I want to tell you that, when A.V. Club runs a list called “The home run that cured cancer: 16 Amazing Movie Sports Feats,” I’ve seen 13 of the movies. I haven’t seen The Scout, The Cutting Edge or The Babe Ruth Story. But the one with the field goal-kicking mule, I’ve seen.
I want to tell you I upgraded WordPress by hand over the weekend. Last time I upgraded, I tried to make a plugin do the work. It screwed up my cookies, and they haven’t recovered. This time I read the steps. I overwrote just as much as was necessary and nothing more.
I want to tell you I’ve lost my love of postseason TV baseball and have no idea why. I’m still reading all the stories in the newspaper. But after years of losing sleep to all kinds of teams I either loved or never cared for, I’m not watching the games this year for no good reason.
I want to tell you about two great stories I read this summer. They both could have been corny but weren’t. In the Post, there was “The Anti-Wedding.” In the Times, it was “Some Commutes Are Just Too Short.” I wanted to make each a post and couldn’t find the words.
I want to tell you a dirty New Yorker line about a song I haven’t heard yet. “It’s the wry sales pitch of a waif beckoning to a lonely British sex tourist, but it’s also a perfect exercise for beginners — even if French labial gymnastics feel vaguely obscene when you’re not used to them.”
I want to tell you the most frustrating song on the Internet right now is Southside Johnny’s All the Way Home. There’s Bruce rock version on YouTube and Southside’s recent live take on some foreign concert site, but the studio original is the one I want and it’s not there. Wrote here once how the Bruce version was a hedge, but I didn’t give Southside’s a real description. Hedged myself. The song is broken and hopeful.
I want to tell you how I almost got stuck in an elevator this morning. The door opening put the rainy day start in a much better light.