I am drinking alone
That should get you through a few paragraphs.
- So the talking heads of the sports world love to call a guy who hustles and stays at practice later than his teammates “old school.” I mean, that’s fine I guess, somehow you gotta let the youth of America know which traits are acceptable and which aren’t. They certainly don’t listen to their parents, or teachers. The only way to mold them into subservient worker-drones is through the athlete as role model. I get it. (Forgive me if I sound too Marxist for you, I get that way when I drink.) But “old school” implies that most of today’s athletes are lazy and spoiled. It stands to reason that in 2050, when our time will be considered “old school,” they will say: That Eddie Acosta spent all of last night drinking and eating super burritos, he’s really an old-school player. Our children and grandchildren, especially the grandchildren, will look upon our time as the Age of Sin and Iniquity. We will hold no ethical clout, and probably they will euthanize us for our baseness.
- I don’t want to sound like an academic fucking snob, but The Brothers Karamazov is seriously the best book I have ever read, and I’m not even finished yet. Fyodor (a.k.a. Teddy) Dostoevksy writes something that’s simultaneously the scope of the cosmos and as intimate as what you wish for before you fall asleep (I’m working on my similes). His understanding of human nature shines through every character, and it’s obviously genuine because it has stood the test of time.
- Have you gotten to that guitar solo yet? I suppose it depends on your reading speed. Anyway, all of the evils of electricity—like light pollution and tasers (don’t tase me bro!)—are redeemed by that electric guitar solo. Waaaah-wah-wahwahwah-wahwah-etc.
- I start my cart-pushing job on Wednesday. Hooray money!
- Maybe I’m waking Uncle Mick up by singing the above song, I don’t care.
- I have peed three times since I started writing this post.
- A childhood story (you decide if it’s fictional): I sit in the back of the truck with Andy and Anthony, two of teammates of mine on the school baseball team and the sons of the coach, Greg. Greg’s wife Lisa sits directly in front of my in the passenger’s seat. I don’t live far from their family and so they drive me home from practice often. Today, though, I am sick. It’s just a normal throat cold, and I didn’t want to miss practice for it. Still, I cough involuntarily the entire ride and try to keep the phlegm down. I succeed while we are on the freeway, but once we take the exit for our houses, the phlegm says “Enough!” and barges into my mouth. I hold it in there, disgusted at its taste, which I try to tolerate as best I can for the rest of the ride, because I know it’s only a few minutes. A classmate, John Buscovich, suddenly appears in my head, and I remember he said once that he never re-swallowed phlegm once it came up, because that was gross. In my schoolboy vanity, I always esteemed myself better and smarter than him, so now that I recalled he would never swallow the phlegm, I decided wholeheartedly that I could not either. But I couldn’t take the taste in the back of my mouth anymore. Luckily, I’m sitting by the window. I press the button to roll it down, but to my dismay it only goes halfway down before stopping. Damn child-proof systems. I lean my head out as far as I can but the tautness of my seat-belt and the smallness of my body. I debate whether or not to try to spit the phlegm out the window as far as I can. I should be able to spit pretty far; I play baseball. If I fail to clear the car then I will disappoint my coach and driver. But the sour taste overwhelms all other criteria, and I spit as best I can. The phlegm travels literally zero meters, zero millimeters. It sticks to the outside of the window and slides down like a lazy slug. Greg notices, groaning “Ohhhhhh!” I am thoroughly embarrassed, and I apologize sincerely. Still, I know it means nothing. It won’t be me cleaning up some kid’s spit later.
- Kerry Wood retired today. The last out he recorded was a three-pitch strikeout of Dayan Viciedo. Fitting for a man with the second-highest strikeouts-per-nine-innings of all pitchers with at least 1000 innings pitched (10.31 K/9, Randy Johnson had 10.61). Certainly there are a lot of sadder things in the world, but it’s still pretty depressing to know that physical injury prevented him from fulfilling his potential and becoming one of the all-time greats.
- Shit I have left my laundry in the washing machine for about seven hours. Time to put it in the dryer.
- I liked Zooey Deschanel way back in Hitchhiker’s Guide, but that new iPhone commercial of hers is just insufferable? “Is that rain?” Motherfucker, you are looking out the window AT THE RAIN! Then she gets tomato soup delivered because she doesn’t want to put shoes on, even though she is clearly wearing makeup and lipstick. Also, the mess she needs to clean up is a bunch of old vinyl records stacked on her couch and piano bench, which is an insult to real messes everywhere. Argggg.
- Okay I’m done, time for drunk reading.