CC got the first batter to hit a weak groundout to Astrocab.

And then the next batter walks in front of Thome.

Who then hits a homerun.

For good or ill, baseball’s back!

Last night, George W threw out the ceremonial first pitch at the Braves/Nationals game. It was televised on ESPN and I had wandered away from the TV (not being big on ceremony, myself) and commented in the next room over that he was about to throw out the first pitch. As I was talking to Steve, I could still hear the TV, the boos from the crowd. We went back in and Steve used the TiVo to back up a few seconds.

I wouldn’t have booed. My reticence has nothing to do with my affection for Bush and everything to do with my affection for baseball. To me, that’s a pairing that I don’t want to distinguish with a reaction. Of course, I’m reacting now, but I never claimed to be consistent.

My husband said he would have booed, loud and long. I would have sat, silently, and looked forward to the real reason I was there. The game.

I know that there were already two MLB games, but since I couldn’t watch them (heck, they weren’t even on TV!) I refuse to count them.

Baseball! Pardon me while I run hyperly around the room and flap my arms. Wheeee!

The Atlanta Braves play their first regular season game tonight in Washington.

They do not play Washington again until April 11.

That’s just bizarre.

Jim Murdoch investigates some intriguing minimalist avenues in poetry. Check it out.

I love very short poems, but in a way I don’t think minimalism is the engine that drives my car. I just have a short attention span!

I like poems to say a lot in a short space, which I consider is a different aesthetic than wanting a poem to be minimal. Density instead of expansiveness. Not something you can read so much into. Not something you can make what you will. Hmm.

SICK AND WRONG.

I bought a Kool-Aid-type beverage, the kind in the tiny packets that you put into a bottle and add water. The flavor? Tropical punch (my favorite!)

But when I opened the packet and poured it into the clear bottle, it was obviously SICK AND WRONG.

Clear.

Instead of the beauty of bright red fruitiness, they made clear tropical punch.

I’m tellin’ ya, it tastes like despair. And shame.

Something I was reading a couple of days ago sent me off on a strange tangent regarding the nature of “talent.”

How much does writing good poetry depend on talent? Where do you rate yourself in terms of talent? Do you think talent is something visible and obvious? Can you tell the difference between a poem written by someone with talent versus someone with skill?

Essentially, I guess the question is this: Are poets born or made?

I requested YouTube to embed that theremin video over two days ago.

It showed up this morning.

It would have been faster to snail mail it to me.

The internets is weird.