I am trying to do too many things and seem to be doing a pretty terrible job of all of them, at least for this moment, but I'm hopeful that if I keep my head down and my foot to the pedal (or rather my hands to the keyboard), it will all get done, and I try to remember that if I keep smiling and keep the faith, with an open unembittered heart and mind, it might just end up getting done well and lead to bigger, better and more rewarding things down the line.
We (The Youngest's team, on which I am the #3 coach and scorekeeper) got our asses kicked Tuesday night out on the old baseball field. It was awful. They were a much better team, a group of players from the local Catholic powerhouse (not diocesan but the other one, the order school that's so well known for its athletic programs, from which Middle Son graduated), anchored by five varsity seniors. They threw a pitcher who's going to be playing at a NCAA D3 college next year (or so I was told). The sad part of the story is that they threw this kid with a ten run lead. Tsk, tsk, coach. Shame on you for wasting a great chance to give someone else a chance on the mound, and make a bit of a game of it at the same time. We have my son, two other seniors and two juniors, then it falls off fast to a bunch of freshmen and throwing your ace didn't do either team any service.
Speaking of aces, how about Tommy Glavine!?! That sweet baby boy, that handsome smart gamer, the man who saved Major League Baseball as a player rep in 2002, that patiently resourceful forty year old left hander with two Cy Youngs on his mantle and more post season experience than the rest of his team combined (then multiplied by two), marched out to the mound last night in the first game of yet another National League Championship Series and mowed 'em down, shut 'em out, working seven innings for the 2-0 win. Between my sudden desire to scream, "GO METS!!!" (Hat tip JWL for saying it before the series even started), and my newfound affinity for the Detroit Tigers in honor of their sending the Yankees home for an extended off season, there may be some surprise life left in this dwindling Major League Baseball season for me, after all.
In order to do something about being so seriously overworked and underplayed, I've been trying to get out a bit more. Last week I went out for mid-week bar trivia with some old friends, a couple whose daughters attended pre-school with my boys. It was great fun, although I'm not so great at bar trivia it seems, but much better at drinking beer, eating pizza and rapid fire repartee. It was wonderful seeing them and I'm so glad they invited me. Then I went out Friday night, back after a long absence at the usual watering hole, our neighborhood bar, for some quick early wings and beer by the pitcher with my Best Friend and her Wonderful Husband before they headed up to The Farm in north Georgia for the weekend. The best part about it all was that I finally got to visit The Farm last Saturday. After a wonderful dinner, we built a bonfire by the pond and watched the amazing full harvest moon rise in the foothills. It don't get much better than that. I slept like a baby (it's so dark and so quiet up there) and headed back to the city after breakfast for The Youngest's Sunday afternoon baseball game, which we won, a much better match than the one that followed on Tuesday (see above).
It's been insanely busy at work, slammed almost all of the time, juggling many balls at once wondering at the end of each day what I forgot to do, thinking about it all as I drift off to sleep. I still don't know whether or not I'm calling it the KnockingItDownCo or the KnockingShitDownCo, but I'd like to thank everyone who chimed in after my last post, most especially Tim, who brought a first hand perspective to my conundrum. In Tim's current post, I learned that the beloved Camellia Grill is expected to open in the Riverbend area of New Orleans towards the end of the year. I hope the new owners get this institution of a diner, a regular stop for generations of Loyola students, right, and I can't wait to find out for myself.
I took a little time off this last week or so from working for my little internet marketing client, but I'm back in that saddle now too and I have a long list of things to get done for them over this coming weekend. I'm also behind on errands, so will spend Saturday shopping for next week's household supplies, although we do play at 1:00 tomorrow, which should be nice, 'cause it's turned cool, finally. I might pick up a couple of those fake logs on the way home tonight and have a little faux fire this evening. I expect my Best Friend will head up to The Farm earlier rather than later this weekend, which goes a long way towards keeping my draggin' ass out of the bar, so I'll likely stay in tonight, maybe even cook dinner and watch television. I've only been watching the news out of the corner or my eye and in stolen internet glances at the office. Yikes. It's a bit of a mess, and a couple of things keep popping into my head. It ought to be specifically illegal to have internet sex with a minor (at least if you know it's a minor - cause online, I s'pose they can fool you), just as it is for an adult to prey on a child in the flesh, and if one adult with authority over another, say, for instance, the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives or even (speaking strictly hypothetically here, mind you) the Bishop of the Archdiocese of Boston, learns that someone beneath them in their chain of command is sexually engaging with children, whether IRL or virtually, even if the law does not compel that person of authority to report their subordinate's despicable, perhaps even criminal, activity, certainly any moral authority they might have is lost forever if they fail to do so. If we can't incarcerate them for failing to report these crimes that occur on their watches, then we should turn their worthless asses out of their respective offices and shun any who protect them. Shame be on you, Hastert. You're no better than Bernard Law. You should be sent home in disgrace. You might as well have been driving a getaway car.
Peace, out, ya'll.
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