I woke up very upset this morning, because I dreamed–in detail–that the Cleveland Indians had won the pennant, not Boston.  And I kept saying, “No, no, I was there. I know the Red Sox won.” And they (no, I don’t know who “they” were, but they were mean) kept looking at me with pity, and explaining that I had not, in fact, been at Games 6 & 7, and that the Red Sox had gone down in defeat.

It was quite dislocating, but I’m certain I was sitting in Fenway Park this weekend–mostly, in remarkably good seats. 

Exhibit A (sadly lacking the needed 2.8 aperture):

Exhibit B:

I can also attest to the fact that Greyhound buses are not particularly comfortable, and sometimes, people who ride on them overnight spend the next couple of days hunched over with unpleasant lower back spasms.

Is there something wrong with me if I think this is kind of weird?  Maybe it’s just as well that I didn’t move to Denver some years back, with the notion that I would ski every single possible day.  (I actually really like the area, and considered relocating quite seriously.)

And that I found this somewhat unsettling, too?  Possibly because, in almost every single case, the woman in question would be a better candidate than her husband. 

The Denver Post asks a pretty good question here.  I don’t know the answer.  Although this is kind of encouraging, and this is, too.  While I find this annoying.  And cloying.

I used to live in California.  I am very fond of California.  Let’s hope the winds finally stop blowing.  Scary stuff.