BREAD AND WINE
Taste Just Fine

Summer soars with life and the comforts of being able to live and play outdoors. Forget the bugs and/or the dangers of direct sunlight on human skin; the experience is worth waiting through the drools of winter weather. It is now time for the long Labor Day weekend and an enjoyment of the fruits of the spring and summer growing seasons. At least for the birds, the plenty of Nature is there for the taking and eating. Humans gotta pay; that is the labor part.

I long to fill my tank and go see the sea. But, with the ever-rising cost of gasoline and the long drive to the ocean, it may remain a fleeting dream. As a boy, I spent much of my time on, or in, the water. Here, at home, the desert dryness offers needed comforts of pain relief, contingent with being warm, dry and Senior. Yet, I feel a real yearning for the wetness of my youth. I miss the waters; wishing in my secret mindplace that I might find a way to again live near the ocean. (Or the sea, or a lake that normally one couldn't see completely across.)

But, for now, for me, there is baseball and this year's Seattle Mariner's incredible season.

Baseball may become the International sport that ties together diverse and often-warring nations. Or maybe it will be basketball. Or maybe both and soccer (euro-football). Or maybe we will blow the planet to Kingdom Come. (I have often marveled at that phrase and it nearly non-use in this post-Cold War whorled.)

I love the game of baseball for its subjectiveness; the considerations of play and position that come from years of study of the game. It is a past-time, a divergence from the threat and pressures of normal life of this planet. Too bad that it has become such a commercial enterprise.

How recent developments, the astronomical rise of player salaries, and ticket costs will eventually mutate the game remains to be seen. Gone are the common casuality of home town game attendance; it is now "See the Superstar," even if, at hundreds of millions a year, he hits under 300 and is never in contention for a Gold Glove. Even mediocre players, like ex-Mariner Dave Valle, take home many hundreds of thousands of dollars for a legacy of sub-par seasons. And the owners have little more than to complain about market revenue sharing. The fact is that there are enough schmucks with money to float the game ever onward to inevitable oblivion,

How has Life made so many things that one both loves and hates at the same time?

My other web log.