It's 77 degrees in New York City.
I'm getting frozen out of a pickup game in Sherman Oaks by a 40
year-old guy who takes one look at me and decides I'm too old to be the
fifth man on his squad.
Andy Pettitte's progressing through the minor leagues.
My Prius needs a wash.
People are walking to the bar in the East Village and wondering if the good weather is here to stay.
I'm staring at the tops of the swaying palm trees and wondering if they ever fall down.
Jeremy Lin is healing.
I'm calling it a night early because I've got to drive.
Somebody's stepping in something that smells terrible. They scrape off their shoe; it still smells terrible. Somebody else steps in the scrapings later and it starts again.
I'm subscribing to a bunch of digital services to pretend I still have the same channels as you do.
Michael Kay will not shut the fuck up.
I'm tucking in my shirt almost every day.
Some guy is screaming and it keeps getting louder and more menacing and nobody wants to do anything about it.
I'm loading bags of groceries into my trunk.
An after-work gathering rolls on until 3:30 in the morning.
The sports bar turns into a karaoke bar at 10pm.