After considering more options for naming the Mets' new home (Evander HolyField came to mind), I've decided that Strawberry Field would have been a great choice. Not only does it invoke John Lennon -- whom New York officially adopted when he became a rabble-rousing, pacifist thorn in Nixon's ragingly paranoid side -- but also Darryl Strawberry, who was the most exciting Met I ever saw play. Lennon and Strawberry were New York icons whose lives took tragic turns. So why not name New Shea after them? It's not like Citigroup needs any more mindshare in this town.
Today was a day unlike so many others. For a start, we spent the entire day at work with no Internet access, although we were able to access e-mail over our intranet. This seems categorically unfair, because the web could remind me of my workly duties, but it couldn't let me escape into the rich, velvety pointlessness of blog-surfing. I cry foul.
And while I was at work, Robert seems to have grown a second head. He was running around at school today when he tripped and pranged his noggin on the side of a table, leaving a lump on his forehead about two inches across. It's startling to behold, because for all the cuts and bruises he's sustained over the years, he's never looked this ... broken. Luckily, he seems the same ebullient, garrulous kid he's always been, except now he looks a bit like Worf.