Last night was fun. There was a lot of great art displayed at Rebel last night by a lot of great artists, some of the guys from Liquid, amongst others, including Eric, whom I hadn't seen since...I don't remember when. April? He and Liz are looking good. She's working at the Oak View Hot Topic now, and just registered for the winter quarter at Metro. Eric has been applying for promotions at West and might have an interview in the next week or two, which is good.
Dave and Devin and Jeremy and Jason, from Liquid, their artwork just amazes me. If I had money, I would just hand it over so they could buy supplies and create more art. That's what I would be, a patron of the arts. Because I love art, in all its myriad forms (still not a fan of ballet, though).
I started to wonder last night, do I enjoy hanging around and talking with artists, and admiring their work, because I think I'm nothing more than a hack? Because I'm envious of their talent and fear that I'll never create anything of any worth? Valid or not, it was a thought that kept me up last night.
Prior to a night of fitfull sleep, however, I watched the St. Louis Cardinals complete quite the improbably run to the World Series championship. Similar to the Pittsburgh Steelers of earlier this year, the Cardinals were colossal underdogs who had limped into the playoffs, just lucky to be there after an abhorrent September.
I was rooting for them the whole way, but I didn't seriously think they'd get to the Series, let alone win it. Beating San Diego in the first round was a fluke, right? Luck. And the Mets? The hottest team in baseball from April to September? There was no way the Cards' banged up lineup could match up against the Mets' heavy hitters. Then the Tigers, who also stumbled in September, giving away the division crown in the last couple weeks of the season, they still had all those great arms in the rotation, and a killer bullpen.
I would have been happy if the Cardinals had won a single game. I just didn't want them to be swept like in '04. After stealing Game 1 in Detroit, with rookie Anthony Reyes pitching the game of his life, I would have been satisfied with that. Thankfully, they had more faith in themselves than I (and most of the country) did.
Jeff Weaver, left for dead by Anaheim, 3-8 with a 6.29 ERA by July, also pitched the game of his life: 8 innings, 1 earned run, 9 strikeouts, and rookie Adam Wainwright, who had never saved a game until the last week of September, did what he had done all postseason. He just shut the Tigers down, striking out Brandon Inge (like Carlos Beltran in the NLCS) to win the World Series.
It was a helluva postseason.
Only five months until Spring Training.
Incidentally, Battlestar Galactica keeps getting better and better. Last night's six-person tribunal, playing judge, jury and executioner for those humans who had collaborated with the Cylon occupiers, was eerily prescient, given that it was written and filmed months ago. It reminded me immensely of the law Bush recently signed, the one which states the president can lock up anyone he wants, for any reason he wants, without a trial and without showing the accused a shred of the evidence against them.
I don't feel up to driving to Kansas City today, though, given the circus the house has become since the kids are here, I should probably go. I have a headache and yelling children doesn't generally help with that. Oh well.
Tonight's Becky (and Jason and TJ)'s Halloween party, so that's something to look forward to. I haven't drank for a while, but I could really go for a shot or two right now.