On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five. . .

Really oughta sleep. Going into the city tomorrow early with teinedreugan. Will bum around and grab breakfast over the next two hours or so, and meet yehoshua by Gate B. Then game, for which I am woefully unprepared, as I did not, as I intended, spend the hot stove season designing a scoresheet. Shall have to remember to bring pen and use the damn thing in the program. Then, presuming not too exceptionally fried, up to Boston Garden to watch/participate in a Hellenic ritual for Patriot's Day.

Which utterly delights me, down to the tips of my toes, that it exists: that Patriot's Day has been chosen by some of the local Hellenics as an appropriate day for a Boston city festival. It makes sense, especially with their tie-ins to the Boston Marathon. It makes beautiful, gorgeous, perfect sense, libations by the statue of George Washington and all.

So I go to sleep dosed with warm milk and rum, and contemplate what I can wear that works for both a rowdy-anticipated ballgame and a Hellenic ritual. I don't have anything I can cut for a garland, even if I had any faith that a garland would survive Fenway. :}