I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Oh, speaking of boring summer activities, I don't think ANY summer was as boring, as the summer mum enrolled both me and my sister in the village's Girl's Softball League. (Girl's weren't allowed to play baseball, when I was growing up. Baseball was for boys, and softball was for girls.)

Why the hell do they call it "softball," anyway? I for one can tell you, getting hit by a "softball," is like getting hit with a blinking rock, okay? It stinking HURTS.

LEFT-TO-RIGHT:

a SOFTBALL, some HAIL, a BASEBALL. For some reason, weather forecasters often use baseballs and softballs and American dimes (10 cent coins) to describe the size of hail.

Anyway, spent the ENTIRE summer (or at least it felt like it) Standing in the hot sun in left field, waiting for a ball that seldom came my way (and when it did, I never caught it), or hitting foul balls and getting strike outs. In an entire stinking summer, I got to run the bases a total of maybe--once. Mostly, when not standing around getting sunburned, I was sitting on my arse in the dugout wishing I was somewhere else.

We somehow won the pennant though--or rather the trophy. Don't ask me how, 'cos I haven't a clue. We got a free day out at Glass lake--that was a local resort on a lake, with a resturant, and a hothouse swimming pool, and a beach. We got the usual rubber chicken dinner and little trophy's...I had mine for over fifteen years, 'till it finally fell apart. Figured I'd earned the dang thing-- for nearly dying of boredom, in the summer of '72.

THE VILLAGE BASEBALL/SOFTBALL DIAMOND, ALONGSIDE THE D&H RAIL TRACKS:

HEY--THIS WAS MY POSITION, IN THE SUMMER OF '72, GOOD OLD LEFT FIELD...ONLY I NEVER THREW LIKE THAT.

AS AN ASIDE--The street which I grew up on, is on the opposite side of the steep hill, seen in the background. In summertime, we used to slide down this hill on flat pieces of cardboard that we nabbed from the rear of the old Stylecraft appliance store. It was great fun...well, except for when your bum slid off the cardboard, and accidentally came in contact with some stinging nettles--ow.

Well, sitting here chewing on my Glucerna bar and sipping some diet Polar orange dry soda.

First call of the day:

"Hello, my I please speak to Mr. ______?"
(Man genuinely shreiks) "NO!" (SLAMS DOWN PHONE).

And this guy owns guns....this is why the world needs to be afraid of us, people.

"It's better than cleaning public toilets, it's better than cleaning public toilets, it's better than cleaning public toilets..." I keep telling myself that, anyway....but then, the toilets never actully talked to me.

A Random meme--oh dear, what to do? I know! Answer the blinking thing, you idiot--not like you have a life, is it?

Sure, why not?

Slippergurl's meme of five's:

1. Five local restaurants you would recommend:

Jake's Roundup in South Glens Falls NY
Roma in Whitehall NY
The Log Jam, Lake George, NY
A & W drive-in, Lake George NY (car hop and outdoor table service--May thru Oct. only)
The Peppermill, South Glens Fall, NY

2. Five Restaurants elsewhere you'd recommend:

Ted's Fish Fry, Watervilet NY (best 'chippy' in NY state)
The Wooden Soldier, Fairhaven Vermont (breakfast & lunch only)
The Tibetan Kitchen, New York City, NY
PJ's BBQ, Saratoga Springs NY
Laughing Cow, Leeuwarden, NL

Five favorite dishes you like to make:

Lamb (or pork) and veggie stew
Chili con carne
Beef ragout
Cajun Black Beans and rice with chorizo sausage and corn
Spaghetti bolognese

Five Favorite meals your mom made that you liked as a kid:

Mum's pot roast
Yankee Frankfurter-noodle casserole
Spagetti bologenese
meatloaf topped with piquant sauce
stuffed cabbage rolls with tomato sauce

I'm sitting here, in my front room. It is hot and close. The cats are sprawled out, here and there.

I could hear voices of people as they go walking past, the whoosh of cars, the rattle of trucks.

There was a breeze earlier. I could hear the maples rustling softly outside my window, hear the gentle tinkling of the little wind chimes out on my balcony.

Now the wind has died, the oppressive, humid air is closing in, making the room seem smaller. The noises settled down into the sleepiness of a late night in a small northern city. Most people go to bed early here, even within the city limits, on weeknights.

I sit here alone, writing...and wonder, what for? Why do I write?

I had a brief, fleeting dream of finding my niche in life, of having a place in the world--whether that was with the theater, or horses or at a newspaper office, PR firm, or as a free-lance writer...meh--it was a dream. I wanted to be able to stand on my own two feet--not necessarily live posh (although, I'd never object to that)...just able to keep myself in a secure place, where I could be free to just settle down and get serious about an occupation, to learn and grow and study that career, until I was the very best that I could possibly be. To give myself to something...and now, I give myself to nothing.

I do nothing. I am nothing. I have no point or purpose--nor do I, after this last near-miss this past winter with homelessness, I just don't have the will any longer, to hope, or dream or look forward.

Tonight, I sit alone in my room, the confining warmth of a July night, beading the sweat on my brow, dampening my hair, blurring my vision, sapping my strength away from me, like life has drained away my spirit.

But, I know that like the sun in the morning, I will also rise. The sun goes down every night, beaten back by the darkness. Yet, it's there again, the next day, plodding up and down the skies.

And, in the silence of the night, understand that I am still here, still breathing. I may have had my spirit crushed, but I still have a heart and, possibly, a soul. My mind may be faltering of late, but I can still think my own thoughts. It still belongs to me. Life has clocked me more times than Rocky's clocked his opponents, but by heaven, battered and bruised as my emotions are, I'm still standing.

Sorry, feeling better, somewhat. But, depression doesn't just magically disappear. And, I feel that I'm better airing my angsts here, than sitting in silence letting them fester. Hope I haven't made anyone too uncomfortable, as it's not my intent to be whigney or anything.

Some red-top rag is reporting that drug-addict, alcoholic singer Amy Winehouse, is to appear on an episode of Doctor Who.

I don't care how talented she is, or how nice (when she's sober) she may be-- I hope this won't be the case. No blatantly obvious drug-addict should ever appear on a kid's programme.

Doctor Who is a children's (and adult's) hero. The show has a responsibility to the youth of the UK. Winehouse may be be a model singer, but--not a children's (or an adults) role model.