Blog by numbers: Number in the title, call to action

You wished you had done internships.

You're glad you went to college.

Spending all this money.

Sitting on the floor with a copy of 'The New Enchanted Broccoli Forest.'

4 pack of Jello.

Wasn't the best student.

Made his way in the world.

Meta-commentary not welcome.

Hologram Johnny Damon.

You're feisty.

Vegetarianism is not the only answer.

The internet has become commercialized.

A motorist honked at me for cycling.

Matte paint jobs on cars.

PDAs went out in the 90s.

Smart cars are too small.

Wheelock's Latin and accompanying story book.

Yet another short post about trains

-I am the pointed sweatshirt hood of the hardscrabble Lynn youth. Slightly starched, and improbably towering, I have become an entity unto myself, shark-like and telling of dozens of seamy dives and two-room tumbledown apartments I have seen, you haven't

-I am the train tunnel into Salem—dimly lit, always nightbound. Too ramshackle for the gleaming cookie-cutter housing complex not 100 yards away

-I am the shining water at Beverly, bright expanse, unfrozen, spared by brackishness. Boats bob, ready for pleasure or lobstering. See the mirror of the sun, with an orange sheen flashing flat across the wavelets

one sentence blog post

The fire in her eyes as she railed against Ernest Hemingway's misogyny and the flatness of his female characters was almost more than I could bear.

Gangway for foot cycle!

The value of good conversation. Letting go of anger. Giving thanks for blessings. The value of love. Spring and all. Acceleration. Good comedy. Walking for hours on end. Talking and talking and talking. Old friends who come back. Beauty everywhere, beauty mixed with sadness, but so much beauty.

Don't be angry. Don't be sad. We're almost there.

Driving at night on empty roads full of life, singing at the top of your lungs. Burning up inside to see you sometimes.

What a life

I wish I was only a bust, all head

Where are we headed?

I have rarely felt more pessimistic about the fate of the world, and yet worried so little.

We'll survive.

If I don't see you soon I'll have to find another game to lose

Let's be clear here: I have no mercy in my heart to spare for people who go to baseball games, sit behind the plate, and get on the old cell phone so they can wave to their extended family and friends while talking to them on the phone. It's not limited to behind the plate, either, as now people down either baseline have figured out they'll be on TV when there's a close shot of a batter stepping out in between pitches. This still just ruins my television viewing experience. I know I should ignore it, I know that I should rise above it, but I simply can't. I am filled with unspeakable loathing, like a Huguenot who survived St. Bartholomew's Day.

I can't wrap my head around the mental processes of these people. Apparently they've never watched a game on television, or they would know how incredibly irritating it is to watch some grinning idiot waving to his buddies on the other end of a phone line. Often enough, you'll get the same person, apparently calling every single person he has ever met, going on through the entire 9 innings, phoning and waving, phoning and waving. Please, for the love of Pedroia, exercise some self restraint. You may call one person, and you may not wave at all, whatsoever, or you'll be ejected from the game. And family members can help too. If you get a call from one of these ballpark buffoons, threaten to disown and disinherit them forthwith if they do not hang up the phone and stop waving like a fool. If we all do our part, it's not too late to stop this inane phenomenon.