Previously... Springtime For Someone This is my safe spaceThis is where I post, where I dream, where I hurt, and where I recover. Everybody who understands this Extras, Fun Stuff & Recommended Reading 42 Things About Me I Can Hear The Ocean. A proud member of Always go too far Albert Camus |
Undercover Sunday Sunday, Aug. 05, 2007 - 12:40 a.m. You've doubtless already seen these, but just in case you have not, here are some handy fake bookcovers with which any of us concerned old farts who will be perceived by others as being too old for certain reading material, can disguise a copy of the final Harry Potter book. --- Saturday night, Barry Bonds finally tied Hammerin' Hank. And I knew he was gonna, and I knew that number was coming up and still forgot to have the tee and vee on. I missed it. Wouldn't have known until sports highlights during the newscast, except OBDave messaged me with the news. Thanks, old buddy! I do have to ask a question, though. I know the Giants are crapping bricks with pointy corners trying to make sure that Barry Bonds hits 756 in front of a home crowd, and the away team pitchers know this. As a sort of psych-out, why don't the pitchers at the away games deliberatly throw him some kittenballs and FORCE him to hit, and thereby rob the Bay Area of the glory? --- I finally got off of my unfathomably lazy ass a few days ago and sent Mike Winderman a note of sympathy for his mother Marjorie, who was my mother-in-law for a few nanoseconds back in the late 80s. I'd been Googling their names and found a memorial site to her. This was sad, but it was also an answer to a question for me; I'd had an extremely vivid dream about her several months ago, for no reason that I could discern. At the time, of course, I chalked it up to the random wonderfulness that is the brain playground when one is asleep. Instead, it turned out to be Dr. Winderman, making what was apparently some of her final rounds. Anyway -- I emailed Mike as soon as I saw, but got no response. I guess the AOL suffix looks enough like spam to some mailbots that it simply wasn't received. So I wrote. Like, a SNAILMAIL note. With an envelope and a stamp and everything. My cell phone rang on Saturday night at around a quarter of eight my time. It was Mike, calling to thank me for the note. We spoke, carefully at first, but eventually the guards were dropped and we talked like we used to. He's doing okay -- and a bread and butter call lasted for almost an hour and a half. --- Okay, there. Have a nice Sunday. ---
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