I'm going to Boston tonight. Home of the Red Sox, the Tea Party, the Damon/Affleck success story & Godsmack.

Five hours on the stool immediately followed by three in the car. It's gonna be great to see Adam again.

But I'd really rather see Teddy. His cat.

Yesterday I drove all over town pulling into drive-thrus, staring at the menus and then speeding off like a dick. I was feeling weird and homesick and taking it out on Norwalk's lack of late-night food options. Christian sat idly by while I vented quietly at first Subway, which was closed, KFC, which reminded me too much of the Boston Market I'd had the day before. Taco Bell, which was out of the Mexican Pizza. Domino's, which was a fuckin joke; and eventually -like some pissy girlfriend- I drove back home.

I ended up going back out three hours later to the Stop & Shop. I came back with some Boar's Head hotdogs, -lite hotdogs- a red onion, and these frozen, seasoned, red potatoes in a bag. Needless to say it was all fucking delicious.

Natalie lives in South Carolina now.

You smell that? It's baseball. I'm bringing it back real quick. Last night the Braves and Expos were gridlocked at 2-2 in the eighth. 2 on, 2 out, Rafael Furcal due up. The Expos opt to intentionally walk Furcal, to get to Nick Green, a rookie who was 0 for 3. Well, -and here's where baseball pace is nailbiting- when the count drawwwws out forever in a do or die situation... and then the rookie golfs a 3-run shot into the left-field bleachers. The crowd goes wild. The first home run of his career. Braves win 8-2.

And then I start thinking, how cool it must be, to hit a home run in the major leagues. Sure it's cool to hit six, seven hundred home runs. But, still, even just .one. Must be motherfucking awesome; to be part of that club. Think of how many people make the big leagues and don't ever smack one out. Think of forever being listed in the annals of baseball history, with a 1 under the HR.

Then tonight, Braves Expos again. 6-3 Expos in the bottom of the ninth. Two on. Two out. Nick Green to the plate. The announcers tell of his yesternight heroics over footage of it. A stat on the screen: Braves 1-21 (0.45) when trailing after the eighth inning. Back to the pitch at hand. One strike left in the ball game. Three runs down...

Nick Green launches one into the same section of left-field seats as the night before. The crowd goes wilder. Tie ball game. Before the furor has even begun to quiet, Mr. J.D. Drew whacks the very next pitch over the right-field wall. Braves win. 7-6.

I love baseball.

Recently I have seen a girl with a six-inch tongue, tuck it up behind her tonsils to tickle her nasal passages. To tell the truth, the six-inch tongue was enough. This wasn't on TV folks. This was in the driveway. She said of her. . endowment, "I can do so many nasty things..." laughing. drunk. "So nasty."

One of these offers on Gmailswap.com, where -in case you aren't aware- people are offering things for an invite to the new Gmail email service, says:

Bubblegum offers: I perfectly know where Elvis is.

When you click on the -might I say- very generous offer, her actual offer emerges.

I can introduce you to him if you want.

Because I'm an "active" blogger, I happen to be one of the lucky few who was offered one of these must-have accounts. On Christian's advice I snapped it up, and now have two invites that are relatively useless to me. So I think I can cough up one measly invite for the chance to finally...

Perfectly Know Where Elvis Is.