8.28.2005
We Must Be Over the Rainbow!
What an odd dream last night, no doubt brought on by the salty tang of the air here in West Seattle, and the wine I've been sharing late into the night with old friends starting a new life in this sleepy corner of one of my favorite cities.
Maybe I got too much sun on the ferry ride across Puget Sound yesterday, or perhaps my cerebral alpha waves were scrambled by the sound of small waves lapping a rocky shore as I napped yesterday on a Bainbridge Island beach. Could it have been the sun's glare off the shining towers of the Emerald City all day, and me, silly me, walking around without sunglasses?
Whatever the reason for my disorientation, I had the strangest dream that the Giants called up Matt Cain, got rid of Jason Christiansen, promoted Jack Taschner, and banished Brett Tomko to the bullpen once again.
In my dream, Michael Tucker was finally recognized as useless in the Giants' current context, an older tree branch sapping nutrients when younger, greener shoots are struggling to survive, and traded. Felipe Alou promised he'd give Todd Linden lots of playing time, sprouted antlers and wings, joined the Glurtic-Zendovian insurgency then morphed into that sexy lady cop who sometimes patrols the Mays Field bleachers.
I woke up thinking how the human brain is so often wildly inventive beyond what we can imagine in our waking states. How could my mind conjure up such phantasms? Perhaps it's a subconscious reflection of my past voyages, each time bringing drastic change to my beloved ballclub. In November 2003, I returned from Mexico to find the flaming paper bag of A.J. Pierszynski on my doorstep; in January '05 I came back from India to learn that exalted gurus Mathenyji and Sri Moisey would bring thousands of years of learning to our canton.
Deep in the Northwest rainforest, there must be a shaman who can pack me a bowl of dried moss, brew for me a tea made of rare mushrooms, and explain such things.
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Maybe I got too much sun on the ferry ride across Puget Sound yesterday, or perhaps my cerebral alpha waves were scrambled by the sound of small waves lapping a rocky shore as I napped yesterday on a Bainbridge Island beach. Could it have been the sun's glare off the shining towers of the Emerald City all day, and me, silly me, walking around without sunglasses?
Whatever the reason for my disorientation, I had the strangest dream that the Giants called up Matt Cain, got rid of Jason Christiansen, promoted Jack Taschner, and banished Brett Tomko to the bullpen once again.
In my dream, Michael Tucker was finally recognized as useless in the Giants' current context, an older tree branch sapping nutrients when younger, greener shoots are struggling to survive, and traded. Felipe Alou promised he'd give Todd Linden lots of playing time, sprouted antlers and wings, joined the Glurtic-Zendovian insurgency then morphed into that sexy lady cop who sometimes patrols the Mays Field bleachers.
I woke up thinking how the human brain is so often wildly inventive beyond what we can imagine in our waking states. How could my mind conjure up such phantasms? Perhaps it's a subconscious reflection of my past voyages, each time bringing drastic change to my beloved ballclub. In November 2003, I returned from Mexico to find the flaming paper bag of A.J. Pierszynski on my doorstep; in January '05 I came back from India to learn that exalted gurus Mathenyji and Sri Moisey would bring thousands of years of learning to our canton.
Deep in the Northwest rainforest, there must be a shaman who can pack me a bowl of dried moss, brew for me a tea made of rare mushrooms, and explain such things.
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