Monday, June 21, 2004

It never occurred to me, gentle reader, how much effort it takes to score a point in baseball. While the ticket was generous, Friday’s baseball meeting was my first–and last–game ever, and I made this quiet vow while I sat under the cooking sun in the company of hundreds of drunken fans.

I’ve never had beer spilled on my person with dependable regularity, so I kept an open mind during the game. Now I know: I’m not into the whole beer spilling thing. I also noticed a good number of fans wearing an adhesive rendition of Sammy Sosa’s facial hair, a souvenir I should’ve bought in bulk for mass consumption. And that, in so many words, is how my meeting went.

I don’t know if it’s sunny or dreary in your region, dear reader, but I’m realizing the strong ties between weather and maintaining Secondhand Rants. It’s raining now, so I’m attributing Muse’s disappearance to the gray weather. If it were sunshiny outside, I’d be skipping and singing and dropping all that knowledge and shit. You know it.