Praying for a Strike

I can only think of one outcome to this week's ALCS that is both desirable and possible. In the first inning of game one, Shilling hits Jeter in the head with a fastball and knocks him unconscious. No one cares and someone pinch runs for Jeter. Schilling then hits ARod in the jaw and Varitek follows up his '.260 hitters' remark from earlier this season with "we don't throw at .286 hitters either." The benches clear and a brawl breaks out so bloody that neither team has nine players capable of playing any game in the next 9 days. The series is canceled and the NCLS winner is declared champion of the World Series.

Alternately, the next nine days will be some of the most painful of my life. I'd rather have a tooth pulled every day.

On a happier note, Eric, Shayna, Mike, Lisa, Reggie, Jill, and I caught Wilco at Skidmore on Friday night. It took about a song and a half for Jeff Tweedy to convince most of the audience that the torch has been passed. The voice of American rock (if not all music not conceived on an American Idol stage) is Jeff Tweedy's. I was equally impressed with the audience, many of whom gyrated arhythmically and asexually, abandoning all conscience, seemingly for my entertainment. Oh, and the band wailed.

On Saturday, Jill and I babysat for Lauren while Kris and Ty celebrated their 5th wedding anniversary at a haunted corn maze. Lauren is still adorable, albeit more snot-covered than I remember her. Can't wait for the next time.