Somewhere Beyond The Class Divide.

The life has become a succession of baseball games, punctuated by work, the news, the occasional phone call, the irregular tweet or whatever. Shit can be paused, played back. Whatever. Part of me knows it's wrong, and nothing more than an imperceptible step away from watching NASCAR, but the other part of me is like a Cheap Trick song and just surrenders.

Work is perhaps the biggest punctuation. The moment I arrive I pop into the kitchen where the humungous Mandarin translator cow starts spewing to me with a mouthful of eggs and God knows what else about some political bullshit I could care less about. I concentrate in horror at his lapel while still trying to maintain my composure as the vomit seeps up from my throat and into my mouth. I move over to the sink all the while maintaining a level headed conversation with the semi-functional farm animal in Brooks Brothers, grab a cup of water and swallow the vomit down. I excuse myself as politely as I can.

Back in the office, and a couple hours later, oh Good, an email arrives from the person sitting twelve feet away. She remembers from a conversation a month ago that I was going fly fishing and forwards me an email about stream levels this summer. She, presumably, thinks this doesn't make me feel uncomfortable.

Downstairs in the convenient store the clerk asks me if I'll be having my usual lox and bagels from next door on Friday. Yes, not today, but Friday. Again, presumably, unaware how this might make one feel uncomfortable.

Or maybe not. Who knows. Maybe this is what it's like when they say one is "batting pussy away with a stick." And I am rocking the scruff. Maybe it's like Georgie Pilson and wherever he goes panties just start dropping. Whatever the case I'm at a loss because if it's one thing I try never to be it's agreeable.

Anyway, baseball, dudes throwing shit and looking hot, and in this weather, sweaty. Surrender. NASCAR can suck it.