It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!

Tim, my co-worker and avid blog reader, called me into his office a few weeks ago. He’s only been here a year, so I figured there was some basic principle of the tax code that he failed to grasp, for which my help was required. “Jason,” he asks, “what are you doing next Thursday?” Puzzled, I reply, “Nothing, probably.” “It’s the last day game for the Nationals this year,” he sagely suggests. “I’m in,” I eagerly reply.

And there we are, on a shockingly temperate and sunny August afternoon, in the ancient behemoth that is Robert. F. Kennedy Stadium. Tim, again wisely, has brought in sunflower seeds. The draft Coors Lights slide down the throat like Rickey Henderson stealing second. The concourse smells of kosher dogs and spilt beer. The baseball diamond shines brilliant under the glow of Helios. What a bastard is nighttime baseball! The crack of the Northern White Ash against a Livan Hernandez fastball!

The Cincinnati Reds, one of baseball’s most hopeless franchises, was in town, which might seem disappointing but for the fact that Ken Griffey Jr. still prowls centerfield for these Red Stockings. Griff’, as is well known, has been plagued by injuries the last few seasons, but it’s hard for me to forget the sweetness that he was when roaming the outfiled in the Kingdome some years past. That fluid, compact left-handed swing. The swagger. That homerun trot, complete with the bat toss. The boyish grin. The seventh inning, Griffey is at the plate, and BOOM, he launches his thirtieth homerun of the year into the seats!

The seventh inning stretch! Raise your voice, lift your glass, and on your feet: Take Me Out to the Ballgame.

Daytime baseball, my old dear friend, how I’ve missed you in my seven-year hiatus in the Nation’s Capital.

So Wave to the Tractor, And to the Tractor Shed

At a recently attended wedding, held in the majestically grand Quad Cities of Middle America, the fun for the author here doesn't end at the reception. Or at the bus trip to the Indian casino. Three brave souls have ditched the baggage that is the significant other, and have bravely soldiered on to the sole bar in downtown Moline, Illinois still serving alcohol until three in the morning. These exemplary citizens of the Vagrancy Republic proudly down as many cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon as the young, rather unattractive barmaid will serve them, but the hour of three strikes, and like Cinderella at the ball, they are unceremoniously driven from this farm country watering hole. Our three brave soldiers of indecency are thrown onto the unforgiving, mean streets of farmland urbanity.

En route to their temporary abodes in the five-star Moline Radisson, they appear. These gigantic, green behemoths of childhood legend: the display farm tractors of John Deere Commons. The huge machines of Agrimerica beckon, unguarded in the warm summer air, and the "Do Not Climb" placards are no deterrent for these upstanding members of the bar. Steel cabins, rubber wheels taller than an NBA center, scoops of yellow large enough to hold an automobile: how marvelous is the intersection of technology and agriculture!

Ascending these tractors is no small feat considering our heroes level of intoxication, taking into account also their formal wedding attire of suit and tie. Climb they did, take pictures they did. Dismount gracefully, they did not.

My friend has a broken foot, ladies and gentlemen, he just called me from the doctor's office. Several weeks of walking into courtrooms with a walking cast and cane for Mr. Local Prosecutor. And his wife is furious. But the photos are worth it.