The White Sox lost today, 6-5 to the Padres, but you will have to find the sordid and celebratory details elsewhere.
Instead of watching an abuser pitch for the White Sox today, I cleaned some mold off of my roof shingles. Not fun detail, to be sure. It was ladder work rather than roof, and I’m not sure which is more treacherous. Last time I was on the roof, my older neighbor spent the duration (unsolicited) keeping an eye on me, thinking I was going to roll off into the bushes, or something. Dunno, maybe he was secretly hoping for a viral moment; neighbors can be a little complicated.
I am a little more blue collar than you might guess, given my smooth and jovial exterior. I’ve worked the South Side sewers (80-year-old pipes wider than I am tall!), repaired bridges over the Dan Ryan (so exciting to watch traffic rushing below you, nothing between your body and the pavement but speeding autos), jackhammered frozen rocks, scaffolded around buildings, landscaped, drove a two-ton. Probably dropped enough chemicals on asphalt and weeds to qualify for some ambulance-chasing class-action suit one day. Yeah boy, these soft typist hands have seen some rough times.
Anyway, today was a successful endeavor, although now I have bands of clean roof, mold, then clean crown. Sort of a groovy design. Maybe I’ll leave it for a while.
OK, it’s getting dark here and I still want to swim. Feel free to discuss the game in the comments below. I don’t have the heart for it.