Sunday 4/21/24
Bigger Hitchcock is lesser Hitchcock. He's better when he's quirkier--and when he's British.
I am always writing. There is no stopping. I don't mean in some figurative way. I mean every single second of my life there are sentences being written, added to, stories taking shape, things being vetted for my work, come up with, etc. No matter what else I'm doing. I am always at home in my mind writing.
My mother took my niece Lilah out to get something for her upcoming birthday the other day. She's turning eight. It was just the two of them and I was glad. Lilah can sometimes get lost in the middle between her two siblings. Her brother Charlie always has some sporting event and the girls often go along. Then there is the little one, though don't let her catch you calling her that. I am going to write a note inside Lilah's birthday card saying how cool I think she is with her gymnastics, her reading, and how much her sister (who she finds a little annoying) looks up to her. Lilah is like Amelia's hero, and Amelia is...let's say, picky.
My mother had all three of them for a while on Friday, and I asked her to give a message to Amelia about the little ghost girl, from the little ghost girl (which, in the telling of this tale, she conveyed to me whilst floating in the window at the old school between her piteous moans), but I think she probably didn't so I will have to relay it to Amelia personally. I'm not sure she's going to like this! It's become a whole thing.
Ran 3000 stairs, did 200 push-ups (including a set of forty), and walked three miles yesterday.
Beware of those who think they need a cartoon avatar of themselves.
Things went well for the Bruins last night. Swayman got the start in net. I'd touched on the head-up-his-ass season from Jake DeBrusk recently, and he came out with two goals and an assist. Another underachiever in Charlie MacAvoy--who is a non-factor too many nights and only had 47 points this year, which just isn't close to good enough--had a couple assists, so maybe these guys are going to wake up for the playoffs.
Was watching a clip of Pete Rose's return to Cincinnati after his time away on the Phillies. I've seen in a bunch over the years, but something about it struck me yesterday. Rose chops a ball back through the box. It's somewhere between a chopper and a grounder. He doesn't hit it that hard. But that ball hits that carpet and takes off. Not a line drive. But it nonetheless gets past the centerfielder for a two base error and Rose ends up on third. Crazy how that surface affected that ball. On grass, the shortstop would have made a play and thrown Rose out routinely. How many more hits a year did guys get playing on a surface like that?
Went to the BSO's rehearsal of Mozart's Symphony No. 33 and Brahms' first violin concerto (with Hilary Hahn) on Thursday morning, and also attended the pre-rehearsal talk. Read Stoker's "Dracula's Guest" between the two while sitting in the second balcony.
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