The Art of the Meltdown

Oh, I hope so.  Plouffe having called it, and as it unfolds may it ease my worried mind since February and let me focus back on things of import, like the Bluejays and the World Series run.  How happy that the available shirt was Osuna's.  That Fenway worked out so well.  That all the radio listening of the solo camping trips has led to this.  That the ability to entertain from this small device has helped with loneliness and egged you on to further escapades instead.

Work has been unmotivating.  Things have seemed tired, even the boat now put away.  But London is never that, the Emirates and the Globe, days away, and the promise of Picard and Pickard, of the James Caird before next year's South Georgia, a return to Achill and Christy Moore and a Wicklow wedding after the random hosteling cupcake encounter has found marriage herself.  A fun assortment of days ahead to put it all into perspective.  This year.

The wine and scotch of the night a tonic, as we scroll again through Twitter for confirmation of Trump's impending defeat.  We hope.  As we imagine Wrigley field for the World Series, and the use of tickets booked in the ridiculous height of hopes weeks back for things to go the distance to November.

I am so pleased to have found and paid the money for Osuna's shirt.  Long may he throw shutout innings, and let him be on the mound this year at the most crucial times to flaunt his magnificence.  It is, strangely, the most important thing for now.  Save for 2017 the judgments on the future to be made in Bali and NZ.  And focus on the ridiculous and true spectacles of history.  90 ft to first about the time it takes to ground to short, and the like.  60 years from Larsen.  Do it boys.  I can feel it.