Song Title of the Day

"Self Loathing Rules" by Shout Out Out Out Out

Song Title of the Day

"Supernatural Car Lover" by Robert Pollard. It's a good song, too.

Funny Headline of the Day

From the Philippine Daily Inquirer comes this story:

"Truce holding, say MILF, Army"

I'm not sure what the disagreement is, but that's pretty impressive, to keep a whole army busy like that.

Had a Weird Dream Last Night

I dreamed I was in Chicago when there an earthquake. I happened to be in an elevator with a couple of other people whom I didn't know when it happened. The elevator stopped and we were stuck for a while but got out by sending the elevator down to the sub-basement.

Somehow I ended up in St. Louis, which was a real mess. The arch was twisted, and panels were missing from it. Some buildings had partially or totally collapsed. Some people were stuck in the partially collapsed buildings because they couldn't get out.

After a while, the dream changed and I ended up being in a kind of survival situation where there was no city, nothing around but nature. Sort of a post-apocalyptic, Hobbesian state-of-nature kind of thing. A group of us (none of whom I think I knew) were traveling around with only a few provisions and our own wits to stay alive. It felt like there was always somebody out to get us.

All things considered, it was a very weird dream.

"How To Live"

Today's poem from the Writer's Almanac is "How to Live" by Charles Harper Webb. Despite its apparent pretension, the poem actually gives pretty good advice, sort of like Kurt Vonnegut's famous (and apparently apocryphal) commencement speech in 1997.

I wanted to highlight a couple of lines from the poem, but I couldn't find one or two to choose. It kind of has to hang together.

Anya's Morning Quip

This morning as I was getting ready for work, I had Little Feat's "Tripe-Faced Boogie" going through my head. I turned to Anya, who was in the bedroom with me, and quoting the song lyrics, said,

"I'm going to boogie my scruples away!"

Without missing a beat, Anya quipped,

"Spray deodorant all over yourself."

Song Title of the Day

"His Lyrics are Disastrous" by Jakobinarina.

Oops - I Forgot to Send a Card!

Did you know the Earth just celebrated a birthday?

According to the dogma of the Church of England in the 18th-19th centuries, God created the Earth at 9:00 a.m. on Monday, October 23, 4004 B.C. So our beloved planet just celebrated its 6,010th birthday.

Happy Belated Birthday, Earth!

Quote of the Day

From Daniel Boone, whose birthday is today:

"I have never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several weeks."

The Months Without Baseball

Can it be only 4 days since the Cardinals won it all? Can it be that I'm still shaking my head, not understanding how it can be true? Can it be that one wicked Wainwright slider ended seven months of hopes and dreams, just like that? Can it be that October is already past, leaving us to stare into a leafless, lifeless November and beyond - nothing but months of snow on the basepaths, frost in the dugout, and ice on the diamond?

Can it be that there are still three-and-a-half months until spring training? Can it be that I miss baseball already?

At the end of this season, of all seasons, can something still be missing? This season of losing streaks, of injuries, of strke threes, of swept-by-the-Cubbies? This season of Weaver, of Marquis, of Wilson, of Miles and Miles and Miles?

This season of Spiezio, of Albert the Great, of Soooooup, of Carp (just Carp), of Eck the Pest, of did-you-really-just-do-that-P-dub?, of Yadi, Yadi, Yadi?

Can something still be missing, even after this?

Yes. For this was the season in which the child in us defeated the adult in us. This was the season in which the "we can do it" beat the "we know better." This was the season in which hope beat cynicism, the season in which love beat knowledge.

This was the season to savor. This was the season of the "why not," the season of the "maybe more."

But there is no more. Not for a while. Nothing to savor now but hot stove discussions and speculations gone mad. Suppan? Weaver? Spiezio? Belliard?

All of it nothing but fantasy gone amok. All of it nothing but the displacement of childhood dreams, the substitution of X-L-S for 6-4-3. All of it just numbers, numbers, numbers.

All of it mattering not at all in comparison to the specific physics of a ball that climbs and climbs and climbs and falls and falls and falls and finally fades into the cradle of a child's hands in a late summer twilight, to the "hurray" of the crowd.

Not mattering at all, even a little bit, until the whiff of early spring grass brings the next hit-and-run, the next suicide squeeze, the next double up the gap, the next "Oh, Tony, what-are-ya-thinkin?"

Until the next swing-and-a-miss.

For in the end, that's what we live for. The next swing-and-a-miss. Not the last one, no matter how sweet the slider, or how significant the stakes, or how ungainly the Inge.

It's the next one that keeps us waiting, and watching, and dreaming of summer days to come, of autumns full of baseballs loaded with dirt and grit and spit and gumption.

The next one. It's a long way away, a winter-spring-summer-fall. A long, long way away.

So fly into the winter, Redbirds.

We'll see you in the spring.