Bring on the Big Bad Bronx Bombers.

Yeah, we still got two games left with the small red machine, but Friday is where the action is at. Man, I loved the 1999 team something fierce, and the 1985 team above all others, but I think this may be the one, this may be the suavest incarnation of them all. I'm like a kid this summer. It's a magical freaking mystery tour.

Maybe part of gettin golder -- and for a moment I'll stop talking exclusively about baseball -- maybe part of getting older for me that is nice is stepping a little into the moment. I seriously am having such an easier time of recognizing and enjoying cool moments as they happen. I used to worry a lot more about what lay ahead, no matter who I was with and what I was doing, or what I was with and who I was doing. Nyuck Nyuck.

But here I am, totally chill, "a working man in my prime, when I'm cleaning windows" if you will, hanging out exclusively with my boys, not looking for anything other than some simple good times, and all of a sudden even in a seemingly endless string of seven day weeks made up of 15 hour days, I find myself having a fucking ball.

What in the world is going on?

I mean, I'm not looking for an antidote or anything, but man, bemused is the proper word, because this utter contentment, especially in this solitary state is very uncharacteristic for JPK. So, anyway, things roll on, and on, and I feel like I could keep on working and laughing and bowling and playing hoops and smoking herb and playing Texas Hold em forever. Strange. I was in a rush to get married at 25. Now at 32, I am perfectly happy to wait to get married until I meet my wife. Thank goodness that I managed to sabotage myself effectively enough until I caught up with myself.

"My voice is really warm
But it ain't got no form.
Yes it's just like a dead man's last pistol shot baby."