About 32 years ago, at this very hour, our mother was in labor, so we should at least celebrate her efforts. Applause, Mom! Thanks for pushing back in '74. But we hate birthdays. We aren't too fond of being older and someone told us the other night that we don't dress our age, which we suppose is true somewhat, but we still see Wesley Kimmler at the bar, and he's like 85 or something and wearing weird-assed garb. We are still culitivating the Dark Stranger Look, circa summer 2005, if you must know. Heavy beard, bandana around the neck in kind-of mock ascot fashion, grey sportcoat, Sweet Cobra and Thin Lizzy buttons on the lapels. Relatively tight black pants. Sometimes our Steady B t-shirt. Often white shoes. Al Burian called us majestic a few months ago. Other Watergate babies weigh in.
Speaking of weight, tonight at the rare book distillery we had a mad Pizza Hut feast with Crazy Eddie and Jonathan. A large pie with onions, mushrooms and bacon, an order of out-bone buffalo wings (sorta huge chicken nuggets slathered in hot sauce) and these weird potatoe chompers with cheese and jalapano that resemble bastard cousins of tater tots but with yummy ranch dipping sauce. It sounds terrible, but you weren't there, so don't judge. You are the one who sees shadow rodents! Bookstore friend Laura also brought us a fancy basket of meatloaf with mashed taters and a cupcake that we are saving for tomorrow's shift. It is a thing of beauty, but we are already anticipating tearing into it.
It is in the forties and pissing drizzle outside, which is typical March in CHILL. Almost baseball time. This has been a salty spring for the White Sox, no other way to say it. Their Cactus League record has been noxiously below .500, the bullpen has more gaping holes than the orgy scene in Please Stop My Ass Is On Fire 9: The Next Penetration, Jim Thome is only just getting healthy and Scotty Pods keeps fritzing out and getting yanked from games with groin problems and shoulder boo-boos and he is the engine that makes the offense run. Bobby Jenks is pitching cheeseburgers out there and getting consistently rocked. 2005's glorious campaign will sustain our sense of Pale Hose devotion for years to come, don't get us wrong. But there is a slight feeling, just a twinge really, that all those nationally televised games on FOX this summer are going to have us scrambling for a cold compress and wishing for a sixer of Miller Lite.
Fuck the Yankees!