Anything Good That I Have Written Has,

Never Say Love Is "like" Anything... It Isn't.

Do What You Gotta Do And Stay Fly

The First And Last Duty Of The Lover Of The Game Of Baseball," Peavine's Book Began, "whether In The Stands Or On The Field, Is The Same As That Of The Lover Of Life Itself: To Pay Attention To It. When It Comes To The Position Of Catcher, As All But Fools And Shortstops Will Freely Acknowledge, This Solemn Requirement Is Doubled.

Every Day Is Like A Kid's Drawing, Offered To You With A Strange Mix Of Ceremoniousness And Offhand Disregard, Yours For The Keeping. Some Of The Days Are Rich And Complicated, Others Inscrutable, Others Little More Than A Stray Gray Mark On A Ragged Page. Some You Manage To Hang On To, Though Your Reasons For Doing So Are Often Hard To Fathom. But Most Of Them You Just Ball Up And Throw Away.

When I Remember That Dizzy Summer, That Dull, Stupid, Lovely, Dire Summer, It Seems That In Those Days I Ate My Lunches, Smelled Another's Skin, Noticed A Shade Of Yellow, Even Simply Sat, With Greater Lust And Hopefulness - And That I Lusted With Greater Faith, Hoped With Greater Abandon. The People I Loved Were Celebrities, Surrounded By Rumor And Fanfare; The Places I Sat With Them, Movie Lots And Monuments. No Doubt All Of This Is Not True Remembrance But The Ruinous Work Of Nostalgia, Which Obliterates The Past, And No Doubt, As Usual, I Have Exaggerated Everything.