Thanksgiving! We all got through it okay. Or at least, well enough to get up Monday morning, kick the liquor bottles out of bed, and go to work as if we didn’t spend the past two days asleep in a bus station.
Jamie Moyer, however, seems to have watched the value of his house sink one million dollars. It is Seattle, America’s flooded sub basement, but even so, the $8.9 million that would have been reasonable to pay for Jamie’s home–and the youth-giving spirits living underneath is–has dropped to $7.8 million.
So, we obviously we can’t use the term “retirement” when talking about Jamie Moyer or he’ll hunt us down with a machete. But this, and the injury I guess, may be a solid indication of Jamie’s impending “crossing-over-of-those-rocks-from-Field of Dreams.” Though I never know what to think with Jamie. You’re expecting him to zig, he zags, injures himself, gets surgery, then comes back and zags again with a few zigs thrown in for no reason.
But why distract ourselves with the farewell to one of our own? Why not bury all that sorrow under layers and layers of holiday joy, in the form of mindless materialism.
Yes, the annual Phillies Christmas tree lighting/giant merchandise sale/Tom McCarthy meet ‘n greet is creeping on you once more. Last year, a friend and I made plans to watch the very majestic, whimsical ceremony at Citizens Bank Park, but got distracted by the Memphis Tap Room and some kind of Prohibition-themed sale in which the beer was… cheap… and… good.
My point is, we never got there. But I’m sure its fantastic. We get to see the breaking out of yet another Phanatic costume–Phanta Claus–and that alone is worth the passage of another year. To most children and intoxicated adults, anyway.