Dorks of Suburbia
Thirteen degrees below zero didn’t stop us from joyriding through suburbia last night. We ate pie at Poppin Fresh Pies for dinner. Huddled in our booth, I bitched about the warped logic of rooting for the “home team,” given that most players rarely hail from the “home town” in which they play. Seinfeld likes to call it rooting for laundry. Those who don such laundry (in my worthless opinion), they’re basically athletic mercenaries. Did Spiffy give a shit? Nope. He’s always all about what’s all the rage, but only superficially so. He watches the Super Bowl (exempli gratia) for the commercials. And Flabjack? He won’t take sides. He keeps his beefs and passions, if he has any, to himself. I admire that. So it’s not like I’m preaching to the choir. It’s more like I’m preaching to an empty church. Spiffy didn’t follow my train of thought. (When he does, he usually seeks to derail it.) Instead, he expressed his desire to send flowers to his ex. Nummy dumped him after three years, exactl...