(Apologies for the crap Twitter lede. I don’t know how to adjust it on Tumblr Mobile.)

Always, ALWAYS check your travel documents the night before you travel.

I’m writing from the Albany bus station, waiting to head a ways south before juking east to Boston tomorrow. And I’m not late. I’m spectacularly early. A bus I thought would depart at 9 is actually departing at 9:40. So a slumber that ended at 5:45 really could have ended at 6:30, and, point of fact, it took only 45 minutes to get here from Bennington, so 6:30 really could have been 6:45, or even 7. (All times AM.) In the words of the inimitable Mayor Mike Bloomberg, “I regret everything in the world.”

…If you’ve yet to see it, by the by, hop over to YouTube, and in the search field, enter “Bloomberg Spider Man Inner Circle.” Then, after watching the three-minute clip, carve the words “HOT MESS” into your desk, and hold your hand over an open flame. That’ll take care of the aftereffects.

Yes, that was a little dark, but as I said, I’m too early for Albany. And was out too late with the Mets to manage the good night’s sleep whose borders I misjudged. I’d be happier if they won, but I understand why they didn’t. And if you don’t, you haven’t watched Josh Johnson pitch against the team. Plenty of clear-eyed analysis to that effect on the interwebs.

I’d also be happier if I could keep from being swarmed by religious proselytizers. I get that Saturday morning is kind of this particular group’s thing, but I’m a young man wearing a shiny tie tapping words into a phone. Even if I’m the perfect candidate for salvation, isn’t waiting until I can dismiss you with my full attention the polite thing to do?

It’s empty here. Empty, with the faint smell of cedar chips. But I imagine that’s what the ’70s smelled like, and this place couldn’t be any more dated if the walls sported wood paneling. The sort that made people wearing Aviator-sized eyeglasses look like death warmed over.

Pelfrey looked like death warmed over last night, but I’ve come to expect that from him when he’s not getting calls early. I Tweeted (gads) something to this effect last night, and I’m willing to grant that my vantage point and surroundings made excoriating the home plate umpire for a wacky zone a less-than-honest endeavor, but I think I was sharp enough to call Pelf getting squeezed. Pitches at the knees were invariably balls unless perfectly placed. If they caught the lower third of the letters, same effect. Pelfrey needed the lower strikes to get the Marlins to fish, and it wasn’t happening with a strike zone tighter than…

Tighter than…

A hipster’s skinny jeans on Friday.

A family’s budget during heating season.

My jaw when watching “So You Think You Can Dance.”*

Similes fail me. I’m in the Albany bus station and I have another hour to kill. I’m too tired to string together coherent phrases, and analysis won’t really be this blog’s stock in trade. Obviously, you’ve come here for the wit. Obviously.

But at least Carlos Beltran got to run the basepaths once, the Mets didn’t get no-hit, and there are 161 games left. I remember it’s Gate 12, and I’m an hour closer to leaving than I was when I arrived.

…Meh, mubble, ugh. Sorry. A win would have been nice. And with it, more sleep. I don’t know where to land.

Come and get me, proselytizers. I regret everything in the world.

*I have NEVER watched “So You Think You Can Dance.”