Click images for desktop size: "Angel Orchids" by Exotic Roach You ever play catch?
Of course you have. Who hasn't, even if only by accident.
With a baseball and with gloves, leather baseball gloves I mean.
Its something. I like the sensual slap of the ball into leather. I look the ball into the glove and pluck it out, throw it back. I can always feel it, see it, when my teammate grabs the ball out of the air. Arrested development in motion. Then there;s the smell of the glove, soaked in neats foot oil and the winter's dust. Playing catch, part training, part timeless tradition, and a large part of a link to a communal past, redolent of spring hibiscus, night blooming jasmine and sweaty arm pits. Its a thing we all have in common, a thing we all know. Its a part of what bonds us together and forces us to be aware that we are all different and we are all the same.
My favorite play in baseball, the one I used to like to make anyway and the best way to play catch, was when I was deep in the hole and had to make a fast move to my right (I'm right handed - a right handed goofy foot), lay out for the ball and then tumble in the dirt coming up facing the first baseman, still on my knees whipping the ball with all my arm strength and getting the batter out by a single step. The coaches used to stop me from cheating towards second base because I loved to make that play, I loved watching the ball swoop into the sky and bury itself in the first baseman's Christmas Stocking of a glove. Sometimes the umpire would give the simple thumb to signify the out, but sometimes they'd be as thrilled with the throw as I was and take those three skitter hops and swing his whole arm and torso into the "yer out!"
If it were a great throw I'd take the time during the infield tosses to dust myself off and get back into position, hoping for a chance to do it all over again. Major leaguers do that play all the time. Its routine. But you can see a lot of short stops still get that schoolyard charge of watching the ball curl in and cut the runner down.
Only love and puppies are better than it. Only love and puppies.
Spring camps are open. Players are steadily trickling in. I, for one, can hardly wait to see the first Gyroball! Better yet to see the first player flail away at it and look back at it in the catcher's glove untouched and undamaged.
Of course that also mean I can't wait until the first guy drives the Gyroball over the top of the Green Monster.
Baseball.

Work is terrible. What's changed? At least the paychecks don't bounce.

My puppy's brother sent us some wonderful stuff. She got plenty, almost enough to share a little with our foster dog. I got a magnificent cup that is covered with pictures of my puppy and her brother Jimmy. Just looking at it cheers me. I was on the phone with my friend while I was opening it and even she was agog with how much pleasure I got from that cup.

The Oscars were a dreary affair. I fell asleep after Best Sound Design. I woke up just in time to hear that "The Departed" was adapted from a Japanese film. How pathetic and insulting. "Infernal Affairs" was made in Hong Kong. At least they could have said China. I felt ashamed.
The entire thing was saddening and cheap. I never had any negative thoughts about Ellen DeGeneris before . . .

I saw my friend Patrick's band perform on Saturday. I still hate bars. Even though I'm sure I've passed the stage where drunken women pinch my butt and whisper strange things to me by bellowing close to my face, I still don't like them.
It was okay other than that. I never know what to think when a "student" begins playing far better than I can . . .

I'm too tired tonight and don't feel enough inspiration to write about film 6 . . . its great though. The film, not what I plan to say about it . . .

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