Hello, gentle readers. It’s been some time since we last met. Fear not, though. We’re back and ready to start this new campaign, giving El FC the support we’re known for.
Some things have happened, club-wise around these here parts. For example, this beauty is no longer playing with us.
But this beauty is.
And this beauty will always be.
Around the compound, we’ve kinda been doing our own thing. Turd, having been inspired by George W. Bush’s sublime stroke work, has taken up painting. Here’s my favorite work of his:
In the end, I am beholden to my beautiful, lovely, charismatic, and propspicient lovlies: Wolfie and San Julius. One day, this past January, San Julius came up to me and we locked gazes. Our minds became as one. I felt her desires. She had the need to travel. I knew just what to do.
I scooped my hens into my whip (a powder blue, 1986 Aries K, 2 door coupe, if you’ve forgotten) and we headed north. We had no set itinerary, just a lust for life and adventure.
What an adventure we had!
In the end, we arrived at what proved to be our destination: the Gateway to the West, the heart of the Show-Me-State, the Seat of Budweiser. That’s right, gentle reader, we were in St. Louis.
Entering downtown of this once, great, American city, we made a beeline to this beauty.
Ahh. Busch Stadium. I’m a Romantic when it comes to baseball. It will always have a soft spot in my heart. The slow rhythms, the classic comestibles, the pipe organ. Rightly cemented in the sports consciousness of our nation.
Fun fact: Augie Busch wanted to name his stadium after himself (it used to be called Sportsman’s Park). He approached MLB and requested permission for the change. They denied, saying you can’t name a park after a living person. So, he went back to his brewery and demanded a new beer be created and named Busch Beer. Now the naming rules could be followed.
So, after paying our respects to Lou Brock, Stan Musial, Ozzie Smith, and others, we drove up to the heart of the Italian community in St. Louis. Yup, we went to The Hill. There’s no describing how delectable the food is to be had at Gian-Tony’s.
Unfortunately, our time was running short. We went back downtown and cursed the old courthouse.
Purporting to be an emblem of equal justice under law, it was in these walls that the unfathomably evil Dred Scott decision was made, ruling that a slave was simply property and the Constitution didn’t extend rights and privileges to those of African descent.
My K car began to act up, so we turned south and eventually made it back to the compound.
My beloved hens and I, once back ensconced at home, began to miss the food of St. Louis, especially the toasted ravioli.
We decided to make our own. Here’s the recipe we followed. Reader, I will not lie, they were fantastic! Wolfie, particularly, devoured them.
Belly full, she tumbled over and fell into a deep, toasted-rav-induced slumber. San Julius, however, turned to me. My augural senses began to tingle. Our eyes locked, minds melded, chakras aligned. She looked at the plate of food and exhaled a puff of disgust and then took two sprightly leaps to the right.
Yes, my dear. I understand.
El FC 2-0 Once Relevant City