Weekend notes

Lord.

Went to the game Friday night. I was with some marvelous company, which was a good thing since the game sucked. I had Crawford Box seats, and you can see me just briefly in the video of Ensberg's 19th homer (the July 7th link). I'm sitting in the fourth row up, right next to the fence that keeps fans from falling into left center field (seat #1). I'm standing up just as Brownie's saying, "They're getting up in the Landry's Crawford Boxes," and you can see me pump my right fist right before the camera angle cuts me out of the picture. Tee-hee! This amuses me a lot.

I'm easily amused.

Also amusing that day was Berkman's Jeter impersonation, falling into the stands after a catch of a foul ball by Pujols. What's most entertaining is that you can see that he's about to blow a gum bubble as he comes running up for the catch, and not even the fall deters him from this activity. Pretty cool customer. (But how the hell did he get the nickname "Big Puma"? I don't get it. I do, however, get Mike Lamb's--the Killer Silent B--alternate nickname: "Lambo." At MMP, they show a picture of Sylvester Stallone's body from the Rambo movie, with Mike Lamb's head, any time "Lambo" gets a hit. Hee!)

I also attended yesterday's game. What is there to say about that? The company was again stellar, but the Astros continue their predilection for scoring when I'm in the bathroom. I even spent most of the 7th inning in the bathroom to assure our retaking the lead (successfully, I might add). I attempted the same in the ninth, but apparently Brad Lidge's bad mojo is more powerful than my bathroom mojo. Who knew?

That loss seemed one of the more depressing I've witnessed. But I'm not quite sure if it's the loss so much as simply a reflection of my current mood. I'm reading Joan Didion's latest, The Year of Magical Thinking, which is a memoir of a difficult time in her life (freakin' understatement!), but also a study of grief. I haven't finished this lovely tome yet (I adore her writing! It's like reading words, but hearing music), but she seems thus far to be making a case that grief is a form of mental illness, almost.

Well, hell. If magical thinking denotes psychosis, then probably all baseball fans (or at least us Astros' fans) are certifiable.

I believe I'll be staying out of the bathroom unless absolutely necessary, from here on out.