I am no fan of the summertime. Not one bit.
Were it not for baseball and cleavage, it would simply be three months of torturous hell with the appropriate climate to go along with it. But since this year the season has been mostly rainy and/or mild here in NYC, I have not been one to complain.
After numerous days of 90 degree weather and the attendant misery-inducing humidity that has accompanied it—not to mention the high electrical bills that are the norm for this time of year—the moment has come to embark on the yearly ritual of initiating my “__ Days ‘til October” countdown. (Watching recent Yankees away games played in and Oakland, respectively, where it is in the mid to high 60s and humidity is practically non-existent, has not helped my foul, heat-induced mood.)
To say that I long for the passing of three-shower days, and evenings when it is no longer 80 degrees after sundown, is the grandest of understatements. As any fan of crisp autumn nights; choosing appropriate clothing based on the occasion and not the weather; and post-season baseball knows, it’s all about October.
And so, dear friends, the magic number is now 41.
Stay cool and hydrated.
Fuck the NFL and the team owners who voted unanimously to ban any form of protest by the players. I was a remotely casual fan but no more. A...
Yes, indeed. It's their fault. The feeble approach that has allowed the toxic partisan cesspool that is American politics to fester, is...
As we witness blatant, out-in-the-open treason by the POTUS, Congress at various levels, and the myriad of bootlickers and sycophants who ca...