Thursday, November 10, 2022


My friend the bookseller is heading to New York for two weeks. He yearns for a place where it rains. Baseball too, he years for that, passionately, but the rains especially. Seeing as this is California where it never rains. It ALWAYS rains in New York. Or something.
I don't know about the baseball. I think New York invented that.
There are also Italians there. His kin folk.
Rain, Italians, and baseball.


Sounds dreadfully exotic, if you ask me. But he's going to enjoy it, it's his first trip since before the pandemic. A well-deserved break.

No Tuesday night pub crawls till after Thanksgiving. By which time he should be ready again for more karaoke, a fascinating phenomenon we both find intriguing and educational -- Kahn Souphanousinphone is our spirit Texan, which as kind of like a spirit animal, a rabid one, with less hair -- and which is on the menu during those evenings.

The illustration below is more or less in acknowledgement of his travel to distant lands in search of baseball and rain.
The East River, New York, 1890, as painted by Albrecht Dürer for the 
first edition of Tales Of The City, by Charles Dickens, an Englishman.

Like him, I too like rain. Baseball, not so much. Or not at all.

I am somewhat hesitant about ever going to New York, as they have very large cockroaches there, plus alligators in the toilets -- and I've heard horror stories about their pizza. At some point I suppose I'll go just so I can sneer at their bagels and their Chinese food.
It sounds like an interesting place. Museums and a library.
Plus the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

Also, I believe that's where urinal biscuits were invented.
Something that has benefitted mankind ever since.
Makes every bar-hop an adventure.
Ya gotta go.

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