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2001-07-10 - 12:07 a.m.

Say goodbye, #41

I just love The Daily Show With Jon Stewart. Each and every night I'm so hilariously reminded of what an idiot our president is.

Tonight they ran a clip of Georgie sitting in a golf cart in Maine with Dad, talking with some reporter hidden on the other side of the camera about Russia and Vladmir Putin. This is what he said it may be paraphrased a little, but not by much:

"I think President Putin is very concerned with extremism and what it means to Russia. And as you know, I'm concerned with extremism too."

He said this while picking at mud on the bottom of his golf shoes "while picking duck turds from his shoes," Stewart said, before adding to someone (or no one in particular) off-camera, "Three more years of this shit? Oh man."

George The First looked like he was about to fall asleep there at the wheel of the golf cart, and the most sickening thing, I think, was the hats they wore. George I had one with the number 41; George II wore 43 to signify their presidencies. But that's not all: They call each other by the numbers, too. "Nice shot, 41." "Thanks, 43." Too bad that goes and taints everything good about the number 41 Tom Seaver's number, Dave Matthews' song, ... um ... I'm sure there's more, and they're now tainted because Georgie calls Daddy "41."

This room cleaning project is dragging on, wearing at me. My room looks more disorganized now than it did yesterday. I spent so much time on it today, pretty much the whole day. I cleared out scores of newspapers, though, and moved what's left into pretty much one big stack rather than several smaller ones. There's still a lot to do; this is an ongoing project as I've said.

Finally fed up with all the "cleaning," my back sore from sitting in weird positions and leaning down to pick up scattered crap from the floor, I took advantage of my night off to run at dusk. I enjoy running late in the day. It's still hot (for some reason I don't care how hot it is when running; it doesn't bother me), but there's a descending cool to the air. Lately I've been running from here to my former high school, about a quarter- to half-mile away let's say three-eighths. Then I run around the fields, along the cross country course I once covered in 18:28. Once around is just about a mile we had to lap the grounds three times for a 3.1-mile race and I roughly follow the same circuit, running until I have had enough. Usually during the day, the fields are empty, the campus disturbingly quiet. Today a men's slow-pitch softball league occupied the field at the corner of the campus I reach first, and as I ran around the football field past the baseball field and soccer fields, two soccer games were going on. I sprinted up the short but steep hill into the trees beyond the one end zone and down the gradual slope back to the softball field, rounding the corner where I usually stop and sprinting along the third-base line past the outfield corner, where I'd left my bottle of water.

I walked back toward home winding down and watching the game, two teams of what looked like over-30 (but maybe younger) men in their Monday night slow-pitch league. There weren't as many spectators there as at the soccer games, but there were a few wives and girlfriends. The soccer games had wives, girlfriends, chirdren. Some of the soccer players looked younger too, right out of high school.

I watched an inning before continuing home, wondering if I'd ever join a slow-pitch league someday, and if my girlfriend or wife would come out to watch me play. Then afterwards we'd all go over to the bar down the street (like they do at Val's) and order pizza and drink beers while watching the Mets on TV and talking with the bartenders.

And tonight, I had something I haven't had in a long time, something I dreamed about (literally, when I was in Nantucket) doing, something I cannot do much at all with my late-night work schedule:

I laid on the couch for four hours and watched TV. I watched Homer get audited on The Simpsons and then try to steal Mr. Burns' trillion-dollar bill while working under cover for the FBI; I watched the Major League home run derby from Seattle, wondering if Matt was there and remembering a great vacation from last August; then I watched the celebrity softball game taped earlier in the day, with players like Meat Loaf, Chi McBride from Boston Public, half the stars of the WB, Howie Long, Vitamin C (she struck out). And I topped it all off with not-so-smarmy Jon Stewart and The Daily Show, for which I will WILL one day soon call for tickets.

And now, your moment of Zen ...

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