Yesterday, April second, marked the first day of the baseball season, a swath of time that signals the end of spring, the beginning of summer, and a collection of horrendous goatees that even a Korn fan would be embarrassed by. It was also Birdmonster's first real day off since a good two weeks ago, and a day I spent half-ill before an evening of red wine and that new Will Farrell movie worked like twin panaceas. (And, full disclosure here: I really enjoyed "Blades of Glory," but it must be known I was cackling far harder than the other dozen or so people in the theatre. Of course, I'd laugh at Farrell if he was giving me a brain cancer diagnosis, so, like I said: take that recommendation with a grain of salt. Or ten).
Today we're meeting up with the wondrous foursome known as The Sammies, fine upstanding chaps from North Carolina who make me a bit jealous that I have that bland, characterless California accent and not a country flavored Wainsborough one. This means that we had to part ways with Mason Proper and, well, leaving a great tourmate is just a bittersweet thing. Not unlike a cup of coffee filled with Jolly Ranchers, in fact. We separated from those boys in New York after they, in about ten minutes, learned all the cords and changes in Ice Age and joined us on stage playing tambourines, melodicas, and a guitar part that I wish I would've written. They were fantastic guys: very down to earth, humble, helpful---they were like the anti-Aerosmith. To take the analogy further, they had great songs, which, well, Aerosmith hasn't had since "Dream On," unless you count "Janie's Got A Gun," and that's certainly up for debate. Not up for debate: "Dude Looks Like a Lady." In fact, "Dude Looks Like a Lady" is the only song they play in waiting room before you go to Hell. Point is: buy a Mason Proper album and be happy.
I also recently had the luxury of spending my birthday in Boston. Besides bowling drunk, I can't think of anything better. Actually, I did get late night French Toast,and champagne from my girl in California, so: eat your heart out inebriated bowling.
In fact, life had been oh so lovely for oh so long until we took the Donald in to have the battery cable swapped out so that Zach wouldn't have to spend every third afternoon under the hood de-corroding the positive connection and the mechanic informed us that thirty thousand miles of hard driving without a trailer had reduced our shocks to spring-loaded superballs of death and that new shocks would cost us, well, let's leave it at "ah, crap." But we fixed them, plus some other part near the front axle that had been making a disconcerting cat meow noise and now the Donald's driving like a hovercraft and we couldn't be happier or poorer. I'm pretty sure it would be cheaper to have a set of triplets than a van. In fact, if only I would've had some triplets twenty years ago and fed them the Human Growth Hormone I'd be set. Added bonus: rickshaws. Other added bonus: no oil changes. I see no downside to this.
Despite the wine and the Farrell, I'm still feeling a bit...out of sorts. I'm sure I'm forgetting worthwhile happenings, certainly ones from Boston and from New York as well, but, I'm having trouble focusing, so, if they're really worth our time, they shall resurface in the coming days. For now? I need a nap. Westward, ho. And I mean that in the "onwards!" sort of way. I'm not insinuating you get paid to sleep with men.