My body is a temple, but it’s a temple of Bacchus. So drink with food, and with that, conversation. My request for the Red Sox game on TV led to a brief discussion of baseball stadia and the abject poverty observable in India. He was marking up a paper on artificial intelligence in financial management before he left. Algorithms trying to beat algorithms at guessing the potential value of companies that largely do nothing. What could go wrong?
I’m back at Industry, a gastro pub within walking distance of my hotel in Buckhead. I’m pretty sure I took the same seat I had in February, with it’s carefully shabby welds on a just-so rusted decoration. A corner spot with visibility to three TVs and reasonable zombie defensibility. On the other TV is the Atlanta Braves game happening 30 minutes from here. I briefly considered getting tickets, but I need downtime after travel, and this place hits the spot. Besides, my chosen affiliation is elsewhere.
I ended up chatting with a roving nurse until he summoned one of his lady friends to join him. The red Sox won after loading the bases in the 9th and walking in a run, to make it a one run game. It was stressful, but having won I feel fulfillment as though my fretting aided the players. Brains are funny.
I ate a Mr T, a turkey feta avocado “burger” with a side of Brussels sprouts. Both were excellent. No ragerts
H