They opened, one-by-one.  Six-by-seven blocks of six-by-seven cubicles (with balcony!), plotted along the inside track of a squared horseshoe; each with a sliding-glass door that stayed stubbornly sealed.  That they could open was an aberration in itself; that mine would open was uncertain at this point.

Because there was plenty to do with the door closed.

***

Sleep was the obvious choice.  The bed looked comfortable, with a heavy white duvet that lay atop what seemed like 14 layers of various thicknesses.  I should simply give in, set a timer for 12 hours and literally double my combined rest from the previous three days.  The work was finished, the week was ending, and all I had to do was drag my sorry ass to the airport in the morning.  But I was hungry.  And thirsty.  And I didn’t want tomorrow to start just yet.  Sleeping isn’t always relaxing.

So I began what has come to be an evening routine while on the road.  Fire up the laptop and find a baseball game on TV.  Maybe listen to an album and click through the bookmarks on my browser.

But I couldn’t concentrate.  Exhaustion deadened my senses as webpages faded in and out without comprehension or focus.  Tiny noises pounded at my eardrums – the click of my mouse, the hum of the air conditioner.  Ants crawled down my limbs yet inside my skin.  I was sleeping, and aware of it.  My eyelids closed, then opened as I fought my delirium.

I  slept more on airplanes in the last week than I did in beds.  But a hotel bed is not what I needed.

I splashed some water on my face and stared in the mirror.  What time is it?  Shit, what day is it?  And where the fuck am I?

I shuffled to the window and threw back the curtain.  Not a window, but a door.  I unlatched the lever and slid it open.  There, outside, was a world unknown to me.  There, outside, was life.

I shut the laptop and threw my cell phones on the bed.  I have a TV at home.  I can check my email tomorrow.  I can sleep when I’m dead.

I left.  My door was open.

***

Friday June 28, 2013 – MMPUS 7pm

Jerome Williams (5-3) vs Bud Norris (5-7)

Saturday June 29, 2013 – MMPUS 3pm

Joe Blanton (1-10) vs Jordan Lyles (4-2)

Sunday June 30, 2013 – MMPUS 1pm

CJ Wilson (7-5) vs Lucas Harrell (5-8)

***

Steelhead Diner came highly recommended by a local, so I pointed my feet in that general direction.  The cool air that billowed in from the water perked me up, and one shoe eventually followed the other as the hotel shrunk behind me.

The boardwalk crawled with tourists, and I slipped through the throng with my head down.  The Public Market sat ahead, empty in the waning evening hours save for a few sweepers and moppers.  The smell of fish hung in the air; a memory of marine life long past and newly present.  If they shut this place down, brought it to the ground and erected a Febreze factory in its place it would still smell like fish for decades to come.

The diner was just around the corner, and I ducked in.  Where I was expecting a greasy counter with a gum-smacking waitress named Flo I found a trendy restaurant and a bartender named Gustav.  This will do.

I ordered a local IPA and a sockeye salmon/white asparagus salad at the bar.  Truffle clam chowder appetizer.  A middle-aged man who looked a lot like Robert Downey Jr. sidled up next to me and ordered a beer.  He pocketed an electric cigarette and started talking.  Robert was in town from Austin for a job interview and was trying to figure out if the move would be worth it.  He clearly thought a lot of himself, and to be honest there was quite a bit to think of him.  He had a hand in Eeyore’s Birthday and Burning Flipside, and we carried the conversation through three beers and out the door.

The two Texans then walked back to the Public Market in search of a man from Killeen.

***

Promotions

Friday – fireworks

Saturday – 10,000 fans get a Home Replica Jersey

Sunday – nothing

***

We found the man from Killeen easily – at a little park in between the market and the boardwalk.  Greg didn’t know us, didn’t care, but was happy to see us.  He ran track back in his high school days and held a record in hurdles a lifetime ago.  I mentioned a mutual acquaintance, my college friend Miguel, whom he recalled in detail from a similar encounter years ago.  We chatted for a few minutes, shook hands, and left him where we found him, both sides richer.

Robert, happy to have made the introduction, gave me a business card and lied that he’d get in touch with me the next time he’s in Houston.  I lied that I’d look forward to it, and we went our separate ways.

***

Injuries

Angels

Peter Bourjos – fibroids

Sean Burnett – hot flashes

Robert Coello – hangnail

Tommy Hanson – irritable bowel syndrome

Ryan Madson – missing left ear

Andrew Taylor – slept in

Jason Vargas – made a funny face so long it stuck

Astros

Trevor Crowe – right shoulder

Edgar Gonzalez – right shoulder

Justin Maxwell – concussion (might be back for the series)

Alex White – do I really have to list him?

***

My door was open.  The balcony wasn’t big, maybe four-by-four feet, but it was big enough for the desk chair.  A woman above me leaned against the rail with a cigarette, a man across the way waited for his wife to get ready, two teenagers to my right looked up from their cell phones.

I cupped my hands together and looked at what the man from Killeen gave me.  Light yet dense, purple but mostly green; a thick grey vapor encircled it as it shrank in my hands.   After four or five minutes, it vanished.  I melted into the chair.

Six-by-seven blocks of six-by-seven cubicles opened, one-by-one, to reveal their inhabitants.  We didn’t know each other, didn’t care, but we were happy to see each other.

Because before us, clearer than any TV, more immediate than any website and more vivid than any dream, the sun set over Puget Sound.

I relaxed.  I slept.

Rockies @ Astros @ Rockies Series Preview

“Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.”  – Mark Twain

I have no use for perfection.  You can grill my steak to perfection and pour me a perfect pint, but that’s about as far as I’ll take it.  Perfection is the carrot at the end of a mile-long stick and I’ve already got more sticks than I can carry.

Perfectionists – people who proclaim their most hideous personal defect to be an undying desire to do everything well – bore the hell out of me.  Maybe it’s because perfection was neither expected of me nor bestowed upon me, but I think the fun parts of life happen when shit goes sideways.  My wife and I always joke that she’s Damage Prevention and I’m Damage Control.  Kinda like how she does the laundry and I do the dishes.  Sure, a lot of the time I’m the reason things fall to the Damage Control Department, but at least I’m the one cleaning up the mess.

And when the mess is cleaned up, maybe, hopefully, something as mundane as mailing invitations to your kids’ joint birthday party will at least have a story attached to the memory.  And if not for memories, what are we?

This Astros team is not perfect.

I’ll wait while you come to terms with that sentence. Remember to breathe.  It’ll be ok.

This Astros team is not perfect.  In fact, they’re the most imperfect team in Major League Baseball.  They can’t hit, they can’t pitch.  Perfection is a word only used when Verlander or Felix come into town, and that’s not the context we’re looking for.

And therein lies Reid Ryan’s job #1 – Damage Control.  Prevention took a seven-year nap and Jim “dick in the mouth” Crane has been manning the Control station, to less-than-admirable results.  It’s time to wax the floors and dust the corners and clean up the vomit in the men’s bathroom sink.

And when the mess is cleaned up, maybe, hopefully, we’ll remember the ride to a championship fondly.

Monday, Memorial Day 5/27 @ MMPUS

Astros walk off in the 12^th to a 3-2 win.

Tuesday, 5/28 @ MMPUS 1:10pm

Of the Rose (6-3) vs Lyles (2-1)

Coca-cola Value Days

Wednesday, 5/29 @ Coors Field 7:40pm

Two games in Houston followed by two games in Denver.  FYB.

Bedard (0-2) vs Chatwood (3-0)

Coca-cola Value Packs

Thursday, 5/30 @ Coors Field 7:40pm

Harrell (3-6) vs Nicasio (4-1)

Coca-cola Fannie Packs

Injuries

Astros

Fields – right forearm

Maxwell – left hand

White – would still be eligible for a World Series ring, fucker

Bukkakkies

Cabrera – you already know his injury status

Francis – hypothermia

“Do not put off until tomorrow what can be put off till day-after-tomorrow just as well.” – Mark Twain

Follow the action here!

UNLESS

Someone like you cares a whole awful lot

Nothing is going to get better

It’s not

I’ve stayed on the sidelines for the whole Crane regime so far, refusing to form an opinion of the man as an owner until more facts come in.  I understand the scorched-earth direction and it seems like he does what the best owners strive to do: let the baseball people make the baseball decisions.

Luhnow appears to have been an excellent hire, with a detailed plan that he’s implementing at every level.  We can bitch and moan about Tyler Greene and Phillip Humber ‘til we’re blue in the balls, but those are clearly bandaids on a gaping wound.  He’s doing what he can at the big league level without sacrificing any future talent.

And I can handle the losing.  Maybe I’m numb to it by now, but the fact that there’s a plan – any plan – in place gives me more hope than the Grocer did at any time after 2005.  Of course, how that plan plays out won’t be realized for a few more years, but hey, at least it’s an ethos.

So, yeah, I wish the Astros fielded a more competitive team.  But I think there are good years ahead and I’m willing to wait.  But you know what would make the waiting a little more bearable?

BEING ABLE TO WATCH THIS SHITSHOW ON TV.

I’ve seen one game this year.  One.  And yes I’ve been out of town for 95% of the season so far, but that doesn’t make it any better.  You know why?  Because I can’t watch this shitshow online either.  I’m dying to pay somebody to let me watch my favorite team play my favorite sport, but nobody will take my money.

Comcast?  Fuck them.  They’ve burned me hard before and I’ll never go back.

Crane?  Fuck him too.  Get the damn games on TV and stop half-assing fan-based decisions like Deshaies and the new bullshit sponsorship signs that obscure the view of downtown.  And please, for the love of all that is holy, pull your head out of your ass before you open your mouth.  Otherwise the shit you’re swallowing just gets spewed all over your paying customers.

Selig?  I’m sure he doesn’t know what a computer or cell phone is, but I’m still blaming the MLB online blackout rules on him.  I WILL PAY YOU MORE, DICKWEED.  Isn’t that what you want?

So really, until one of these billionaires gives two shits about ANY of their customers I’m fucked.  And unless you’ve sold your soul to the Comcast already, you are too.  And do you really want to be fucked by Bud Selig?

Thursday, 5/2/13

Porcello (1-2, 8.84) vs Lyles (0-0, 0.00)

Methodist Gym Bag

Friday, 5/3/13

Fister (4-0, 2.38) vs Norris (3-3, 4.20)

Fireworks

Saturday, 5/4/13

Scherzer (3-0, 4.02) vs Harrell (3-2, 3.60)

HEB Umbrella

Sunday, Cinco de Mayo

Verlander (3-2, 1.83) vs Humber (0-6, 7.58)

Los Astros T-Shirt

Injuries

Detroit

Phil Coke – Head Lice

Octavio Dotel – Amnesia

Houston

Fields – forearm

JD Martinez – right knee

Maxwell – left hand

White – Arias Disease

What to Watch, Assuming You Can

Sunday’s thrilling pitching duel

Miguel Cabrera’s 1,000^th hit as a Tiger.  And his 1,001^st, 1,002^nd, 1,003^rd, 1,004^th, 1,005^th….

The Tigers’ seventh 10-strikeout game.  And their 11^th, 12^th and 13^th.

And here’s a link to a great ESPN package about Louisville Sluggers.  For all of their faults, ESPN still has amazing production.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I believe this is what’s called “mailing it in.”

We chose the bar because it had no windows.  It was close, too – stumbling distance from the hotel.  Whatever it was, wherever it was, we needed a bar and we needed a drink and we needed it fucking now.

***

In the last six months I’ve spent a month in New Jersey, two and a half months in New York City and going-on-two months in Long Island.  I’ve seen a hurricane, two blizzards and a man pissing on Madison Ave at 1pm on a Sunday.   Cigars in basements.  Scotch on rooftops.  Debussy in the square.

Long Island is what you’d expect.  The sky is grey and the beer is stale.  Seeing a grown man rip off his tank-top to display a dripping-new full-back tattoo in a bar is a regular, if not expected, occasion (wings are still in).  And the accents – fuck, the accents.  Imagine visiting Texas for the first time and discovering that everybody really does ride a horse to work and carries dueling six-shooters.  It’s that bad.

The big city is another beast; one that deserves more thought and words and eloquence than a drunk, belligerent Astros fan can offer.  So I’ll leave that to chuck.  He’s not an Astros fan.

But New Jersey, man, I could get into New Jersey.

Astros (1-5) @ Mariners (3-4)

Monday, April 8, 2013, 9:10pm Central

Humber (0-1) vs Saunders (0-1)

Opening Night Magnet, Potential OSF sighting, just sayin’

Tuesday, April 9, 2013, 9:10pm Central

Bedard (0-0) vs Maurer (0-1)

Wednesday, April 10, 2013, 9:10pm Central

Peacock (0-1) vs Beavan (0-0)

Grand Slam Family Night Somehow Not Sponsored by Denny’s

We chose the bar because it had no windows. It also had cold beer and baseball on TV. The jukebox sat idle in a dusty corner; Madonna and Billy Joel and Jock Rocks v2 momentarily hushed.  The bartender (Nick) inherited the joint from his father (Nico) and his father’s-father (Big Nick).  Naturally the place was called Danny’s Pub.  Danny’s remained cash-only through the years, and you never really wanted to hang out there past 11pm.  But it was dark and small and never-crowded. It was perfect.

A cadre of pharmaceutical saleswomen scattered when we opened the door, like rats from an attic light bulb.  We chose a table with a TV view and ordered two draft Buds.  Trevor and I had been in Morristown for a couple weeks and tired of our clients’ companionship.  We needed to drink unsupervized and air our many grievances.  We needed a drink.

The group of saleswomen drew back together, this time as far away from the bar as possible – all backs and hushed conversations.  They weren’t interested in us and they couldn’t care less about baseball, but they wanted the fuck away from The Man At The Bar, who we quickly learned was a man named Jack.

Jack was a frail man in his 50s or 60s or maybe even 70s.  He wore a bowl haircut of sandy brown hair, narrowed bloodshot eyes and a semi-toothless grin.  Gnawed-off fingernails.  Slight limp.  He came to our table.

“Mind if I sit?  Is it ok?  I’m quite the ladies’ man but those little things in the corner couldn’t handle my charm.  Mind if I sit?  Is it ok?  You two seem like rock stars.  Is it ok?”  Yes, it was ok, and yes, he could sit.  I assumed my suit and tie outed me as a rock star.

Jack liked to talk.  A lot.  About the same thing, often verbatim.  He was, or is, a librarian.  He hasn’t talked to his daughter in three years, despite her monthly phone calls.  He loved Texas.  He thought we were tall – giants – and good, smart folks who told it like it is and picked up on all the small details.  Didn’t take shit from nobody.  Kicked ass and didn’t care about the names.  I felt like a regular Woodrow F. Call.

After a few rounds, we were delighted to learn that we earned Simple Jack’s utmost respect and trust, and he asked us for a favor.  Turns out, the night before, Jack was at a bar near the airport, where he charmed the pants off a pretty young couple (“like always”) and took them both home. He didn’t remember what happened when they got there, but the next morning he woke up naked and $1000 poorer.  His last $1000.  And now he wanted us to track down the perpetrators and get his money back.  Tonight.

Injuries

Astros

Blackley – jetlag

FeMart – awful nickname

White – Arias Syndrome

Mariners

Kinney – typhoid fever

I know you’re never supposed to go to a second location with a hippie, but I was unclear on the rules of engagement with drunk librarians.  Jack seemed like a simple man who managed to fuck up every single decision he ever made.  He didn’t ask for much from life and he never got it.  And upon further prodding his robbery story blurred, like a collage of memories assembled in a drunken interrogation.  But he seemed desperate and, shit, we didn’t have anything else to do.  And we didn’t want to give the Good State of Texas a bad name.  So, sure Jack, we’ll track down these thugs for you.  But first – dinner.

The Famished Frog was bustling.  Trevor and I grabbed a table in the corner of the bar while Jack stared blankly at an ATM near the bathrooms.  I drained a glass of Yeungling and contemplated exit strategies.  Play the work early card?  Start acting tired?  Surely we weren’t going to spend the rest of the evening tracking down Bonnie and Clyde with an idiot who couldn’t figure out the ATM in 10 minutes.  And, I mean, I did have to work early and I was getting tired, so….

BANG.  Our heads jerked to the bathrooms, where the ATM lay on its side.  Fuck.  Jack was squirting through the crowd towards us, then to the front door.  “It’s them!  GET ‘EM!!!!!”  As we looked past him, a man and a woman snatched their belongings and fled the Frog.  Bonnie and Clyde in the flesh.

Trevor dropped a twenty and we shot to the door.  We followed Jack’s hysteric squeals of rage and delight towards the center of town.  Far ahead, the bandits skipped across streets and vanished into the square.  Jack moved quickly for a guy with a limp, and he wasn’t far behind.

We made it there a minute later, but the commotion was gone.  No sign of Jack, Bonnie or Clyde.  A piano sprung to life nearby, its tune familiar but strange.  We wandered to the sound of the jukebox draped in eerie moonlight, unaware of time and space and thought.  There, clad all in white robes, danced eight women in perfect unison.  Debussy in the square.

Joe Buck Yourself

Welcome to another stirring edition of the Astros Series Previews!  This week, your favorite baseballers load up the travel bus with puppies, smiles and extra horseshit for their second-to-last road trip in the National League!  So join us, won’t you, as we head to…

That’s right, St. Louis, the “Jewel of Eastern Missouri,” where with an ugly red hat even you can become one of the Best Fans in Baseball!

Ahem.

I’ll just stop right now (before Craig or Mark or anybody else bludgeons me through my computer).  It’s the motherfucking Cardinals this week, and the last chance we’ll get to dry hump the legacy of the Best Fans in Baseball.  So let’s get started.

Ex-closer Ryan Franklin:

“You’re either a fan or you’re not. You don’t boo your own team. I don’t care who you are or what you say. Just because you spent your money to come here and watch us play, and somebody happens to make one bad pitch and gives up a homer, you don’t start booing them. I’ve been here for five years, and four years I’ve been pretty good. You should go write stories about the fans booing. They’re supposed to be the best fans in baseball. Yeah right.”

Reds 2B Brandon Phillips:

“We have to beat these guys. … All they do is bitch and moan about everything, all of them, they’re little bitches all of ’em.  I really hate the Cardinals. Compared to the Cardinals, I love the Chicago Cubs. Let me make this clear: I hate the Cardinals.”

Joe Buck:

“I’m a fan.”

Wikipedia:

“The Houston Astros and St. Louis Cardinals finished the 2001 season tied for first place with identical records and both teams were awarded division championships.  Then for the purpose of playoff seeding, the Astros received the NL Central slot and the Cardinals received the Wild Card seeding. 2001 is considered by the MLB administrators to be the first shared divisional championship in MLB history.”

Still not feeling the hate?  Ok, I made this for you:

If you’re not foaming at the mouth right now, you’re either not reading or that black market rabies vaccine finally started working.  This is our last chance, our last fucking chance, to kick these shitbirds back to the tornado parks from whence they came.  I’m not talking about the players here – I’m talking about their dumbfuck fans.  The Jakes currently hold the second wild card spot, but every NL team that doesn’t start with an “A” and end with “stros” is still in contention (well, and the motherfucking Cubs, but let’s not ruin this preview by mentioning them without parentheses).  Now’s the perfect time to take one more dump in the Mighty Mississippi, take one more piss in some blue hair’s Busch Light, take one more match to the Arch and take one more opportunity to frame a murder on Tony LaRussa.  The Astros are clearly going down – let’s take these tweakers with us.

Schedule:

Tuesday, September 18, 7:15pm – Bush League Field

Abad (0-4, 5.08) vs Lohse (14-3, 2.81)

Wednesday, September 19, 7:15pm – Bud Light Lime Douchepark

Harrell (10-9, 3.86) vs Lynn (15-7, 3.95)

Thursday, September 20, 12:45pm – The One True Trailer Park

Norris (5-12, 4.93) vs Garcia (4-7, 4.24)

Promotions

Tues – Nothing.  Like it.

Weds – Ice Mountain Autograph Night Don’t know who Ice Mountain is, but I assume he’s a Hawaiian rapper.

Thurs – Great Clips Charity Haircuts Next week: Charity Deodorant Night.  Baby steps.

Injuries

CoArds: Puma (galactorrhea), Furcal (tyrotoxism) and McClellan (scabies) out for the season.  Boggs (werewolf), Carpenter (gynecomastia) and Westbrook (crazy for Swayze) day-to-day.

Astros: Cordero (shitty), Escalona (who?), Weiland (STP) out for the season.  Marwin (Natural Dereliction), Lowrie (thought he was back), FeMart (book tour), Schafer (awful) and Norris (not out) are day to day.

Finally

It’s been an honor to be a part of the Series Preview Team this year, and I hope my previews were as fun to read as they were to write.

And I’ll post the updated Bud Selig bikini picture at the end of this series.  There aren’t many pieces left, and you don’t want to see us lose 2 games.

Prediction: Astros win series 3-0.  Why the hell not.

Follow the action in the GZ.

The 33-56 Astros face the 35-54 Padres at Whale’s Vagina Park.  Ugly, ugly baseball will ensue.

***

The Engineer woke to a throbbing headache, bloodshot eyes and a taste that felt like he’d been sucking a dirty sock – ahh Saturday.  He found a cigarette on the bedside table and began to piece together his movements from the night before.  Water volleyball with the girls at the pool for happy hour.  Back to his apartment to fire up the grill.  Someone made a beer run.  Someone else made a bottle run.  He searched his pockets and found a crumpled receipt for cigarettes – looks like he made the smoke run.  He was mostly certain he didn’t go anywhere else, that the party continued in his apartment or someone else’s.  The Woodway Square management didn’t mind.  The complex had a Club downstairs that sold drink setups – they wanted people to party there.  One look at the pool on a Friday afternoon and the “No” on the vacancy sign lit up out front.  Didn’t matter what they charged.

He remembered the Roommate leaving at some point in the night, but he didn’t know where he went or if he came back.  The Roommate was a bit crazier than most, but that’s why the Engineer liked him – he made life more interesting.  The mirrorball and smoke machine in the living room; the limousine-driver high school friend; the pot connection.  All great resources for a 26-year-old Vietnam vet.

The Engineer wandered into the living room to search for more clues.  No sign of the Roommate.  He picked up the empties and rinsed the ashtrays.  Opened the window for ventilation.  Lit another cigarette and waited for life to start up again.

The front door slammed open.  The Roommate, still awake, still drunk, still crazy, emerged with a bottle of rum in his right hand and a covered animal cage in his left.

“What’s in the cage?” the Engineer asked.

“You’re never going to believe it,” the Roommate beamed.  “The girls are going to LOVE this!”

“What’s in the fucking cage?”

With a magician’s flair, the Roommate whipped the drape off and revealed his life’s proudest procurement.

A monkey.

Projected Starters

Monday – Happ (6-9, 5.14) vs Wells (1-2, 2.50)

Tuesday – Lyles (2-5, 5.08) vs Ohlendorf (2-0, 7.41)

Wednesday – Wandy (7-7, 3.51) vs Richard (6-10, 3.83)

Thursday – Harrell (7-6, 4.43) vs Volquez (5-7, 3.69)

***

The Engineer was asleep by the pool, the Flight Attendant dozing in the deck chair next to him.  They’d been seeing each other for a couple weeks, ever since she moved from Los Angeles.  He thought he liked her, knew she liked him, and for the most part enjoyed having somebody pretty to tag along for the ride.  He had spent most of his waking hours by the pool for the past week, determined to stay away from his apartment as much as possible.

The Engineer hated that fucking monkey.  Woodway Square had a No Pets policy, but the drunk St. Bernard who frequented the pool pretty much negated that.  They kept the monkey locked in its cage, but it was loud, it smelled, and it flung shit all over the apartment.  They living room had been newly decorated with electric-blue plastic tarps, and they were too scared to let the monkey out of its cage.  They didn’t even name it.

The Engineer woke to the sound of sobbing.

The Roommate stood above them, again drunk, again crazy, with a bottle of gin in his right hand and the monkey thrown over his left shoulder, dead.

Injuries

Astros – Castro and Lowrie newly placed on the DL.  Escalona and Weiland out for the season.

Padres – Bartlett, Bass, Blanks, Cashner, Darnell, Hermida, Luebke, Moseley, Stauffer, Stults, Wieland out for various periods of time.

***

They didn’t know how the monkey died.  The Engineer grew up with a love of all animals, and while he was happy to be rid of the thing, he was sad it died.  And he was adamant that the Roommate bury the animal.  As fair trade, the Engineer offered to perform the burial for the Roommate’s alligator-skin boots.

It was dark.  The Engineer (shirtless, swim trunks and alligator-skin boots), the Flight Attendant (bikini) and the Roommate (jeans, barefoot) walked slowly along the 610 feeder.  Every quarter-mile or so the Roommate would stop, take a swig from the bottle, then pour a drink in the dead monkey’s mouth.  He didn’t try to revive it when he found it (for fear the monkey would chew his face off during CPR), but he figured a little gin couldn’t hurt.

They found a grassy spot not far from the apartment, dug a three-foot grave and buried the animal.  They drank from the gin bottle, smoked cigarettes and watched the passing headlights in silence. When the moment passed, the Engineer simply said, “sorry,” and left.  The Flight Attendant and Roommate followed.

Promotions

Monday – nothing.

Tuesday – Dog Days of Summer (I assume bring your dog to the park?)

Wednesday – nothing.

Thursday – 10,000 Padres sunglasses.

***

Woodway Square burned to the ground seven years later (it turns out wood shingles and wood siding are flammable), but the parties ended years before.  The Roommate skipped town in a drunken fit a week after the burial and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.  The Engineer and the Flight Attendant married a year later.

They had a son.

***

Follow the action in the GZ!