The World Series! Playing on my television box! And I’ve had three beers — my limit, and really, enough to enjoy the game without falling asleep. And…Justin Verlander just threw a big fat pitch up the middle to Pablo Sandoval, who sent it out to the kayaks. Maybe I should turn it off. My interest jinxes teams from Little League to the pros. Don’t want to wreck the boys’ chance.
(And now I’ve been watching the game for a while, and it’s 4-0 in the fourth. Universe? I am making it clear: DON’T CARE ABOUT THIS, NOT ONE LITTLE BIT. THE GIANTS CAN WIN, SURE! COOL CITY, COOL TEAM. WHATEVER.)
I should watch “American Horror Story.” Save your jokes, please.
Well. So, after Donald Trump’s October surprise fizzled from irrelevance into silliness, I’m feeling like November is a foregone conclusion. Every vote counts, guards up, etc., but if I were a betting woman, I’d bet on Nate Silver’s frontrunner. But it’s still a horserace, and so it must be a narrative. Only today we’re calling it a trajectory.
It’s like the D.C. sniper, only not, because this guy hasn’t killed anyone (or even hit one). But unless they catch this guy soon, I think you’ll be reading about him. I drove through this area Monday. Didn’t take evasive maneuvers.
Finally, what Tom & Lorenzo might call your daily pretty: The very best in nature photography. Love the fox shot. Enjoy.