A few Sundays ago, I was in a small Scottsdale club to catch Kate Voegele, and the crowd was dominated by teens and twentysomethings. There were some thirtysomethings, people in my age group. So it was a nice mix. But as two opening acts came and went, and Voegele was halfway through her set, I noticed that the people my age hung back. They seemed incredibly bored. Some paced. Some sat on bar stools in the corner. I couldn’t figure them out. And then I realized, with a bit of horror, that these people were parents and were simply there to chaperone their kids.

Ouch.

I can’t win.

Last Wednesday, sure enough, a foul ball came my way. A line drive, hit hard, screamed toward me from several hundred feet away like a heat-seeking missile. My initial thought was: holy sh–. It’s coming my way!

So I stood.

And in those three or four seconds, I had these frenzied thoughts:

I can catch it!

Wait, it’s going to hurt!

But I can catch it!

The ball was above me. I knew I had to reach high above my head and jump a little for the ball to hit square on my palms. Should I reach out and touch someone, or in this case, something? I was at AT&T Park, after all. But did I really want to hurt my hand, maybe break it, for a stupid foul ball?

Yes!

No!

I was wracked with indecision. I had a slight buzz from one beer but was far from being inebriated to do something stupid, like injure my left hand, which I needed for my livelihood. But hey, if the ball takes out one hand, I could still peck away on the keyboard with the other hand!

Here’s a view from our seats, so you can get a sense of the trajectory of the ball.

My sensibility won out.

As the ball zoomed toward me at a million miles per hour, I half-heartedly reached up as high as I could with my left hand. But I did not jump like I knew I needed to, and so the ball grazed the top of one finger, slammed into an empty seat two rows above me with a loud clank, and then it richocheted, hard, off a fan’s forehead. The guy looked OK, but then a few minutes later, he got up and left, and I never saw him again. Ouch.

I slunk bank into my chair. My finger that touched the ball stung. And so did my pride. I wished I had another beer to ease the pain.

“You know,” said my buddy Pete, who never left his seat next to me. “You would have caught it if you had a glove.”

Ack!

So, for the next few innings, I debated in my head whether I did the right thing. I’ve never caught a foul ball. I kind of went for it. But I didn’t really. To make myself feel better, I concluded I did do the right thing. In reality, the chances of me catching it bare-handed were slim to none. And well, at least my palm didn’t feel like that poor guy’s forehead.

I recently came across this bizarre sight on the freeway near downtown Phoenix — a pickup truck filled with giant cartoony heads.

Miiko, a chronic drive-by shooter, loves taking pictures with her camera phone while on the road. She’s more into sunsets and other scenic shots like these, all taken in Arizona.

Ah, the desert landscape. Her pictures make it seem like we live in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t it?