Sports and Culture Edition

I turned 38 today and I’m thinking of joining a baseball team. There is a rational snippet of brain left after years of chemical modification therapy, and it’s saying “Baseball? Of course you can’t be serious, you can’t run across the street without hacking up smoke you ingested eight years ago…no no not baseball. Why not just have a nice lie down until it passes?”

Now soccer for me would be madness, and I can barely swim so that’s out, can’t ski anywhere around here (here being the whole bloody continent) and the rules and/or objective of Cricket confound me. But I know how to play baseball, a game of skill and strategy…with only short bursts of running, followed by long periods of sitting.

The girls took me to a play last night, Agatha Christie’s The Hollow. Wasn’t bad for a local production, except all the accents sounded like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, gov’ner. What did ruin it, besides running three hours, was the woman behind me who must have known the entire cast, because whenever anyone said anything she would chortle and laugh and then explain to her companions who so-and-so was on stage. Cripes sake, the guy got shot at the end of act II and this woman is cracking-up to the point where even the dying actor looked distracted. When I finally get the baboon army up and running, she's going down first...