2 mins read

It Speaks To Me

PosT PanDEmic Con$umerism

So, SNZ and I are checking the Cub’s schedule so as to begin our tiptoe back into the public sphere of the now, Rickettsvile version of Wrigley Field.

Snz and I lived there for a decade when it was a neighborhood known as Wrigleyville. Still is, but not to me.

We had a nice little loft that was just large enough to let our love grow and share that glow with our first two critters, Alaska The Cat, and Shiloh the Puppy.
SNZ was in law school, and I was stumbling around a still nascent digital age.

That baseball field was a block and a half away. And there were mini and major strips of sports bars, music venues, and restaurants fast, down-home , and up-scale. But it was still a neighborhood.

Last time I was there, two years ago, it had the feel of Reno. Probably just me, you know. But this isn’t a write about no baseball broadway, it’s about the bucks being tossed about during this post pervasive.

You get a new and fancy-pants, pixel-pushing computer that some say may be a work of art; industrial deftness, but art nonetheless, and you place it on a table. And that framed object on the wall just above said new device suddenly stops speaking to ya. Used to say hey, everyday. Now, no more. It just don’t want to hang. I get it. The company you keep.

So what’s a poor boy to do? Spend some more money. Not this time. Not me. It’s all SNZ. She got the MOMA of San Francisco to fame a print and ship it to me, because you know, that print speaks to me. See.

Ya need to watch this. It’s a great and very rare at bat. And just yesterday with 40,000 watching in the still friendly confines of Wrigley Field.


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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