But this isn't about Johnny. It's about Sparky who was, hands down, my favorite visiting manager. He was fun to watch, knew the game and seemed to embody a healthy and responsible competitive spirit. When he was on the field with Gil Hodges, you know that all was well in the baseball world. I'm certain that I wasn't the only one vaulted into a nostalgic state by news of his death yesterday.
And then, emerging on the horizon of today's news, came the antithesis of class, a morning show interview with the creepily weird Randy Quaid. Weird can be entertaining but his brand is the kind you'd like to slap but don't because you know you'd get slapped back (and possibly, bitten). Quaid's is the annoying kind--- just pay your hotel bill, you damn fool. Between his ramblings defending his recent actions (squatting in a house he'd already sold, missing court dates and insisting that he's on list to be killed by a "star whacker") and the immense pimple I had-- only seconds before--discovered, I could do little more than shake my head and tighten my grip on my "I Love the Nanny" coffee mug.
Women my age don't get pimples. We do get homicidal, morose, despondent, accused of aggravated assault, the large size Hershey Bars which we pretend are destined for our husband's favorite cookie recipe and giant bottles of Aleve from Costco that we pop like candy, but we don't get pimples. Until this one--defiantly blooming on my chin like an evil strawberry--is under control, I will be sending Seth out for supplies.
In the meantime, I will contemplate the class of Sparky, try to make sense of Randy and hope that you all have a fabulous, pimple-free weekend. Thanks for reading--see you all on Monday!!!