You all may know that Lisa and I are moving to London. In preparation for this, we’re trying to unload our condo, a process that now involves spending evenings selling the place door to door, and leaving flyers next to Chinese restaurant menus under the wipers of neighborhood cars. We’re considering upgrading our sales blurbs to include the phrasing “seller motivated,” as opposed to “seller lackadaisical” or whatever it’s assumed we were before, when we were merely desperate and not yet panicked. Lisa’s also been very busy trying to convince the British Home Office that she’s not moving to London for the free health care, and that she and her husband have enough financial resources to support themselves, should work opportunities fail to pan out. Perhaps you haven’t heard, home office. We own property.

But tonight, weather permitting, we’re taking the evening off to see the Grandly Reopened RFK Stadium, now home of the riblet. We do this because lots of folks we like are going to be there, and because we’ve been official fans of the Nationals since last year, when I decided to make them MY team and buy a 20-game season ticket package (11 of which games Lisa happily attended). One of our first and most adorable dates was at a Nats game, after which we ambled, lovestruck, all the way back to Union Station (this was last year, before the crime).

Anyway, to draw all this together, as I understand is customary, anyone who’d fancy sharing a beer or hurried run for cover with us tonight should send us an email or something, since the next game we’ll likely attend will be in 2009, at the Ronald Reagan Comcast Baseball Yard Brought To You By Eastern Motors Angelos Sucks.

That is all.