I'm Oddly Fascinated with Joe Torre

He's just interesting. Gruff, terse, Brooklyn boy.

John, John, John.

I love your self-effacing humor, your bouts with anxiety, your hideous sunglasses, your obsession with expensive watches. Your attempts at stand-up amuse me. I can even deal with your tattoo sleeve.

But good God man. What's going on with this DVD? The camera angles: queasy; the intermittent interview segments, rough going. Driving in your Mercedes with your tiny dog. Really? A TELEPROMPTER? I mean, come on. You can remember your own lyrics.

If you find yourself saying "my music is necessary," it's time to turn off the cameras, pack up the two-rock, and regroup.

We'll let this misstep slide. It happens to the best of us. Just had to check you on this.

Superhero Ideas

Shrinking Violet: Can shrink to subatomic size to infiltrate enemy headquarters and mess with their shit. This would have been better in the 1970s or so when women needed a bit more of a boost in the superhero department.

Super Sloppy: Solved crimes by inadvertently spilling things. Needs an amusingly named sidekick.

Only Connect

There was terribly sad news from my high-school classmates this week. One of us is not with us anymore. We don't know what was going on with Nate, really, but we know that he had had enough of it, whatever it was; that he cared about his wife and daughters immensely; that he used his energy to make his world a better place using the tools he had at hand.

From Nate's Facebook page, it's clear he had made a larger impact on those around him than maybe he knew. I found him on Facebook about 2 weeks ago, considered sending him a friend request, and then didn't. I thought he might not remember me.

I remembered him. I wish I had sent that.

After a week filled with sad, joyous, and meaningful connections and re-connections with friends and compatriots, I sank into sleep last night grateful for the rich life I have, which is defined in its most essential form in the way E.M. Forster advised: "Only connect."