Sheboygan shazaam!in two parts

part one

We know there is a little ditty in there somewhere, a lad, a gent, a two time loser from Sheboygan. But this is about a culinary discovery.

On the train to the ball park named for the phone company of the week, but rolls off the tongue packbelle, there were a group of Dutchmen. We could tell, because they said "lekker" a lot, and we remember smoking copious amounts of blond hashish in Amsterdam, and the dutchmen always said, lekker, ja?

ja!

Love, love, love packbelle park. P and I met infamous Mo and her squeeze for a pre-game drink that stretched into the fourth inning. And claimed our seats five rows behind home plate, well, that's infamous Mo.

Now mind you, Emma has only the vaguest idea of the rudiments of our national pastime. As stated, we are all about the dogs, and the splendor of the ball park. Mo introduced to our latest culinary obsession, it is a sausage, sausage called a Sheboygan, and it is most delicious paired with sauerkraut and a liberal dosing of yellow mustard.

Did you know that many baseball players are short?

We liked our Sheboygan so much that we had a second one, and several cocktails. And henceforth Sheboygan shall be our most favored euphemism for penis, penis! As in, did you see the Sheboygan in that man's pants? Nice Sheboygan...

The evening was mild, the crowd was civilized, the Giants won. I was surprised when the game ended so abruptly, but P explained that is what happens in the ninth inning. Thank heavens, we might have been sorely tempted to go for a third Sheboygan. Sheboygan!!

We stayed and let the ball park empty, and this, this is our favorite part. Infamous Mo is standing with the stadium assistant manager, we are smoking, flagrantly. And here come the Gulls. The night sky is heavy with screeching hungry gulls, the assistant manager warns us to beware the acid rain of thousands of gulls dive bombing for peanuts and scraps of hot dogs (no remnants of Sheboygan under my seat) And the heat of forty-two thousand bodies and their murmurings is surrendering to the brined bay, and a distinct damp in settling onto vacated seats. The groundsmen are tamping the bases, the gulls are screeching, mine, mine into the night air, and suddenly, fabulously the stadium lights extinguish, with the same sound effects as in the movies. And it's magic, it's just plain magic.

part two

We having been routing out the cause of our ennui, and have come up with a plausible explanation. We are shortly to turn thirty-three, and we thought we were not unnerved by this, but apparently we are.

Attempting to allay our deep-seated boredom we spent the day trolling our various "blogs of note" and randomly wound up at some young lady's site born in 1980, new to San Francisco and sparkly effervescent in the way that only a twenty two year old girl can be sparkly effervescent. Loves cosmo's and gay boys... Oh sweet child, we did and still do, and we envy your cola zest. We would like to reassure our self that our bubbles are a little slower, but a lot richer, think a vintage Veuve Cliquot rose, churning through the flute, taking our sweet time to break the surface.

and yet that analogy is not wholly satisfactory.

33, it's a nice complete number, but it is no longer 32, where when all else fails to console, we can repeat, and repeat, but, wait, we are still in our early thirties, does 33 qualify as early mid thirties. And who the fuck cares, and who the fuck is counting? Answer, you are my pet.

Fair enough.

Which brings us to blogging. A perfect solution to the 15 minute of fame question. You can be anyone you want to be.

I was pondering this as I was reading Rance. Which only makes us prance about our living room singing Rance, Rance lives in France, Rance, Rance has ants in his pants, while wearing our under garments and capped with a lamp shade, why, because we can. "Rance" the purported movie star- cum basement troglodyte. Of course we love, love Rance, if he is a basement troglodyte, what a wonder. Witty and erudite, we almost long for him to be a fraud, just to witness the desolation of his many countless fans who believe that this man (woman, teenager armed with spell check, mythical beast) is legit, who are reeking of need to establish a rapport with celebrity. Don't get is wrong, we love to surreptitiously read of Rance's various doings, he was most recently stalked by a "paparazzi" lurking about his garbage pails. We are enthralled by the audacity of it.

Blogging, such a vanity project, accessible to anyone who can type or dictate, and already there are the various clans and hierarchies. There are your kingly east coast bloggers, your west coast bloggers, and then your midwesterners, we ran across a georgia cracker blogger, but he frightened us and we left. Certainly, down the line, we can expect the blog wars, sort of like the east coast/ west coast rap wars of the mid to late nineties... the coasts vying for supremacy over the medium, the splinter groups, patchy allegiances, and Rance, mocking us from the comfort of his momma's basement.

Of course since emma is a day late and a dollar short and can't figure out how to make links, unless they are smoky links, mmmm smoky links, so similar, except shorter and lacking in girth compared to a Sheboygan, so she will have to sit out the blog wars, and comment, snarkily (hush, just a little word we made up) on the goings on... perhaps we will find ourself embedded. Perhaps we would much rather be just bedded...

Emma bids goodnight to all of those writing in fantasyland.