Group lunch today footed for by some body's corporate card. Nice. Sucked into a meeting at four-thirty in the afternoon. Probably not going to be nice. Meeting goes till about eight o'clock, after a mandatory stroll through the warehouse. (At least we toured the empty, but still cold, freezer section.) What's that? Our gracious visitors who want our business would like to buy us dinner. Ow, my arm hurts. The Italian piano bar hasn't gone the way of the dingo in So Flo just yet. Wine, fish, limonchello, desert, champagne. . . are we celebrating something? Nope. The game was one. I hate the Red Sox.
Go A's. Go to Fremont, apparently. I doubt I'll ever see a live game again after they move.