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2:33 a.m. : 2002-06-26 : Pahkah, Pee, Princess

�WHADD�YA SAY, PAHKAH?� We descended upon the world that is Somerville high school (or intramural) baseball yesterday evening. There is a field not far from Steve�s house where there are games all the time. We had our favorite players, we laughed, we swooned, we listened to a townie mom cheer the kids on, �Whadd�ya say, Pahkah?� �Come on, Lewis!� �Bring it home, Frankie!� (I think �Frankie� was her son. We entertained thoughts of yelling out to him, �Good luck on your trip to 2nd base, Francis! Kudos, Francis!� but decided we�d probably wind up on the receiving end of a Townie Smackdown). It was amazing. We caught the end of the first game, kids in maybe 7th grade. The second baseman # 13 was our favorite. He was smallish and scrappy, landing on his back in the dirt at one point to catch the ball for an out. As he rubbed the dirt off his elbow the coach for the older kids� team (that was waiting for the field to be free) yelled out to him, �Keep tha dirt ON! Keep it on!� And with an appreciative smile (because you know this kid�s damn glad that the older kids� coach has his eye on him) he picked some dirt off the ground and put it back on his arm. This game ended with a triple play, inducing the old man next to us to forget for a minute that comparatively, Will, Steve, Brent and I looked like roustabouts, and said to us with amazement, �Triple play. TRIPLE PLAY!� After this game we drove Steve to work, whose outfit, incidentally, was BOSS. First of all, he�s very thin, tall and wiry but solid, and is fully working the moustache. He was wearing a really small Def Leppard Hysteria T-shirt, very worn jeans with his huge honeycomb looking belt buckle, blue and yellow sneakers, amber lensed aviator sunglasses and the pi�ce de resistance: An Average Plain White Sweatband. I couldn�t stop looking at the effortless genius that was Steve�s style. Anyway, we returned to the field later to watch the high school kids, deciding that �that�s where the action is,� since high school jockdom is seriousness, and making that commitment to the world of high school jockdom is a serious (and lasting) choice. Brent�s favorite was probable designated hitter Parker, of the aforementioned �Whadd�ya say, Pahkah� fame, as he had an unconventional mop of hair not unlike Brent�s. I liked him because he carried his batting gloves fingers out and down, hanging from his butt pockets, making his ass look like the long eyelashed chicken Camilla from The Muppet Show.

A lot of small strange things happened yesterday. Before our baseball outing we drove Will and his cat Iggy to the vet. He brought him in a gross old green towel that had been peed on by the other cat, Miles. As Brent and I ate Indian food in the interim, Steve came in to tell us Will and Iggy were done. On the way back to the car, Steve heard two girls go, �That�s SO GROSS,� and thought they were talking about him for a second, but turned to see Iggy, in a fit of madness caused by the traffic and humans in Union Square, peeing directly, in a steady stream, on Will, who was trying to hold him straight out and away. Hehe. Luckily Iggy was healthy and now has his shots, etc. Will is taking him back to Oregon with him, as M. doesn�t treat him very well. I almost took him a couple times but my cats have never been with other animals. Actually, they were once babysat by friends who had kitty Nigel, an ottoman sized and shaped loveball, and weren�t the same for weeks.

There was an old man I saw several times yesterday that I liked. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He was walking slowly outside of the new Yummy Ice Cream of Medford Street and wearing a peach short sleeved button down. I saw him again later across the street. Then as we were on our way back from dropping Steve at work there was a to do in front of Yummy Ice Cream where the younger kids from the baseball team were gathered licking sticky treats. A fire truck and ambulance were there and on closer inspection I saw the fireman was bent over the old man I had seen earlier. Only now he was on the ground. I think my heart stopped for a second. I don�t know if he was ok but I hope so. It was really hot yesterday.

I was then told later, over BBQ, that I am �automatically discredited� (by someone who I just met, a friend of Will�s, and liked up to this point) because my family is Catholic. Fuck that. And nothing interesting was said anyway. This is the problem I have with humans and why I don�t subscribe to any already set moral code� blah blah blah.

I�m almost glad that The Princess decided he would make sure I was terminated from writing for Amplifier. It just proves that I made the right decision when my gut was telling me I shouldn�t be recording with him anymore because it was starting to feel like bad touch. I tried to tell him politely and he wouldn�t bend, wouldn�t compromise, and so it had to end. And he made sure to tell me how awful I was so I sent him a letter telling him how I saw the sitch and all of a sudden I was EVIL and monstrous (and piggish! Heehee!). So good. Terminate me. I don�t ever want to see him again. And I hope he gets the fuck over himself.

What�s nice is that I got my proposal back yesterday and it looks like all I�ll have to do is tighten up the writing on the first section and take care of a few minor corrections here and there. I even made Dr. S. laugh! In a thesis proposal! Word! She marked it up and good so I have a lot to work with. At this rate I should have an advisor soon!

Word of the Day for Wednesday June 26, 2002:

hirsute HUR-soot; HIR-soot; hur-SOOT; hir-SOOT, adjective:

Covered with hair; set with bristles; shaggy; hairy.

The Bear... makes the rounds of the clubs "disguised" in trench coat and broad-brimmed hat, hoping (successfully, it seems) to be mistaken for a rather hirsute human. --Richard M. Sudhalter, "'The Bear Comes Home': Composing the Words That Might Capture Jazz," [1]New York Times, August 29, 1999

"First of all, your nose is nearly covered with your bloody moustache and your beard," Mr Gogarty replied. Mr Allen apologised for his "hirsute" appearance. --Paul Cullen, "No ambush sprung on returning Gogarty," [2]Irish Times, March 23, 1999

He was incredibly hirsute: there was even a thick pelt of hair on the back of his hands. --Tama Janowitz, [3]By the Shores of Gitchee Gumee

Hirsute comes from Latin hirsutus, "covered with hair, rough, shaggy, prickly."

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