Slow Week? Yes, Yes it is.

It may be symbolic, or perhaps just a coincidence that the three worst days of the year can be summed up in three short words: All-Star Break (Is that three words? Or is it a word and a hyphenated compound of some sort, in which case that whole first sentence loses its charming sentiment. Somehow that bit of grammatical knowledge slipped through the cracks of my education: it's all right though; at least I can analyze a 12-tone row or relate some humorous anecdotes of the ancient Romans. Hooray for the liberal arts!). Making it through these three awful days has often been like crossing a vast desert; a long and treacherous trek with less chance of survival than The Oregon Trail. For example:

• One involves deadly outbreaks of cholera and dysentery, where the other has the annual vocal diarrhea of Chris Berman during the Home Run Derby.
  

• One involves going out to shoot 5,000 pounds of squirrel meat of which you can haul back 200lb, where the other has Beckett, Verlander, and Santana facing National League hitting.
  

• One involves the risky, often-unfortunate decision to try and ford the river instead of hiring an Indian guide, where the other has the risky, often-unfortunate decision to leave Aaron Rowand in to hit with two outs and the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth when down by a run instead of bringing in Albert Pujols off the bench.
  

• One has captured the spirit and enthusiasm of generations of American youth who sweat, cheer, and agonize over its outcome, where the other is a baseball game.

But this year, it was different. This year, there was something to pull me through the trying times of Boomer's bay-area suburb name dropping, the NFL/NBA offseason speculation that seems to come earlier every year, and the gigantic Transformers/Chevy/MLB/FOX/Simpsons Movie/7-11 cross-promotional clusterfuck that has even managed to find its way into my quiet, unassuming hometown, where at least it managed to take some headlines from the apparent growing heroin problem (Been meaning to post on this, but it will have to come another day). Yes, my physical and spiritual nourishment of the past three days didn't come from a needle, a jagged metal Krusty-O, nor even a giant shapeshifting robot that apparently wants me to get me into the shoddiest of American automobiles. It has come from four men, expressing hope, joy, and the latest in straw hat and candystripe jacket fashion in the only way they know how: a barbershop version of the original Ewok celebration song. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the fifteenth wonder of the world.




Thanks again to Progressive Boink for the fantastic OT screenshot.