beulahbondo's Diaryland Diary
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Fenway
Last week, or thereabouts, I went to a Red Sox game courtesy of my architect friends the Greyhound (the shorter of the two tall architects), the taller of the two tall architects, and Taller's bride-elect. The latter sent me these wonderful scrapbook pics.
Here, you can see how good our seats were, not to mention the gorgeous hips of Nomar:
At bat against the Yankees this weekend, by the way, Nomar appeared at one point to be whispering to his wristguard. I think he was asking God for help breaking it off with that soccer chippie and crossing the river (or rather the canal? He lives in Charlestown, right?) to Beulah.
Who let the Rocket in? And why did he think that cap would disguise him?
The Greyhound steps up to Hoodsie Home Plate:
And finally (dum-dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum): Beulah peels off a few riffs at the Fenway organ:
I love being a Red Sox fan! It feels so reassuringly normal! And now that the age of irony is over (right?) I can just relax and enjoy it.
By the way, Habbit, don't get all balled up about the derive gone bad. The faint line between situationist ramble and mild tourism is troubling, for sure, but I think that resistance will just sour the sauce further. It's got to be more worthwhile than those dumb flash mobs, don't you think? Silly office geeks. You shouldn't be required to own a text-messaging device to make urban performance art.
6:44 p.m. - 2003-09-08
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