On, Wisconsin!

I had to call a credit card company the other day to verify my account, and in the course of the conversation, the woman on the phone—I think her name was Donna—mentioned that she and the company were both in Wisconsin. I'm one of those people who have actual conversations with business people on the phone, so when we finished our credit card talk, I said something about Wisconsin's upcoming primary election and whether Donna had been paying attention, and she said, yes, absolutely; that Barack Obama had been in Madison and how exciting and energizing it all was, and how much interest everyone is taking in the process, including her and her friends and family. "I'm 23," Donna said, "and this is only the second election I've been able to vote in. I'm so excited. I really think this is our chance to change things."

I don't know why I got such a charge out of this conversation, except maybe that here were two people, strangers to each other, a generation apart in age and a half a continent apart in geography, but connected by an idea that inspires us and gives us both hope for our future. So, thanks, Donna; it was great talking to you.

Play ball!

I've been posting a lot recently about signs of spring, but you know what? All of 'em—the trees in bloom, sightings of convertible cars and convertible toes, even the mosquito that scoped out my bare arm yesterday afternoon—all are pretenders, pale simulacrums of the one, true harbinger of the sweet season: Spring Training!

Yes, baseball is back, or at least the pitchers and catchers are, most of whom reported to their respective teams in Arizona or Florida. Soon, they'll all be back, and for a few months, at least, no matter what's happening in politics or the economy or even the steroid brouhaha, there will be players taking the field, coming up to bat, each doing his damndest to adhere to baseball's simple philosophy: throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball.

The Giants aren't expected to do great things, but I don't care, really. I'm glad Bonds is gone, glad to see some new, young kids make their way into the Bigs, full of energy and ambition. If they make mistakes, so what? It'll be hugely entertaining. Welcome back, boys.

Topless

I say R, I say R-A;
R-A-G, R-A-G-G;
R-A-G-G, T-O-P-P,
Ragtop!

In yet another sign of spring a-springin', over this past weekend, I spotted four convertibles whose drivers had rolled back the ragtop and let the sun shine in—a red MG, a white Chrysler number (whose driver had the rap music cranked up to broadcast volume), a black VW Cabriolet, and snazziest of all, a red, 1960s-vintage Plymouth Fury, about the size and shape of an aircraft carrier. Sweet!