Monday, A Candy-Colored Clown

"I close my eyes then I drift away. Into the magic night, I softly say a silent prayer like dreamers do. Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you." In last night/this morning's case, "you" would be Hall of Fame closer Bruce Sutter (2.83 career ERA, 300 career saves, and 24 WAR). At his peak, that splitter would just vanish into thin air. I saw him pitch an immaculate inning against the Montreal Expos on TV – that's three strikeouts with 9 pitches; the minimum – after striking out the side the inning before. That's not what he was up to in the dream though.

In the 70s, you could only tell the hippies from the ballplayers by the uniform

He had a coat and scarf on and was being questioned and mocked by the broadcasters for making his own clothing. He winced at the query but he answered as best he could with humor and grace that had he not achieved baseball success, he would have pursued his first passion as a couturier. 

Paranoia Agent, Satoshi Kon

This made no sense, and my brain rebelled against it, and so I woke up at a quarter past four. Like a finely tuned Lamborghini Countach, my mind went from 0-60mph in about 2.5 seconds, with the "Why? Why baseball? Why Bruce? Why fashion?" I suspect it has something to with the pronunciation of Sutter being "Suitor", or more appropriately, "Suit-er". But as to why baseball, I've no clue. I haven't watched more than an inning in the past five years.

I tried to fall back asleep, but like a cherry red '58 Plymouth Fury, my brain charged on. I imagined baseball players' grandmas knitting uniforms for them. They'd look like the separate components of a uniform but in fact be a cleverly knitted onesie with a single zipper up the front. Ohtani's grammy would knit a picture of Oliver Twist on his; Vlad Guerrero Jr's abuela considers bluejays a garden pest so made a onesie with a bald eagle on it; Gerrardo Parra, just glad he's retired so he doesn't have to wear the Baby Shark onesie and besides, his kids are tweens now and don't want to be reminded but try telling your grandma that; and for some reason, Aaron Judge is complaining that all these individually handknit costumes go against the whole concept of UNIFORM, for Pete's sake. This went on for a long time. By the time this line of thought ended, it was past 6, by which time I was trying to remember the recent movie that used a scene from the Pier Paolo Pasolini movie Medea.* 1967? I think, with Maria Callas in her only film role, as the titular character. Do you know which movie it was that showed the murder scene from Medea? 

Paranoia Agent, Satoshi Kon

I got up and made coffee instead of lying there another minute. My brain does this to me every morning but usually not that early. By midafternoon, I'm going to feel like a rusty '59 Ford Edsel rotting in a junkyard by the sea, the only passengers being seagulls and rats, and very occasionally the junkyard owner's grandson, Clem, who btw turns 9 next Tuesday. Wish him a happy 9th. 

(Don't look in the trunk) 

I'm also not sure why I'm talking about cars. I know very little about cars. Who or what have I been replaced with?

Oh, yeah. It was Saint Omer.** Yeah, that makes sense.

Anyway sorry about the slapdash randomness, and just so you know, I did try to condense and simplify the random musings to a manageable level for you. Least I could do. Slap your own random dash below.

* Streaming on Criterion Channel dot Snob

** Streaming on Hulu