color commentary from nowhere

I live in an imaginary place. This according to my friend who has been displaced out of New York twice as long as she ever lived there. At my urging, she scribbled out a U.S. map that doesn't even include anywhere to fly over between Jersey and Denver, save, as I recall, for Chicago. Whatever. Given that even the air here is solid--humidity, don't you know--I'm confident that I'm somewhere that exists. And, you know, we're supposed to be all hale and hearty. How real.

This morning I'm amused by these Greenwich, CT teenagers who built themselves a wiffleball field in the shape of Fenway. Of course, they built it on a $1.25 million city lot and, being the sons of privilege that I presume they are--Greenwich, CT--they went straight to the media and the government all the way up to the lieutenant governor when the neighbors started screaming. But, teenagers who still play wiffleball and made the effort to build a field-- I have to kinda love them a little.

The Times drags out the Field of Dreams references and implies that they'd have been better off building their ballpark in Iowa. I don't disagree--since the Midwest does not exist apparently neither do property values or irritable neighbors--but I think they forget the story. Even his fellow Iowans thought Ray Kinsella was nuts until they saw the games . Those boys shouldn't be fighting the neighbors, to follow the plot of that book, they should be inviting them to play.