Things I think about when I'm taking a walk:
What possesses someone to want to be president of the United States? Certainly has to be someone with a "type A" personality. Someone who has an ego the size of Washington, D.C.: after all, if you run for president, you have to believe that you have what it takes to make a mark on history, and are the best person in America to be leader of the free world. Shrinking violets need not apply for job of U.S. president.
I couldn't be president. Don't have the personality for it (and certainly don't have the money to run, anyway). I'm most definitely not a type A personality, closer to a type C, (whatever that may be--I just made it up). Plus, the idea of half of the country hating my guts is not so appealing. Think about it, roughly 100-150 million people probably don't care for you. Of that number, maybe 10 million wouldn't mind seeing you dead. That sounds like a pretty horrible existence. Just the thought of ONE person hating my guts bothers me. I couldn't deal with millions, I'd never be able to sleep.
Anyway, that's what I thought about yesterday while taking one of breaktime jaunts.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Baseball, Boston, etc.
This is an experiment.
I always complain that I don't have enough time, or any time, to write in this Brainsplotch blog. Today (4-17-2013) I've decided to sort of "live blog" throughout the day, and publish it when I finish late this afternoon.
The end result may be a jumble of various thoughts.
(Naturally, as is often the case, my attempt to get this off at the end of the day was a complete failure. I'm coming back to this blog post four days after I originally started it).
***
I'm a few days late, but April 15 marked the 30th anniversary of the near perfect game Milt Wilcox of the Detroit Tigers had against the Chicago White Sox at Comiskey Park back in '83. To this day, I have not forgotten watching that game with my dad. It was a Friday evening contest, and we both were on pins and needles as the journeyman Wilcox closed in on a remarkable baseball milestone. After setting down the first 26 Sox batters with precision, Wilcox faced pinch hitter Jerry Hairston. One the first pitch, Wilcox hung a fastball that Hairston sent screaming into centerfield for a single. Nothing cheap about the hit at all. Wilcox made a mistake and Hairston made him pay, which is what a major league hitter is supposed to do.
So hat's off to you Milt Wilcox. Thirty years later, I've never forgotten your bid for baseball immortality. And ironically, perhaps I remember this game even more because you did come just short of perfection.
***
The older I get, the less patience I have for music that doesn't kick ass. Isn't it supposed to be the opposite?
***
I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Boston, and what a weird week it was, from the the bombings on Patriots Day at the Boston Marathon, through the manhunt for the perpetrators, to the Friday morning shootouts and getaway, the subsequent lockdown in metropolitan Boston, and finally the capture of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev.
The work week was bookended by the horrific images on Monday and the heroic ones from Friday night.
It was so odd to get up for work on Friday morning, turn on the radio in the kitchen, and hear about the crazy events that took place between midnight Thursday and 6:00 AM Friday. My ear was glued to WBUR Boston almost the entire day on Friday, as Boston was locked down by authorities and the strange lives of the Tsarnaev brothers were pieced together. On Friday evening, I drove my son to his fencing class and came home to learn that the one surviving Tsarnaev brother had finally been taken into custody.
As much as the police often rightfully get criticized for, shall we say, overly aggressive tactics in the pursuit of justice, they are an important part of our society. When they do their jobs well, they deserve all the credit in the world, and this couldn't be more true than Friday night in Watertown, Massachusetts. From the bombing on Monday through the suspect's capture on Friday evening, the authorities--from all outward appearances--did an exemplary job. I was truly touched to watch the raucous applause from the folks in Watertown as the police slowly left the scene of Tsarnaev's arrest.
***
I still want to write something about the movie 42, which I took my son to see last Sunday. I also want to discuss my experiences at my first ever Record Store Day yesterday. That stuff may have to wait, as I've been on the computer too long already.
I always complain that I don't have enough time, or any time, to write in this Brainsplotch blog. Today (4-17-2013) I've decided to sort of "live blog" throughout the day, and publish it when I finish late this afternoon.
The end result may be a jumble of various thoughts.
(Naturally, as is often the case, my attempt to get this off at the end of the day was a complete failure. I'm coming back to this blog post four days after I originally started it).
***
I'm a few days late, but April 15 marked the 30th anniversary of the near perfect game Milt Wilcox of the Detroit Tigers had against the Chicago White Sox at Comiskey Park back in '83. To this day, I have not forgotten watching that game with my dad. It was a Friday evening contest, and we both were on pins and needles as the journeyman Wilcox closed in on a remarkable baseball milestone. After setting down the first 26 Sox batters with precision, Wilcox faced pinch hitter Jerry Hairston. One the first pitch, Wilcox hung a fastball that Hairston sent screaming into centerfield for a single. Nothing cheap about the hit at all. Wilcox made a mistake and Hairston made him pay, which is what a major league hitter is supposed to do.
So hat's off to you Milt Wilcox. Thirty years later, I've never forgotten your bid for baseball immortality. And ironically, perhaps I remember this game even more because you did come just short of perfection.
***
The older I get, the less patience I have for music that doesn't kick ass. Isn't it supposed to be the opposite?
***
I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Boston, and what a weird week it was, from the the bombings on Patriots Day at the Boston Marathon, through the manhunt for the perpetrators, to the Friday morning shootouts and getaway, the subsequent lockdown in metropolitan Boston, and finally the capture of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev.
The work week was bookended by the horrific images on Monday and the heroic ones from Friday night.
It was so odd to get up for work on Friday morning, turn on the radio in the kitchen, and hear about the crazy events that took place between midnight Thursday and 6:00 AM Friday. My ear was glued to WBUR Boston almost the entire day on Friday, as Boston was locked down by authorities and the strange lives of the Tsarnaev brothers were pieced together. On Friday evening, I drove my son to his fencing class and came home to learn that the one surviving Tsarnaev brother had finally been taken into custody.
As much as the police often rightfully get criticized for, shall we say, overly aggressive tactics in the pursuit of justice, they are an important part of our society. When they do their jobs well, they deserve all the credit in the world, and this couldn't be more true than Friday night in Watertown, Massachusetts. From the bombing on Monday through the suspect's capture on Friday evening, the authorities--from all outward appearances--did an exemplary job. I was truly touched to watch the raucous applause from the folks in Watertown as the police slowly left the scene of Tsarnaev's arrest.
***
I still want to write something about the movie 42, which I took my son to see last Sunday. I also want to discuss my experiences at my first ever Record Store Day yesterday. That stuff may have to wait, as I've been on the computer too long already.
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