eyes smoldering beneath the ashes of the night before
It’s a somber and wretched morning. Day two of a horrible sickness that has left me neutralized with a double barrel nose drainer and an impossible heavy head that wants to detach from my shoulders and fall to the nearest pillow. I feel like my mellon is a balloon that is being inflated by a small boy one hot breath at a time.

Making things fearfully worse the Twins took a preposterous and cruel beating from the pine of the mighty Oakland bats last night. The trouncing brought no solace or relief to my struggles. It hurt. When you’re stricken with the gripe, your day can be parceled into very small nodes of decision and possibility, hope and responsibility (or lack there of). So it was, that I looked forward all day yesterday to the Twins lifting me off the couch and into the merry hands of the baseball brotherhood. It just wasn’t our day. It’s not all a wash I tell myself, the day before was a different story. A good story.

And if that wasn’t enough, that business in Milwaukee, that brutal rebuttal by a bunch of blood thirsty 12 year old bandits laid me flat out. Everything drained. I oozed from my couch into a dirty puddle on the floor.

My only hope today is pharmaceuticals and the new songs from Doug Martsh. His lyrical poetry empties out of the hi-fi, finds my broken head and begins to rebuild me with hard granite stone and a solid mixture of mortar. Were his songs my guide each day, maybe I could outlive mountains.