(no subject)

Can you believe that, for a moment, I was troubled that a pudgy thirty-six year old man squeezing into a size 14 sundress wouldn't be "twisted" enough for a Twisted Tea theme party?

I had intended a more puellile mien, but I realised that sleeveless cotton on its own was a little more shivery than I was prepared to be in a raw night, so I borrowed a baggy sweater from monshu, which pushed me into dowdy housewife territory. And I ran with it, referring to him constantly as "Mr. monshu", in the manner of someone from my grandparents' generation, and generally Mrs Poole-ing my way through the evening.

He looked smashing, btw. I hope someone got pics!

The featured tea liqueurs were interesting, but a bit strong. I had to take mine gespritzt or otherwise diluted a bit. This also helped undercut the fact that I was basically sipping vodka-strength hard liquor most of the night. It must've worked, since I awoke hangover-free, though in a strange bed halfway across town.

The hosts' apartment wasn't big, but somehow it was never too small, no matter how many people crowded in. My test for oppressiveness is, "How long does it take me to cross the room to an amenity?" (such as the liquor or the tray of tasty madeleines) and the answer was "Never more than an easy half minute." The guests were uniformly lovely, and some much more. I do hope some of the invites pan out.

I was having so much fun, I very nearly forgot that the Cardinals were playing their most important post-season game in decades. In the end, bunj and I were gonzo enough to head back to his place afterwards and start watching it on TiVo around midnight. By about one-thirty or so, we knew what the entire city of St. Louis had been celebrating for three hours already.

Playa hatin'

The Chicago Tribune has never done much to endear itself to me; this morning at the breakfast table, I saw the headline Errs to the Throne over an article declaring that it wasn't so much the Cardinals who defeated the Tigers as it was the Tigers. AS IF! Sure, eight errors is a lot, but it would hardly have mattered if the vaunted Tigers offence had delivered. (Or, to quote the Detroit Free Press: "Eleven runs in five World Series games are not enough, no matter how fancy your glovework is.") Instead, Plácido Polanco, the MVP of the ACLS with a .529 batting average against Oakland, was hitless in the Series--and neither Magglio Ordóñez or Pudge Rodríguez did much better. The Sun-Times, who--not having a dog in this fight--could afford less sourness in its grapes, prominently crediting the winning pitcher Weaver with "mowing down" the Tigers.

I was genuinely sad that one of the two teams had to lose. I don't have a thing against Detroit or its ball club aside from its membership in the unholy American League. And Manager Jim Leyland has a lot of class; when buttonholed immediately after the final loss and asked whether it was the failure of his fielders or the flaccidity of his offence that blew the series, he took the blame firmly between his own two shoulder blades, saying he "didn't prepare them enough". He also wasn't stingy with praise where it was due: "And we have no excuses. We got beat by a team that played a lot better than we did during the course of the series." I hope I would've been able to say the same if there were dancing in the streets of Detroit instead.