two baseball teams: the Rangers and the Astros. The Rangers are an American League team, the Astros are a National League team. That's because the unwritten law of baseball is that any city or state with more than one team should have a team from each league. It's the natural order. It's practically biological.

I'm totally not comparing baseball leagues to reproductive organs.
Unless you're OK with that. In that case, yes, I am.

New York has the National League Mets and the American League Yankees. *goddamnyankeeshowihateyou* Sorry, my fingers spasmed on the keyboard there.

Chicago has the National League Cubs and the American League White Sox.

Florida has the National League Marlins and the American League Rays. Or maybe it's the other way around. Who cares? There shouldn't be major league baseball in Florida anyway. Oh dear, my inner 80-year-old baseball purist just came out. Let me walk him back to his room...


In my day, catchers didn't have all this fancy protection.
If they took a bouncer to the nads once in a while,
 it was their own fault for not getting under it grumble grumble...

 Where was I? Oh, yes, balance. California has four teams - two from the AL, two from the NL. Plus the Padres. Oops, I think he got out again...

The point is, Comissioner Selig, who never saw a good thing he couldn't eff up, is disrupting the delicate and traditional balance of baseball, not to mention baseball fans. Who are pretty easily unbalanced as it is.


Uh...I have no words.

If you're not a baseball fan and you haven't already bailed on this post, hang on, because I'm about to go full-on baseball geek. I can't talk about German Expressionism and global economics all the time, you know.

 (whispers) I'm not that smart.

Baseball is poetic. It's symmetrical. There's a yin and yang to the subtle relationship between the two leagues. It's more than just the Designated Hitter rule - that simple change in play introduces a philosophical and strategic schism to the entire sport. The existence of a non-fielding batter in the American League puts the emphasis on offense - here is a player whose entire game mission is to make contact with the ball. With no need to structure the batting order around the weakest hitter (the pitcher) or a player who is a defensive asset but less effective at the plate, the manager can stack his lineup for maximum offensive power.

Meanwhile, in the National League, the offense and defense are inextricably linked by the need to send pitchers to the plate. A pitching change alters the batting lineup, while a decision to employ a pinch hitter or runner removes a pitcher from the game. The result is a much more nuanced, defensively-oriented strategy to the game. Fewer runs, more pitching changes - some say, more pure baseball.

The difference also produces different kinds of fans. Baseball fans tend to be created by geography: Everybody has a hometown team. (Unless you live in Iowa or something, in which case your accident of birth means you and I have nothing to talk about.) That team is going to belong to either the American or National League, and you likely are going to be either an American or National League person, depending on which team you're rooting for.

But geography is relative when it comes to sports. In no way could I be described as a Houston Astros fan - in fact, neither could many people in Houston, which is part of the reason the team is being sold and revamped - but if I had a philosophical disconnect with the DH rule, I could still be a fan of Texas baseball. Two teams, two leagues, everybody is happy. The universe is at peace.

Totally awesome picture by Heidi Younger.
Seriously, check out her website.

But now there is a disturbance in the Force. The Houston Astros, the yin to the Texas Rangers' yang, is realigning to the American League. I can't believe the universe won't tilt dangerously on its cosmic axis as a result of this unwise move.


The universe has an axis, right?
(Picture borrowed from the very cool Windows to the Universe website.)

 You can't have two American League teams in a single state and no National League team to balance things out. That's not what baseball do, as my good friend Ron Washington would say. You can't take away the prospect of an all-Texas World Series. OK, that's a razor-thin prospect, but now it's not even a possibility. And that's just wrong.

Besides, if you're a fan of one league, there's a mystery, an aura, to the opposing league. It colors your entire perception of a city. I look upon Houston, and besides the fact that it seems like really a horrible place to live (just my opinion, Houstonians, I'm sure it's the garden spot of the world), it's a National League city. Cincinnati is a National League city. Oakland is an American League city. I'm still not over the fact that my beloved Milwaukee Brewers jumped leagues a few years ago - how could such a thing happen to my hometown? I mean, I love my Beloved Spouse, but when I married him I didn't become Italian. And I'm not going to become a National League person just because Bud Selig says it's so.

(And yes, I'm aware that the Milwaukee Braves were a National League team, and the arrival of the Brewers as an AL team was just as big a shakeup in 1969 as their flip to the NL was in 1997. But we're talking about me here.)

Living in a city with a major league baseball team is almost as important to me as living in a city with great music, museums, and movie theatres that show Metropolis. Having that team be in the American League is also critical. That doesn't make me a one-dimensional jock who is defined by the fortunes of grown men playing a game. It makes other people that. But we're talking about me here. And I need the philosophical framework of baseball to support my well-being. That means having an interleague rival on the other side of the state.

I am aware of and accept your opinion.


I'm not ready to talk about baseball. *Really, Rangers, really? REALLY?* But I am done ranting about the Houston Astros and their pending move to the American League. I'll try to be a good neighbor when it happens. I'll bring them a candy bar. I can't do any more than that.


I shall also meditate upon it.

 If a Cardinal hits an easy fly to right field and no one catches it, does it blow the World Series?

*Godammit, Rangers. How could you?*

I've Been Taking the Title of This Blog Literally for a Few Days

Biscuits and gravy are excellent for a hangover.

I haven't got any.

Biscuits and gravy, I mean. The hangover is here in force.

This week has been a perfect storm. The parents visiting, which is wonderful but always guarantees that I revert to immaturity. The Rangers losing the World Series in jaw-dropping, heart-breaking fashion that required commiseratory indulgence. The return of Drummer Boy, which has been a cause for much celebration but also some other mixed-up shit that I don't want to talk about so I shouldn't have brought it up but I did because I'm not thinking straight.

Anyway, I've been taking the titular words of Mr. Baudelaire rather at face value. I think I'm done now. Time to read some poetry and practice some virtue, because drunk is covered. Check it off the list. Put the empties in the recycle bin (which I did this morning - it took a while and made me feel way freaking environmentally responsible to be keeping all those bottles and cans out of the landfill. So there's some virtue for you.) Drink plenty of non-alcoholic fluids. Stop shaking.

I'm not actually much of a party girl. I'm an introverted geeky loner who prefers to keep company with a few well-chosen loved ones and indulge quietly and privately. So to have a solid week built around sports and family and friends and near-constant drinking is an aberration, a disruption in routine. It's been a blast, but I've never been more grateful to have a shell to crawl back into. Back into which to crawl. No, see, I've still got to work on those awkward prepositional phrases. But I digress. I'm pretty sure at one point last night that phrase was found to be hilarious; I'm a bit fuzzy on the details. But I digress.

Back to business now. The business of doing laundry and stocking the pantry with something other than party foods and buying candy for tomorrow's trick-or-treaters. All of which will be much easier once I'm dried out. Unfortunately, all that stuff has got to be done today, and I'm not sure I'll be fully recovered until mid-week or so. Definitely not a party girl.

Of course, Bestest Friend is coming down next weekend for Metropolis. I'm going to stay sober for that visit. That's the thing about having a Bestest Friend - with her I don't need the crutch to be outgoing and engaged and witty. I can spill my guts to her about the perfect storms of the last week, and she'll spill her guts about her own storms (including the awful early-winter storm that hit her this weekend - she needs some kick-ass Texas fall weather right about now). I can't wait.

I didn't need any crutches this week. But I indulged in them anyway. It was soooo much fun. But now it's done. Everything but the hangover.

Damn, I wish I had some biscuits and gravy right now.

Video Saturday: We Aren't the Champions

We won't dwell on the World Series here.



It's just a game, after all. Nothing to get upset about.



I'M JUST FINE.



Maybe next year, huh?



Yeah.

Y-A-Y-Exclamation-Point

I really, really do.

If I had a Snickers Peanut Butter Squared, I might just perish of joy. Srsly.

Here's to good friends, baseball, and finishing home improvement projects.

I haz them.

My Dog Owes Me Half a Candy Bar

Last night Beloved Spouse bought me a candy bar. He did this for one of three reasons:

a. Because he's totally learned his lesson about me and candy bars.
b. To thank me for refilling my Prozac prescription, albeit about four hours late.
c. Because he's a sweet and thoughtful guy.

OK, so "c" is one of those gimme answers that the cool professors put on the exam to let you know the answer is definitely either "a" or "b." It's not that BelSpouse doesn't have a sweet and thoughtful circuit in his breaker box; it's just that it's not hooked up to anything, and I always go around flipping every damn switch I can find before I remember that.


Effective but not recommended way to directly
 access the sweet and thoughtful circuit.

Be that as it may, BelSpouse bought me a Snickers Peanut Butter Squared. For all his flaws, the man knows what I like.

I had a pretty rough day yesterday. The City of Dallas apparently has been tracking my driving habits and has now torn up every single road I have to drive on to get home from work. Then my awesome Texas Rangers decided the most nerve-wracking way to win Game 2 of the World Series was to not score a single run until the ninth inning. The St. Louis Cardinals helped them in this endeavor by putting up the most amazing defensive performance I've seen since...well, Game 1. When the sum total of your offense is two sacrifice flies, you know you're up against a worthy opponent. If you're not a baseball fan, and the preceding made your brain sad, I'll make it up to you with this amazing picture I found of a cross-section of a Snickers Peanut Butter Squared:


I would have thought this shit was classified.

 On top of these delights, Precocious Daughter decided she just had to download the latest OS for her iPod Touch right now. You know, because everyone else already has it. Only she said it with more italics. And we tried, but we couldn't get the damn thing to download. Apple's dirty little secret is that all its technology literally emanated from Steve Jobs' brain, and now that he's dead none of it will work any more. Unless they get his head in a jar "Futurama"-style, stat. That's my theory.


Shockingly, I couldn't find a picture of Steve Jobs' head
in a jar from a "Futurama" episode. But since Al Gore probably
thinks he invented the iPhone, here's his picture instead.

 Now, the Snickers Peanut Butter Squared bar comes in two pieces. Which is brilliant because the two pieces are significantly smaller than one regular Snickers bar but cost the same. I'm going to have to check, but I think this year's winner of the Nobel Prize for Economics was the candy engineer who came up with this idea.

OK, I checked, and this year's winners actually got it for empirical research on cause and effect in the macroeconomy. So unless that has something to do with tasty nougat, I take it back.

Anyway, I had eaten the first of my two Snickers Peanut Butter Squared, er, squares, when PDaughter declared that the world would end unless I helped her update her interface with the Apple hive of collective consciousness. I pointed to my remaining peanut butter-based polyhedron sitting on the coffee table and said to BelSpouse, "Do not let the dog eat that!" Seven short syllables of Saxon English. And he looked me right in the eye and swore to protect my uneaten candy. Or maybe he just grunted, "OK." Either way, it was a verbal contract.

Long story short (really, this is the short version), the dog ate the other half of my candy bar.

Because obviously it looked exactly a bowl of his kibble.

Ironically, I started to feel much better after this happened. Because that's what happens when your day hits rock freaking bottom. It's a relief to know the worst has happened, the last straw has landed on the camel's  back, the candy bar has been consumed and is not coming back in its current form. That's when you start to realize that for all your bitching, you have two good legs, a roof over your head, and a family that loves you even though they may drive you absolutely batshit crazy from time to time.

And at least the dog didn't eat my Prozac. But he owes me another Snickers Peanut Butter Squared. And if he thinks I'm going to let him off the hook because he's not allowed in stores, he has no idea how irrational his human can get. Although I'm sure BelSpouse would be happy to explain it to him.

Pick Me Out a Winner, Bobby

Oh ho! Some of you took issue with yesterday's post, in which I suggested that Owen Wilson should play Robert Redford in a biopic.

I find Owen Wilson to be simply the most adorable actor working in movies today. And talented yada yada yada. But look at him! If you ask me, he's got the same low-key charm and sincerity, with a dash of devil-may-care humor, as Mr. Redford. I think he could totally pull it off. But we can agree to disagree, especially since Robert Redford fans are a bit, shall we say, protective, of their star.


Sundance and Waldo Pepper are very upset with you.
 Aaaarriellmophragle!

Anyway, thinking about Mr. Redford got me thinking about the best baseball movie EVER, The Natural. I am so ordering this movie on Amazon today. I wish I had it on VHS, which is how all great movies from the 1980s should be seen, but since I don't own a VCR, that seems a bit quixotic. I'm sort of ashamed that it's not already in my collection, because it really and truly is one of my favorite movies of all time.

The Natural stars Robert Redford as Roy Hobbs, an aging ballplayer who arrives in the major leagues out of nowhere and has a magical season. Which is kind of like saying that Gone with the Wind is about a chick who lived during the Civil War and got married a lot. It sucks as a description, is what I'm saying. The Natural is about dreams, love, hope, redemption, warm summer nights, home runs, and magic. And Robert Redford in an old-time baseball uniform. Hoo boy.

Outside of Diner (which, like The Natural, was directed by Barry Levinson), there may not be a better-cast movie in all of 1980s cinema. First of all, it stars Wilford Brimley and Richard Farnsworth, a double whammy par excellence.


Forget the Coreys. This is what the 80s were all about.

It's got an ultra-gritty Robert Duvall, a radiant Glenn Close, and a sultry Kim Basinger. And don't forget Joe Don Baker as The Whammer and Michael Madsen as Bump Bailey. Crap, if I don't see this movie in the next 24 hours I may suffer organ failure.

And the script...Well, there is no reason the script for The Natural should work. It's sentimental, contrived, often cliched, and of course the ending differs signifcantly from that of the novel on which the movie is based. Yet the script is awesome. It's endlessly quotable, which is the mark of a classic. (If you know what the title of this post is referring to, I'll bet you choked up a little when you read it, didn't you?)


Just in case you forgot *snif*

Plus, The Natural has that amazing Randy Newman score. You know, with that music:

The Final Homerun



The Natural
— MOVIECLIPS.com

How much money has Randy Newman made off that handful of notes since 1984? Not enough.

Basically, I'm not going to get anything else done today because now I'm obsessing over The Natural. It's been too long since I've seen this movie. I've got to get my Wonderboy fix.

I still think Owen Wilson would make an excellent Robert Redford. Although I'm honestly not sure he could pull off playing Roy Hobbs. But Owen, if they ever remake The Natural, please give it a shot.

Random Things I Own

Hello, and welcome to Random Things I Own!  This is exactly what it sounds like:  A list of possessions that I have lying around for no apparent reason, along with gratuitous explanations of what they are and why I have them.  These items have little monetary, sentimental, or even intrinsic value.  They're just Random Things.  If you see anything you like, make an offer.  That's right - any of these fabulous objects could be yours.  And then, like miniature works of art, they would transform into Things You Stupidly Bought, and you can put them on your own damn website.  OK?  OK!

A Guitar Pick with Murky Provenance

My dad gave me this guitar pick.  The guy who gave it to him said it was used by John Oates (of Hall and Oates fame) in concert, and he threw it into the audience.  But I don't know if that's true.  I mean, it doesn't have any of his famous mustache hairs clinging to it or anything.  It is a guitar pick, however, and it peforms the essential function of producing a sound when pulled across one or more guitar strings extremely well.  Note:  I think it was white when I first got it, but it has since acquired this handsome patina, just like a piece of real ivory or cheap plastic.

An Old Smokey the Bear Bank

I've had this since I was a very, very small person.  I used to put money in the little slot in Smokey's back, and I must have taken money out just as often, because the rubber stopper in the bottom looks as if a child's grubby fingers spent hours repeatedly prying it loose and then guiltily wedging it back in.  Thus are our early financial habits formed.  Smokey's got a small chip in his ranger's hat, but otherwise he's in pretty badass shape.  This is in fact the only Random Thing here that does possess certain sentimental value, albeit not much, as he was living in a moldy box in the garage when we stumbled across him while putting away Christmas decorations.




A Napkin Signed by Bobby Witt

Bobby Witt was a starting pitcher for the Texas Rangers from 1986 to 1992 and then again from 1995 to 1998.  He had a strong right arm and a cute face, and despite being wildly inconsistent (a league leader in both walks and wild pitches during his career), he was extremely popular.  My Beloved Spouse and I got to meet him and several other Rangers pitchers during a charity event run by a friend's grandmother.  Grandma was an accomplished con artist, and who knows where the funds she raised actually ended up, but it was pretty exciting to meet these famous local athletes whose agents had no clue what kind of shady deal they had signed up their clients to attend.  But that's another story.  I got Bobby Witt's autograph on a napkin, and somewhere there's even a photograph of me and Bobby and my very goofy early 90s hair.  I checked online, and this authentic signature is worth upwards of six bucks. 


A T-Shirt from a 1996 Santana Concert

BelSpouse and I saw a double bill of Jeff Beck and Santana in concert.  Neither one of us is a big Santana fan (Beck actually blew him off the stage, if you ask me), but he had the cooler T-shirts for sale, so that's what I bought for BelSpouse.  As you can see, it's kind of a gold tie-dye with tastefully drawn naked chicks and moons and stuff.  The problem is, BelSpouse still wears this shirt.  Even though he's had it since 1996.  We bought a house in 1996 that we got rid of years ago.  This shirt is older than our daughter and several of our nephews.   It's not in bad shape, as old T-shirts go (especially compared with some of the rags I've had to sneak out of his dresser in the dead of night to prevent him from wearing them), but damn.   More than anything on this list, I find the continued presence of this shirt in my home baffling.


An Antique Nut Meat Chopper

Say it with me:  it's an antique nut meat chopper.  For chopping your antique nuts and/or meats, I suppose.  This baby is made of breakable glass and corrosive metal, not like those sturdy dishwasher-safe plastic Slap-Chop contraptions.  You put your whole nuts in the tiny little hopper, you turn your crank, and your indifferently ground nut meats fall to the bottom, most likely to be re-chopped with a sharp knife.  Because as far as I can tell, this thing is damned ineffective at chopping nuts.  But it's a funky old kitchen gadget.  There must be a family-style restaurant somewhere that needs another rusting piece of crap to put on a shelf in lieu of actual decor, amiright?

And that's all for this edition of Random Things I Own.  I'm going to find a drawer to stuff this crap in.  See you next time!

Rounding the Bases

First off, GO RANGERS!!!  People who have known me for less than 10 years may be surprised by my outpouring of support for and devotion to the Texas Rangers as they play in their first-ever World Series.  But in a way, my return to baseball love fits right into a sort of "Back to the Future" theme that is going on in my life right now.  When you take a moment to stop, look around, and breathe, I think you find that sort of synergy is flowing all around, just waiting to be harnessed, just waiting to be noticed.

I became a baseball fan in 1982, the year the Milwaukee Brewers went to the World Series for the first (and, so far, only) time.  The magic of the game - its athleticism, its teamwork, its energy and grace, like a nine-inning embodiment of the American dream - enchanted me.  I remained a rabid fan for years, transferring my allegiance to the Rangers after moving to Texas, rooting for them through years of mostly medicore ball but still loving the game.  I saw (with my Beloved Spouse) Nolan Ryan get his 300th win against - who else? - the Brewers.  I met Bobby Witt and Kenny Rogers (and have pictures and autographs to prove it).  I listened to more radio play-by-plays on more sweltering Texas evenings than I can count or even remember.

But in 1995, I had had enough.  Enough of so-called professional athletes acting like overpaid prima donnas, demanding more millions in the name of "fairness."  After the 1994 strike and the subsequent unthinkable cancellation of the World Series, I turned away from the game.  I felt justified as I watched (from a distance) steroids nearly destroy baseball.  These muscled, self-centered Herculoids weren't ballplayers:  they were gladiators looking for glory.  Russell Crowe notwithstanding, I'm not a fan of the gladiator ethos.

But this year, the Rangers have brought me back to the game I love.  By playing the game I love.  This is the game I remember:  the gravity-defying defensive plays, the classic 6-4-3s, the base stealing and bunting, the antlers and claws.  As I write this, my Texas Rangers are down 2-0 against the San Francisco (boo hiss) Giants.  But I have faith.  And you can't be a baseball fan without faith.

The Rangers are in uncharted territory this week, and so am I.  I just finished my first week at a new job.  That's not unprecedented; it's my fifth new job since graduating from college in (yikes) 1989.  But it is the first time I've ever gotten a new job while still employed elsewhere.  Fortunately - make that miraculously - I didn't lose my job during the Great Recession.  Not that it wasn't touch-and-go for a while.  But with the economy kinda-sorta-maybe in recovery mode, I probably could have stayed where I was, trusted by my boss, liked by the co-workers, indefinitely.  And there was no reason to believe I wouldn't.

Change is not really my thing.  I'm totally into stability and routine.  I will in fact put up with a tremendous amount of bullshit, as long as it's familiar bullshit.  I was at my former job for about nine years, and in that time I turned down several good offers from other companies.  Because I had it so good where I was?  Possibly, but mostly because I didn't feel comfortable about making a change, even a potential change for the better.  Call it loyalty, or cowardice.  Change isn't easy, especially when you have a long history of not changing.  Ask the Texas Rangers.

Yet here I am, starting over.  New company - in fact, I won't even have an office for another two weeks, that's how new it is.  And when the office is ready, my commute will have doubled from its comfortable 20 minutes down the road to a daily crosstown jaunt.   And my boss works in a different city.  And the company could fail in two years when its government contract is up.  What the hell am I doing?

I don't know.  I don't know why or how all the ingredients came together to make this the opportunity I couldn't pass up.  I can't articulate how I came to decide that a complete shakeup in my life was exactly what I needed, since I have never, ever considered complete shakeups to be a positive thing.  Ron Washington, the manager of the Texas Rangers, will give you a dozen reasons why 2010 was the team's year, but the fact is, he doesn't know precisely how or why the pieces finally fell into place just now.  But he's going with it. 

And so am I.  Maybe my team won't win it all this year, but win or lose, I'll have enjoyed the ride.  Same with this fresh start I've just made.  It might turn out terribly disappointing; on the other hand, how can anything so exhilarating ever be a disappointment, even if it doesn't turn out perfectly?  Somehow, the Rangers and I have come to that conclusion at the same time.  Good luck to both of us. 

Talkin' Baseball

A salute to the Texas Rangers and the Springfield Isotopes:

Well, Mr. Burns had done it
The power plant had won it
With Roger Clemens clucking all the while
Ken Griffey's tragic illness made us smile
While Wade Boggs lay unconscious on the barroom  tile

We're talkin' softtball
From Maine to San Diego
Talkin'  softball
Mattingly and Canseco
Ken Griffey's grotesquely swollen jaw
Steve Sax and his run-in with the law
We're talkin' Homer
Ozzie and the Straw...

GO RANGERS!!

Technology Bites

My teeth have been clenched for hours.  I have a headache, and I'm exhausted.  Here's what I spent today doing:

1.  Wrangling with my cell phone provider about rates, plans, contracts, and devices - and still not ending up with a new phone for myself.
2.  Training my replacement at my soon-to-be-former job on our project management/accounting software, which has decided to intermittently malfunction during this critical transition period.
3.  Configuring and reconfiguring every wireless device in my house (wi-fi phone, wireless router, laptop, Nintendo DSi - the kid's iPod Touch was at school, thank goodness).  Then realizing that they can't be set up to all work on the same network and reconfiguring again.
4.  Watching the Rangers lose Game 5 of the ALCS.

Not a productive day.

I hate technology today, and the irony that I'm blogging about it via broadband is not lost on me, thank you.  That's why I'm keeping it short:  so I can get off the computer and pretend it's still 1950 and I have only radio to entertain me.  Speaking of which, I listened to most of Game 5 on the radio before getting home to see the final innings on TV.  I haven't listened to a baseball game on the radio in years.  It was wonderful to listen and use my imagination to bring the match to life in my head.  Much more so than staring at screens and punching buttons and talking into speakers.  I hate to take the series to a sixth game (don't even think about a seventh!), but an extra game of baseball sure beats an afternoon of menu prompts or an evening of tweaking router settings.

I'm going to go unclench my teeth now.  Drink a Coke.  Maybe play some Cat's Cradle or Yahtzee, something that does its thing without electricity.  And wait to hear the crack of the bat tomorrow, the sweetest low-tech sound I know.  Good night, technology.