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High temp today, here: 26. Dewpoint then: 15. High dewpoint: 17.
High temp today in TO: 28. Dewpoint then: 17. High dewpoint: 17.
Up to Tropical Storm Ophelia now. Last year O was as far as we got (though there was the questionable double-Ivan). The way things are going this year, we might run the alphabet.
I'm increasingly suspicious that there's something wrong with Vernon Wells. They gave him a day off yesterday, and he let a ball get under his glove for a triple in the first inning tonight. No Gold Glove this year.
So, whatever Shannon Stewart's limitations, you'll have a hard time replacing him as a leadoff hitter, right? Going into tonight's games, Russ Adams leads Shannon Stewart in OBP, .342 to .339.
Yeah. Less than 400 pages to go in Don Quixote. Woot. Finished Heart of Darkness last night. It's a hard book to pay attention to. Bloody good thing Don Quixote isn't like that. Everything's a flat monotone. Reminds me of Camus--like he's talking to himself.
Flipped through the New Yorker today. Strange to read this week's magazines, in which New Orleans is not sunk yet. Saw a picture of a flooded city in Time, thought for half a second it was NOLA--it was a town in the Alps. Well, you know, these things happen. In the New Yorker, mostly read an article about a chef in NYC who catches his own fish.
High temp today in TO: 28. Dewpoint then: 17. High dewpoint: 17.
Up to Tropical Storm Ophelia now. Last year O was as far as we got (though there was the questionable double-Ivan). The way things are going this year, we might run the alphabet.
I'm increasingly suspicious that there's something wrong with Vernon Wells. They gave him a day off yesterday, and he let a ball get under his glove for a triple in the first inning tonight. No Gold Glove this year.
So, whatever Shannon Stewart's limitations, you'll have a hard time replacing him as a leadoff hitter, right? Going into tonight's games, Russ Adams leads Shannon Stewart in OBP, .342 to .339.
Yeah. Less than 400 pages to go in Don Quixote. Woot. Finished Heart of Darkness last night. It's a hard book to pay attention to. Bloody good thing Don Quixote isn't like that. Everything's a flat monotone. Reminds me of Camus--like he's talking to himself.
Flipped through the New Yorker today. Strange to read this week's magazines, in which New Orleans is not sunk yet. Saw a picture of a flooded city in Time, thought for half a second it was NOLA--it was a town in the Alps. Well, you know, these things happen. In the New Yorker, mostly read an article about a chef in NYC who catches his own fish.
