I should probably title these posts more imaginatively. I should probably find a better picture than the one my seven-year-old inked of us tootin’. But it’s marvelous, we’re marvelous, and this is our relationship in all its nuance and glory.

In my glorious dream last night, an outfielder leapt off a platform into the sky to collect a fly ball, then sailed hundreds of feet back to earth like a glider, his progress slowing until he came to a quiet stop. I was there in the stadium to see it. I decided I should watch more baseball. I had a scorecard on my lap, though I’ve never scored a game in my life.

I miss old baseball, it’s linear, boring broadcasts. I miss inactive verbs. I miss dead air. I miss the silence of boredom instead of this rabid, angsty version that assaults us with motion graphics and peals of shit song. Our dreams are so much better than this. Why do we wake and sacrifice them for things to count, blocks on a playroom floor?

We tooted, together. It was a song. Here are more.