And Other Random thoughts.
Having lived in Chicago all my life, I can't recall a stretch more humid than last month. Hotter? '95 was awful. But not as humid. And not just the morning when my "el" car felt like a Russian steam bath.
I remember a David Letterman skit many years ago when he went on the street to find “Mr. Humidity,” the New Yorker who resembled a walking radiator. They say “It’s not the heat that gets you but the humidity.” Amen.
"A" as in asterisk. Alex Rodriguez is in elite company, the 7th player in baseball history with 600 home runs. In recent years it’s become a rather dubious group with new members Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa and *A Rod each linked to steroids.
It remains to be seen where *A Rod ends up history and public perception wise. Fans seem to embrace him at arm’s length, but at age 35 he has a lot of years left.
I’m certain, however, of one thing: History will be kind to Ken Griffey Jr., who retired this year with 630 career homers and without the stain of performance enhancing drugs. Griffey was blessed with every tool except durability; otherwise he would have left Bonds, Aaron, Ruth et al. in his wake years ago.
The other night I was flipping channels and came across one of those ubiquitous reality shows. In a riveting piece of drama, a dishevled woman looks up from the couch and discovers she has overslept for whatever ridiculous, contrived activity was on tap. I looked at my wife and said, “Why didn’t the cameraman wake her?” and learned that there are actually RULES for these shows, and that the camera crews can’t get involved. Who knew? Wish I was around when the suits came up with them. I’m sure it was like the Geneva Conventions.
Time to trade the custom made suits for a D.O.C. monogram. Next up: Republican kingpin Bill Cellini. The circus is leaving town but plenty of good theater remains.
My daughter turns 3 this week. We have had a good deal of bonding time lately, much of it at the pool, as Mom cares for the new baby.
Monday night was like many this summer. Looks like rain all day, rains a bit (“The clouds are raining” she likes to say) then clears after dinner.
Off to the pool. It’s cloudy, a bit chilly, with just a handful of people. She discovers two small water bottles and brings them to me in the shallow end. Beauty salon time as she rinses my hair, then a series of turns as she fills one bottle with water from the other. Then she lies down, asking me to lie in the water, the end of her corkscrew curls dipped in water. She laughs, running the bottles under the surface.
After a while I look up. We are the only ones left. Our moment. Our summer.