Thursday, August 18, 2005
It's 12:25 am as I write this, so it's officially Thursday.


I'm writing this at this ungodly hour because later on (in about 8 hours or so), we're doing Round 2 of Exterminators vs. the Ants at Pops' House. They're still around, though in smaller numbers. My theory is that the first round of exterminator spray killed off the weaklings and all we have left are the evolution-selected survivalist ants who suck in pesticide the way Rush Limbaugh ingests Oxy-Contin: in those doses, they should by all accounts be stone dead, but somehow they just keep churning on, fired by the miniature Hell's Furnace that burns at the core of their beings.

I'm also up late because my wife was able to score tickets (free!) to an Angels game. But only four, so it was me, Mrs. Pops and my two oldest boys. Sprog #3 stayed home with my mom.

I don't think I've conveyed the level of Baseball Fever that my boys have contracted, especially my oldest kid. He would watch it 24/7 if he could. He watches the same games twice, on purpose. Frankly, it's a little annoying. Now I think I understand just a little bit what a monotonous slog it must be to live with me every day. If my wife is reading this, I apologize.

At a live game, Sprog #1 was freakishly blissed out. Dancing and shouting and screaming and swearing (seriously, he was swearing at one point). It was all so adorably Tourette's-like.

Then I remembered something I hadn't thought about in a long time. When I found out I'd be having a son the first time, I built up this idea in my mind about how cool it would be for us to go to a game together, when he was old enough to understand it, and share the experience as equals in our devotion to the team and the sport.

I remembered it just in time to see it come to fruition.

I also remembered my other dream for my kids when they get old enough, for us to all collectively beat to death a random stranger in a dark alleyway at night, run away and never be caught.

I'm thinking maybe next year for that one.

I love being a dad.

More later if my house is ever safe again. If not, you'll have to live with this. Sorry.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.3


PS: You don't care, but Angels 1, Toronto fucking 4. Stupid baseball.

PPS: You really don't care, but USA 1, Trinidad & Tobago 0. Soccer. World Cup qualifying. That's right, I taped it and watched it just before I sat down to type this. That's not sad, that's devoted.


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