Two years ago today, at this precise moment, Sam and I were on an anxious flight to Chicago. We were about to become parents. I wrote about meeting Ruby for the first time and sent it to my editor for this week’s issue of CityBeat. God damn it if he didn’t go right ahead and publish it. You may read it here if you feel like it; the usual caveat of the hard copy being the true reading experience still remains.

And then, to spare you all from the taste of bile accumulating at the back of your throats due to my sickeningly weepy posts of late, I’ll stop with all the mushy sentimental crap I’ve been blathering on about and get back to my more bitter rantings about the direction this country is headed under the leadership of a monstrous nitwit who wears socks with hideous rubber sandals. Oh, and I might just throw in a few bits on Wimbeldon—glorious Wimbeldon!—and some of the terrible ruffle-adorned outfits being worn by the otherwise kick-ass women on the circuit. For now, I’ll just thank Buddha that there is once again a real sport, an interesting sport, being televised to save me from the endless hours of baseball.