Dancing with Myself

So, about this blogging thing . . . .

"Dumb move, man . . . dumb move, but it's like them old reflexes coming back."

I know that no one is reading this. So what am I doing? Reprinting Vin Scully calls from 30 years ago? Making political yucks? Trying to do serious political commentary? Doing a 180 on Lou Piniella in the course of a couple of days? Writing about TV like a geriatric "TV Guide" subscriber? Spending 45 minutes looking for the perfect photo of Billy Idol?

The post I spent the longest on -- about Judy Miller -- is the one that makes the least sense. I like photos way too much. I desperately need a proofreader. I still don't know the proper usage of "lie" and "lay." And I come up with headlines -- "DePalma Long Shot", "Jerome Dome It Is", "Why Is Chucky Brown Shooting the Ball?", and "There Is No Way That We Can Lose This Game" -- without knowing what I would write under them.

Yet, as I once told a very dear friend in a different context, "On a scale of 1 to 3, I give it a 2 . . . but I can dance to it."

And I take requests. Even for "Rosalita."

"Somehow, you know, you just end up where you are."