It’s a gloomy, rainy day today. But that’s down here in our part of the U.S. Up North, Canada is glowing. It ain’t over (thank you, Yogi), but the Jays have been shining. Their rookie pitcher Trey Yesavage made toothpicks of the LA bats last night. Every time we turned our heads it seemed like Ohtani, Betts, or Freddie was flailing at a third strike. Trey K’d an even dozen, a World Series record for a rookie. Made the best hitters in the game look like me swinging.

Have you ever gone somewhere, against your better judgment, and the moment you walk through the door you get that sinking feeling that you’re in for a dreadful time? A lot, if you’re me. That’s how the LA pitcher Snell must have felt when his very first pitch was pounded over the fence by Davis Schneider (a backup outfielder subbing for Springer), who wears goofy glasses and looks like he cuts his own hair (not that there’s anything wrong with that). The second batter homered too: Vladdy, he of the Hall of Fame dad who must be qvelling big time. Snell settled down, but the message got across: The Jays were going ham.

Here’s Schneider, a South Jersey boy. See what I mean about the hair?

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This poem is called “On Catalpa Street.” It’s by Jo McDougall and was in today’s Writer’s Almanac.

At dusk, when kitchen-window light
settles on the grass like a picnic cloth,
he thinks of the town he lived in
when he was twelve,
the year his father died.
He remembers an evening after his father’s funeral,
crossing the yards wide with dogs and mowers
toward the yellow light of the living room,
toward a baseball game on the radio,
a back porch that smelled like sour mops.
He remembers a man he had never seen before
sitting with his mother at the kitchen table,
his mother looking, turning toward him
as though he might have been the Perkins boy
come to paint the shed.

Here’s Jo:

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Need proof that I live under a rock? I just got an email advertising a performer who is expected to fill Michigan Stadium two nights running: the largest arena in the world. And I never heard of the guy: Morgan Wallen? He any good?

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On the other hand, I’ve heard of (and loved) Prunella Scales. She played Sybil Fawlty, Basil Fawlty’s (John Cleese’s) wife on the hysterical show Fawlty Towers. Sadly, she passed away on Monday at the age of 93 at her home in London. Get this: her sons said she was watching Fawlty Towers the day before she died.

These two paragraphs about the show are from Ms. Scales’s obit in the NYT by Natasha King:

She was often found smoking in a back room while on the telephone with a friend, her gossiping frequently punctuated with a drawling “Oh, I know!” Confronted with her husband’s shenanigans, she cut him down to size with a withering look or a short, sharp “BASIL!” — no mean feat for the petite 5-foot-3 Ms. Scales facing the 6-foot-5 Mr. Cleese.

Some of Basil’s favorite epithets for his wife included “my little piranha fish” and “my little nest of vipers,” and he likened her braying laugh to “someone machine-gunning a seal.” She often responded in kind: “Do you really imagine, even in your wildest dreams, that a girl like this could possibly be interested in an aging, brilliantined stick insect like you?” she admonished when she caught him in the closet of an attractive guest’s room.

OMG. Too funny.

Fawlty Towers has been hailed as the best British TV show ever by the British Film Institute and other organizations. Prunella was a Shakespearian actress earlier in life, and, in general, had a very successful career.

She was happily married to fellow-actor Timothy West who passed away last year. “I am famous for playing unfortunate wives,” she said, “but I have been a very lucky wife.” She is survived by three children, seven grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren, for all of whom reservations are being held at The Towers.

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Headline from The Onion:

China Agrees To Purchase Eleven U.S. Soybeans

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Well, it looks like he’s just like the rest of us run-of-the-mill pedophiles now. Owl Chatter has learned that LeBron James has stripped former Prince Andrew of his titles and kicked him out of the castle because of his “activities” linked to Jeffrey Epstein, Trump’s dead BFF sex monster. Wait, no, the other king did it — Charles, who can’t even dribble without losing the ball off of his foot.

Henceforth, the dude is no longer to be known as “Prince” or “His Royal Highness,” but only as Andrew. Ouch. Andrew’s children, Princess Beatrice and Princess Eugenie, retain their titles. Whew, close one. And you thought you were embarrassed by your dad. My Zoey is still a princess too. Here are Bea and Eu. Linda has pajamas like the one on the left.

The last time a member of the British royal family was formally stripped of a title was Prince Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, after he swore allegiance to Germany during World War I, viewed at the time as “not a good move.”

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You hear this? Sorry for the earworm. See you tomorrow.

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