I had fun at the ball game yesterday. The special good fun was taunting the old man two rows up with the 1989 As earthquake rocking series jacket.

What you can’t see in this pic is his handlebar mustache or the row of Sox fans behind me, the mixed couple (he in Oakland green, she sadly in Red Sox pink (but looking well worn)) or, of course, M. and me in our navy and red, including my 2007 championship shirt courtesy of M.’s colleague from their Boston office (actually make that Canton). What I missed, because we were a wee bit tardy, was David Ortiz’ first at bat, where the old man pointed out his batting average for the season, a big goose egg at the beginning of the second game of the regular season.

The loud, hardcore, naming Pedroia’s stats and calling every player by name, chick behind me told me of the old guy’s taunt at the end of the game. What she had missed was the old dude said the same thing for the second at bat. On the third, I think, in the seventh inning, the fans among us cheered for “Big Papi.” The old man called to me, “What’s that ‘Big Pop Up,’ you know that’s what he’s hitting.” Something like that, as Ortiz taps it out of the park for a two-run homer. Shortly thereafter, the Oakland fan closed up his rallying smack talk and went home.

I likes a good nemesis at the old ball game. He was a worthy loudmouth. I almost wanted Oakland to get a run or two just to keep up spirits.

With the threat of rain not materializing, a little bit of sun warming the seats and a 5-0 win, it was a fine day of not going into work.

Better yet, we weren’t at work. I don’t exactly hate my job, but every now and again I get exhausted by having to deal with a team of folks who pride themselves on their own brilliance and individuality. Fabulous in creatively getting some work done, but just fucking tiring as one of the lynchpins trying to keep the flow ACROSS the fucking group. I’m one of the folks who everyone expects will help out with their shit, provide back up and what not and don’t fucking mind at all bending your ear for all their problems.

On a great day, it feels not completely sucky, and I get a paycheck for being a reliable “problem solver.” Then, there’s the opposite days, like today. I’m just fucking tired and can’t help but wonder why human nature means folks like me don’t get the benefit of the doubt as often as we’re asked to cut other folks slack. It’s a quality that keeps me employable AND always a little blue.

In the ultimate cosmic what-the-fuck of prioritizing working on the little fire started at my work meant I had to cancel a dentist appointment. An appointment I fucking need mind you, since the temporary crown currently residing orally is making me apeshit. So, I was relatively looking FORWARD to Novocaine and drilling, because it sure as fucking hell beat someone needing to talk to let me know about some potential backstabbing I was maybe going to be feeling between my shoulder blades. Awesome.

Worse yet, this whole gig that’s giving me heartburn is meant to be a “day job.” I’m supposed to be performing and writing a book and creating shit. I’m doing none of that. I’m determined to sort out some block or something that keeps me from picking up what I want, what I mean to for writing. Determination isn’t really making the fucking grade, though. In that feedback loop it turns out telling myself how much I suck doesn’t really get the creative juice streaming.

So, tonight, I’m going to bed, mad at myself for failing, and hating what pays my bills. Nothing like loathing from within and without to keep you moving. Or standing still.

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