we have it in our power to begin the world over again
Grandma's memorial mass in about six hours. I can't sleep, so I'm writing.
Has that ever gone well? I've heard of writers who can't sleep because they're writing, and they tend to turn out genius-level works, massive cultural juggernauts that crater the history of literature. But writing because you can't sleep? Help me out here.
Short bloggy bits for the rest of this. Can't work on a coherent narrative.
***
I'm moving on Sunday, which will finally establish a level of permanence in my stay in Connecticut. Since November, I've been staying in Joy's place, practically out of my suitcase. I had intended to move into my own place as soon as possible, and did in fact sign a lease, but soon realized the following things:
1) My roommates did not clean anything.
2) My roommates did not lock anything (fucking seriously, who doesn't LOCK ANYTHING? How will you fend off the murderers?)
3) My roommates were fond of bringing "ugly-ass Puerto Rican strippers [two]" to parties, and at one party tossed a leather jacket in the oven and set it on fire. Not my leather jacket, fortunately. I had set up a rather ingenious blockade of my room, which I never actually slept or lived in.
4) My roommates placed pages from pornographic magazines in my bureaus/drawers. Not that this was offensive in and of itself, but who BUYS PORNOGRAPHIC MAGAZINES WHEN YOU HAVE THE INTERNET? I detected pre-planned malice and bailed.
So that plan went right out the window, and we waited until her lease ran out to get separate places. I think this will work out for the better; all cohabitation experiments I've seen tried so soon after college (sample size of maybe five or six relationships) have ended up imploding. Hopefully this works out better. At least the cat has more room now.
***
Wily Mo Pena is, in theory, a major league hitter. He does not hit for average and strikes out a lot, both conquerable negatives if he was able to be patient and take walks, which he does not. If you throw him a low breaking ball on the outside corner, he will swing at it and miss. He is all potential. He is no potential.
And yet...
He hits the ball harder than anyone else I have ever seen. He is listed at 6 feet, 3 inches tall and 215 pounds, but this is laughably outdated; Wily Mo is shaped quite literally like a brick and hits the ball like you would expect a man shaped as such to hit it. His home runs, which are his specialty and only hope for a successful career, come in two varieties:
1) The light-tower moon shot that literally goes out of the park. (These home runs occur about 25% of the time)
2) The sharply focused, howitzer-force line drive that leaves the field on a rising line and has about a five percent chance of severely injuring or killing a fan foolish enough to try to catch it. (These make up the remaining 75%).
Lots of people hit the first type. Only the greats hit the second. The greats, and Wily Mo Pena.
He hit one a year ago that was rising as it was going into the Green Monster seats. A fan made like he was going to catch it, but ducked out of the way just in time. This may have saved his life (I am not joking, I seriously believe this), as the ball blasted off the wall behind him and bounced two hundred feet back to the infield.
Baseball is intimate because your life is in as much danger as the players'. At least until Wily Mo is traded (he likely will be, as he will never get the playing time he needs here).
***
I'm in the midst of another great reevaluation. I do this every once in a while to keep myself from drifting. Usually it's prompted by someone pointing out my flaws, which is a good thing because I've got an awful lot of them.
So, do me a favor and tell me, all ye reading this, what you would like to see me change. Could be anything. Humor (fair enough), sociability (always an issue), hair (fuck off). Be honest. I can take it. You can certainly use other modes of contact if you don't feel comfortable telling the public.
This is, incidentally, not a cry for help. I'm genuinely curious. Have at it.
Has that ever gone well? I've heard of writers who can't sleep because they're writing, and they tend to turn out genius-level works, massive cultural juggernauts that crater the history of literature. But writing because you can't sleep? Help me out here.
Short bloggy bits for the rest of this. Can't work on a coherent narrative.
***
I'm moving on Sunday, which will finally establish a level of permanence in my stay in Connecticut. Since November, I've been staying in Joy's place, practically out of my suitcase. I had intended to move into my own place as soon as possible, and did in fact sign a lease, but soon realized the following things:
1) My roommates did not clean anything.
2) My roommates did not lock anything (fucking seriously, who doesn't LOCK ANYTHING? How will you fend off the murderers?)
3) My roommates were fond of bringing "ugly-ass Puerto Rican strippers [two]" to parties, and at one party tossed a leather jacket in the oven and set it on fire. Not my leather jacket, fortunately. I had set up a rather ingenious blockade of my room, which I never actually slept or lived in.
4) My roommates placed pages from pornographic magazines in my bureaus/drawers. Not that this was offensive in and of itself, but who BUYS PORNOGRAPHIC MAGAZINES WHEN YOU HAVE THE INTERNET? I detected pre-planned malice and bailed.
So that plan went right out the window, and we waited until her lease ran out to get separate places. I think this will work out for the better; all cohabitation experiments I've seen tried so soon after college (sample size of maybe five or six relationships) have ended up imploding. Hopefully this works out better. At least the cat has more room now.
***
Wily Mo Pena is, in theory, a major league hitter. He does not hit for average and strikes out a lot, both conquerable negatives if he was able to be patient and take walks, which he does not. If you throw him a low breaking ball on the outside corner, he will swing at it and miss. He is all potential. He is no potential.
And yet...
He hits the ball harder than anyone else I have ever seen. He is listed at 6 feet, 3 inches tall and 215 pounds, but this is laughably outdated; Wily Mo is shaped quite literally like a brick and hits the ball like you would expect a man shaped as such to hit it. His home runs, which are his specialty and only hope for a successful career, come in two varieties:
1) The light-tower moon shot that literally goes out of the park. (These home runs occur about 25% of the time)
2) The sharply focused, howitzer-force line drive that leaves the field on a rising line and has about a five percent chance of severely injuring or killing a fan foolish enough to try to catch it. (These make up the remaining 75%).
Lots of people hit the first type. Only the greats hit the second. The greats, and Wily Mo Pena.
He hit one a year ago that was rising as it was going into the Green Monster seats. A fan made like he was going to catch it, but ducked out of the way just in time. This may have saved his life (I am not joking, I seriously believe this), as the ball blasted off the wall behind him and bounced two hundred feet back to the infield.
Baseball is intimate because your life is in as much danger as the players'. At least until Wily Mo is traded (he likely will be, as he will never get the playing time he needs here).
***
I'm in the midst of another great reevaluation. I do this every once in a while to keep myself from drifting. Usually it's prompted by someone pointing out my flaws, which is a good thing because I've got an awful lot of them.
So, do me a favor and tell me, all ye reading this, what you would like to see me change. Could be anything. Humor (fair enough), sociability (always an issue), hair (fuck off). Be honest. I can take it. You can certainly use other modes of contact if you don't feel comfortable telling the public.
This is, incidentally, not a cry for help. I'm genuinely curious. Have at it.