All due respect to Moses Malone.
Maybe it's just 'cause I can't count to four, but today seems extra significant somehow.
Like: Early morning, April four, shot rang out in the Memphis sky...%
A brief moment for Dr. King and all he stands for.
[SUMMARY: We all should have a dream.]
But it's hard to stay all solemn when it's Rockies Home Opening Day.
I used to go to the home opener every year. Oh, I missed the first one† and the last couple,‡ but I went every year other than that.
Some years it was for the vibe.§ Some years to get it over and out of the way.
This year... well, this year they might actually be *good*. And, of course, there's no frickin' way to get tickets.
Shanny, who works for KOA radio, says most years they were wallpapering the bathrooms with opening day tickets they couldn't give away. This year, the only seats they could get for giveaway are the Rock Pile. The $5 seats. Way out behind center field. Bleachers. Cheap seats.
[SUMMARY: We saints-to-be should get bonus points for our years of martyrdom.]
And have you been to Coors Field? I believe it is one of the most comfortable and attractive fields in all of baseball. I haven't been to that many, mind you, but it's unbelievable how clean and neat they keep it. And it's just so pretty, all deep green paint and red brick.
And Colorado sunsets.
And gorgeous Denver weather.
[SUMMARY: Testify, homer girl!]
OK, off the 4/4 track.
The last two nights, I've had knitblog-based dreams. And not even my knitblog.
Inspired, I'm sure, by Rabbitch's concert oddyssey,¶ I dreamed something the other night that left me almost as soon as I woke, but I remember this one thing: a guy saying to me, "If Springsteen hands off Dylan's dog to you, just take the damned dog."
And, apropos of NOTHING, I dreamed last night that I spent an entire afternoon driving around the Canadian countryside in the winter, listening to the Yarn Harlot on the radio and stopping occasionally to try to call her nephew, Hank, because I had to get some information from him.#
I finally got through to Hank's home phone and his dad answered. I was suddenly aware that it might seem terribly odd that a random 40-year-old woman was calling an eight-year-old boy, but when he answered, I just said, "Is Hank there?"
And he yelled for Hank and Hank picked up the phone, but then Hank and his dad had a protracted conversation about the things Hank was supposed to do before his mother got home and I kept trying to interject, "Hey, I'm here... and this is international long distance, probably... hello?" but they just kept talking.
[SUMMARY: Perhaps I need a new hobby.]
Speaking of the Yarn Harlot, she's going to be in Denverish tonight.
Well, no, actually, she's not.
She's going to be in Highlands Ranch tonight, which is why I'm not going.
Highlands Ranch is reprehensible.
The first of the beige neighbourhoods, it is a yuppie-scum, insular suburban sprawl that ruined a gorgeous storm-watching vista. It was founded in 1981, but didn't truly blight the landscape for years, when it burst forth like alien larvae out of a Nostromo crew member.
Not only do I loathe the ultra-suburban, beige nature of Highlands Ranch, it has street names like "Meadowvale Lane" and "Cherryhurst Avenue East" and "Wildflower Creek Way."
Highlands Ranch is 95% white.
Don't get me wrong, I like white people. Some of my best friends are white,^ but part of the reason I've lived near the urban centre for so long is to get away from the all-Applebee's mentality that seems to grow as white people lose touch with their ethnic brethren.
Chili's does NOT count as Mexican food.
Besides, it's a 20-mile-each-way trip that crosses all the major traffic belts in the metro area. I would be coming from where everybody else is coming from (downtown) and going where everybody else is going (Highlands Ranch) at rush hour.@
Or I could leave at 1:00 and find a way to kill six hours in Highlands Ranch.
I can think of happier ways to lose my soul.
I'm very sorry I won't hear Stephanie speak. She is warm and funny and personable with impeccable comedic timing. I'm sure the vast store of south suburban and Colorado Springs Harlot fans†† will have a lovely time.
[SUMMARY: Yeah, I'm judging.]
Instead, tonight I'll be heading to Sengers on the Fax‡‡ for Shane's 40th birthday party to do a little misbehaving.
[SUMMARY: Just a little.]
Well, after I hit Blake Street Tavern to quaff a cold one with Shanny after the game.
Friday night in the heart of the city: less sheep, more fun.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): If we could just get U2 to write songs about all the historical events in our history, our students wouldn't be so woefully ill-equipped.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Like this year, tickets too hard to come by.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Annie had kids and I didn't have anyone to go with.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The mystique of opening day endures, despite the decline of the sport. Also? Sitting at the ballpark when everybody else is working.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I know how to spell "oddyssey."
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I don't remember exactly what I needed from Hank, but it was knitting-related.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Actually, I have good friends who live in Highlands Ranch. Hate the game, not the playa.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): And I wouldn't be a bit surprised if rush hour is compounded today by people going from the baseball game downtown to the darkest suburbs.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I can't help think Colorado Springs approves of Stephanie's choice of hobby, but not her chosen blogname. Colorado Springs has the second-highest suicide rate among major urban areas in the country. Speculation says it's because of the migrant worker population or the by-your-bootstraps Protestant mentality, but I think it's because it's a fucking creepy place that has been taken over by aggressively evangelical Christians (see: Focus on the Family) in a way that makes Colorado City look like San Francisco.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Note: I could walk home from Sengers if necessary. It would be a long walk, but I could do it. I could *not* walk home from Highlands Ranch. Not by sunrise.