[all these places we used to go]
The working hypothesis is this: current Frank Iero would totally not get out of your car if, you know, you actually managed to lure him into your car in the first place. Still, would do, would very much do, even though the Leathermouth outfit is tragic. (Seriously, out front, me checking my phone and him having a smoke, and I had to concentrate on my sidekick, all, "Do not jump him, do not jump him.")
In other news, my ears are all clogged, and I am vaguely contemplating running away for Columbus Day weekend (possibly to Philly--if my sister's going to be in town, that is--or possibly to Montreal--just because I've always wanted to go, though I'm not sure how Thanksgiving would affect travel, etc., so who can say?). I just. I love my city, I do, but sometimes I can't stand to stay still.
Last night was a lovely Wakefield start at Fenway, meeting some folks from ye olde internets, and an interesting interpretation of the (US) national anthem (the Canadian one was lovely). The boy in front of us made the best face--half-confusion, half-annoyance, half-impatience, half-"save me from the scary lady"--and his father could only shrug. Plus, George came out to catch Wake for 2.3 seconds while Cash Money was putting his gear on, which made me just a little bit too happy. (Today, alas, the Red Sox are not making the Blue Jays pay for their kooky "let's pitch all three of our starters for the rest of this series on short rest" plan, which is irritating. Though, okay, George is in the game now, making his major league debut, so there's an upside to this complete and utter fiasco.)
My brain is fuzzy. A combination of the ear thing and sleep deprivation. Instead of doing anything productive, I've spent the week alternating between baseball and not baseball and not sleeping and compiling a preliminary yuletide request list. Now taking bets on how many times I will second-guess and/or change said list before sign-ups actually start.
In other news, my ears are all clogged, and I am vaguely contemplating running away for Columbus Day weekend (possibly to Philly--if my sister's going to be in town, that is--or possibly to Montreal--just because I've always wanted to go, though I'm not sure how Thanksgiving would affect travel, etc., so who can say?). I just. I love my city, I do, but sometimes I can't stand to stay still.
Last night was a lovely Wakefield start at Fenway, meeting some folks from ye olde internets, and an interesting interpretation of the (US) national anthem (the Canadian one was lovely). The boy in front of us made the best face--half-confusion, half-annoyance, half-impatience, half-"save me from the scary lady"--and his father could only shrug. Plus, George came out to catch Wake for 2.3 seconds while Cash Money was putting his gear on, which made me just a little bit too happy. (Today, alas, the Red Sox are not making the Blue Jays pay for their kooky "let's pitch all three of our starters for the rest of this series on short rest" plan, which is irritating. Though, okay, George is in the game now, making his major league debut, so there's an upside to this complete and utter fiasco.)
My brain is fuzzy. A combination of the ear thing and sleep deprivation. Instead of doing anything productive, I've spent the week alternating between baseball and not baseball and not sleeping and compiling a preliminary yuletide request list. Now taking bets on how many times I will second-guess and/or change said list before sign-ups actually start.