Obviously, dear readers, this year is no exception.
Stumbling home at 4:30 in the morning, it took a good twenty minutes of frustration before I realized I was trying to get inside my neighbor’s building instead of mine. Whoops. No wonder the key wouldn’t work.
Quizzing myself on what actually happened the night before — piecing quipped memories together one by one to reassemble reality — is the basic tenet of any three-day weekend. Like, did the Cardinals’ Todd Wellemeyer really throw six-plus scoreless innings last night? Indeed. Did Nancy Pelosi actually run out of things to say? You betcha. Did I really overhear the following conversation at the bar last night?
Pretentious Woman #1: I had the Pinot. He had the Shiraz.
Pretentious Woman #2: I didn’t know they served wine at the Cell.
Pretentious Woman #1: They do. In our section anyway.
Pretentious Woman #2: I’ll have to try that next time.
Pretentious Woman #1: Yeah, I mean, what else you gonna do? Watch the game? Ha!
Yes, folks, such tragedy is not made up.
You wanna drink wine? Fine. Go ahead. Nothing wrong with that; but I don’t care who you are, the ballpark ain’t no place for wine.
Or maybe I’m still languishing over John C. Reilly’s intriguingly accurate characterization of me at last year’s Memorial Day cookout:
I may be no angel, but I do know that there is a time and place for everything.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.