Early June and yet the air conditioner labors mightily against the dense, wet heat in my room.

Earlier we watched with one eye as the Yankees lost their eighth of nine games, against the Milwaukee Brewers. A pitiable offensive effort, rife with strikeouts and double-play balls. Sean and Tom were cursing extravagantly at the sorry spectacle, waxing scatological. The Yankees were shitting everywhere, messing uniforms, scorecards, the dugout, field, the entire plane of their television existence. Nothing was unsullied. Sean and Tom demeaned them exuberantly, in the manner of the most very devoted fans.