A case of the Tuesdays . . .

Well, I guess since it's officially Wednesday by now, I should change the day, but fuck it. It's too late to get caught up in pointless fucking details.

Quick sports rant (and then I'll move on to more important things): Just got through watching a baseball game where my upstanding Texas Rangers were playing the steroid-injected San Francisco Giants. I'm the last person to bitch about bad calls by officials, but last night's game was probably the worst I've ever seen--really. Not only was the strike zone ridiculously inconsistent all night, but the hit that would have tied the game in the top of the ninth was ruled a foul ball, even though replays show the chalk flying in the air as the ball hit in fair territory (For those who are not familiar with this sport, you have permission to just nod and smile--there will be no pop quiz later). What a bunch of bullshit. Here's what just landed in my inbox from Jamey Newberg, a very well-respected guy who covers the team:

That was a disgusting, pathetic, sickening display of umpiring incompetence that I would expect to have consequences of some sort, if I didn’t have exactly zero faith that the league had any freakin’ clue on how to handle it.
I’m not going to sleep well tonight. Tonight’s home plate “ump” (Larry Young) and tomorrow night’s home plate excuse (Tom Hallion), who are basically bulletproof and not held accountable for their pathetic ineptitude, will probably sleep like babies.

What a disgrace.

My sentiments exactly . . .

On another note, tomorrow appears to be a swim day at A-train's. It seems as if I'm one of the few people usually invited, probably because I am very low-key when peeing in the pool. After that, who knows? I think the plan is to trash Charles' place once he gets out of the asswhip that is Mallory. It should be a good time. I just hope I feel like drinking by then. Maybe I'll take my rum with me, just in case the beer's not really doing it for me.

In the sociolinguistics class today, E made a startling discovery that a certain tribe of Indians in a documentary have a rare dialectal property: All of the men sound like they're gay (and probably of the cross-dressing variety). And yet they wondered why H. Locklear distanced from their community . . . hmmmm. Good times. While watching the film, I often wondered how much one could make off of artistic works such as dreamcatchers and other yarn-related projects, as yarn seems to be making quite a comeback in these modern times.