Change Is the Only Constant

The Giants won the World Series last week and celebrated with a massive parade at City Hall.

The Republicans took Congress this week and are happy with their victories.

So what’s going to happen next week?

Maybe rain?

I hope so because we need it.

My lawn looks like a desert.

My last remaining tomatoes are still green on the vine.

Have you noticed that the drought has not phased golf courses, hotel gardens, and the mansions of the very rich? Are they receiving the $500 fine, I wonder?

Some of my neighbors’ lawns are as green as a hillside in Scotland. And I know they wouldn’t relish paying out those $500 dollars.

So what do they know that I don’t?

Are they watering their lawns with green paint? Or maybe with bottled water from the water store?

I want in on their secret.

Meanwhile I’ve been researching on the web for tips on how to take care of your lawn in a drought.

Here’s one that’s scary:

“You need to understand the strengths and weaknesses of your particular grass.”

Really? Do I call in a drought specialist for therapy sessions?

Other tips include only watering those areas that are dying, and ignoring the areas that are surviving.

And – this one gave me hope – brown grass does not mean dead grass.

What planet are you on?

Calvin says, “I can provide water, just let me loose in the front yard.”

Spitting Baseball

Well, the SF Giants won the World Series. It was quite exciting considering they didn’t look like they could run across a park in the play-offs, let alone win the championship.

Have you also noticed how much spitting goes on among baseball players? They spit on the field, while pitching, catching, batting, or just scratching themselves.

Coaches and players alike.

What happened to manners?

I looked that up. They used to chew tobacco. Since then baseball has gone green, so now it’s sunflower seeds and bubble gum. It’s more role-model friendly.

But that doesn’t explain why they spit. Perhaps it’s a hold-over from the tobacco days, and it’s now part of the baseball culture.

Catchers don’t figure in the spitting contest unless they’re adept at flinging it from the side of their masks.

Batters and pitchers are the stars. The cameras are aimed at them. It’s part of the performance.

What puts my stomach into a twist is watching a runner slide into home base with all that spit-soaked dirt.

Who gets those stains out? That’s what I want to know.

Calvin says, “Baseball is a get-down-and-dirty-game. I’d love to roll in dirt spit.”

Addicted to Orange and Black

Yesterday was Game 1 of the World Series.

Since I live in San Francisco, I couldn’t help but notice.

The city was dressed in orange and black.

The fans donned the team colors, the hats, the beads, and the mitts.

Even kids wore SF Giants earrings and band-aids under each eye in honor of Venezuelan Marco Scutaro.

I was at AT&T Park as an observer. That’s all I could afford.

The ticket prices were enough to pay off the nation’s debt.

And I didn’t have enough cash on me to pay the $400 price tag for standing room only.

Baseball fever is an addiction.

As the fans streamed by me, I noticed the classic symptoms. Glassy eyes. Flushed cheeks. Hooting and hollering.

There wasn’t a soul in regular clothes.

Orange was de rigueur. Even police officers wore tokens of it on their uniforms.

Beer was the drink of preference.

Boozy breath was the stand-out body odor.

Oh, and the F-16 fly-by timed with the fireworks at the commencement ceremonies was stunning.

Even if I didn’t go in, I still felt part of history.

Calvin says, “Boozy breaths? Now that’s my kind of people.”