This was posted on my forum first in response to a rant, but it being mine, I decided to share elsewhere.

OK. I'll bite.

Day begins early today. Woken up by my goddamn phone by someone who apparently hasn't gotten the memo about sleeping in on weekends. Apparently produce can't live to see the noon hour. Some kinda fuctup twisted organic Cinderella story or something. Sleep still in my eyes and I'm getting bitched out for this or that impolite behavior. Something about phone etiquette. WTF?! Need to get rid of that phone - it is a magnet for trouble.

Beat.

The L is taking way too fucking long to arrive. I hoof it six blocks down Taraval to pick up a decent coffee with the change in my pocket, go outside, and wait an additional 15 minutes for that goddamn train to arrive. Make it out to Farmer's Market to buy, what else, flowers and produce. Of course, I'm not alone, or else I wouldn't be buying flowers and produce. I'm neither metro nor granola enough for that kind of behavior.

Lunch was good, homemade for being a dutiful bag carrier. It was only tinged bitter by the jets screaming overhead, and the simulation of being in Iraq hit a bit too close to home for me. It took me back to the Fourth of July, the skies lit up red like cloud-sprays of blood, and I ruminate on how American celebrations resemble war in a very creepy, even sick, sort of way.

We get stoned on very decent greenery and make our way down to the hookah bar, puffing our way through a thoroughly decent rose-tobacco bowl. This was preceded by a beautiful tour of an apartment highrise roof, replete with jet-booms and personal conversation. And having had my fill of nicotine, cannabanoids, and feminine company I attempted to return home to the Sunset.

After three L trains pass by without a single free spot for a body to use, I give up and head back above ground to catch the 71. There I am accosted by a very gay, black man (piercings abounded in his face and I want to know not where else) who attempts to supplicate me with weed and a very disturbing invasion of my personal space. Ditching him, I have a comedic conversation with a drunk OG dude that is a respectable gentlemen to every woman that walks by, meanwhile whispering back to me about said woman's "ass for days," and how the only way she is going to get wet is if he had "jizzed on her ass." After saying this, he began to say jism over and over in a sing-song sort of way. Keep in mind that he had just wiped off a dirty, wet seat for a woman to sit down in and all the women in the bus were cooing over how nice and respectable he was.

I was laughing my ass (which doesn't go on for days) off.

Goddamn first games of the season.

I belong to a cricket team about 1/2 an hours' drive out of my home town, called Pomonal. I have been training for the last month, maybe more, so I could get into a C grade (lowest grade apart from under-16s and under-13s) team. For the first game of the season, last week, I was selected for the B grade side. As if they didn't have anyone better!

That game was washed out.

The next week, which was today, B grade had a bye. Since I couldn't get into that team, they put me into C grade. Now, fellahs, that's a little better! Anyway, they put me in with people whose nicknames include Beano, Donkers, Pixie and Buckrat. Strange? No. They're a good bunch.

I'm a real rabbit. I can't bat for nuts. So, I must say I was a little disappointed at that game in Willaura, when we lost the coin toss and were put in to bat. I was put in at No. 11, but until then I had to go and help with square-leg umpiring. (Not that I minded.) All I had to do was call no-balls when they went too high, and call run-outs, stumpings and short runs.

I never batted. Beano, at No. 10, went in to bat in the middle of the last over. He blocked two balls, then smacked the last ball of the innings for four. We had scored a grand total of 8/108, and there I was with my head in the car and my legs in my pads. I was now free to go and get something to eat, and watch the 'other' cricket match that was being played, Australia vs. the rest of the world - a six-day Test match instead of the normal 5. It's pretty near completion now, after only two days.

We went out to bowl. Sweet. My bowling had improved a hell of a lot over the summer, so I was eager to have a go. Our captain, Al, bowled two shithouse overs and took himself off. At the other end was Pixie, who is our opening bowler. Once he had bowled his seven overs, I was given a go. I gladly accepted the cherry and made my mark for my run-up.

In that fateful over, I gave away 12 runs.

Not that it was all bad. I nearly caught a ball off my own bowling. The guy batting, who was nicknamed 'Nogger' (or something like that) by his team, flicked the ball up into the air and back down the pitch. I mean, really high. It moved a bit away from the pitch, so I just screamed 'GOT IT!' and bent down below it.

I dropped it, and collapsed, frustrated, on the grass.

I had buggered up my first over in the senior teams by dropping a catch and bowling 3 wides and 2 no-balls. I wasn't called on again, but I did my best in the field. At drinks, which was halfway through the innings, Willaura were 4/70 in comparison to our 2/47. Some magic bowling coming from Al in his second spell gave us the wickets we needed to win the match by about 10 runs. So, it wasn't all THAT bad.

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