Punk Rock Softball

Today, after miss­ing it for two con­sec­u­tive years due to not being suf­fi­cient­ly com­mit­ted to in-the-loop­ness, I final­ly made it to a Punk Rock Soft­ball game. I real­ized that no one who does it real­ly likes to call it Punk Rock Soft­ball, which is appro­pri­ate. I prob­a­bly dimin­ished its punk­ness by my mere pres­ence, and the fact that I wigged out and brought sig­nif­i­cant amounts of food to grill on my grill. It was fun, last­ed all after­noon, and I real­ized that while I nev­er had enough base­ball abil­i­ty to please my dad, I’m good enough to be mid­dling at an infor­mal drunk­en game of soft­ball.

The game end­ed with a tie, since folks want­ed to get gone and watch the Cavs play­off game, but I went to look at a cou­ple of hous­es, one of them for the sec­ond time. I real­ly like it, it is a two-unit on a nice street in South Tremont, in sol­id con­di­tion, need­ing, for the most part, super­fi­cial and cos­met­ic adjust­ments. I’ve been call­ing on my expe­ri­enced neigh­bor home-own­er net­work for sup­port and infor­ma­tion, and I still need to sit down and recrunch num­bers to make sure I’m ready to go; but, for the most part, I’m excit­ed to be mov­ing for­ward with my life. Maybe before the year is out, I’ll actu­al­ly have my own dog! Although home-own­ing isn’t very punk rock. Or maybe it is, from a cer­tain per­spec­tive.

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