dead dogs and baseball get me every time

I've only ever cried while reading two books: Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls (did he write anything else of note? anyone?) and The Brothers K by David James Duncan. Duncan is a fellow Pacific Northwesterner (I'm Alaskan-born, but the Pac NW has more than adopted me by now) who penned something of an epic around 12, 15 years ago. It's a little schlocky in places (definitely a family values sort of read) and sometimes a bit heavy on the mysticism for my secular tastes. Nonetheless, he hits my love of baseball -- a hidden love, not unlike my clandestine Iditarod fandom -- dead-on, in great detail, and with loving justice.

I only bring it up because A) I reread it on the plane to Vermont last week and B) the world series is coming up, natch. Thing is, books don't make me cry. There are some heartbreakers on my shelf: Kundera, McEwan, Spiegelman -- wrenching stuff. The horrors of humanity or particularly (what? savage? indecent? can I judge? particularly something) individuals don't give me pause. It's snake-bit characters and hard luck what brings me down. I can't figure out why, either, since I don't particularly identify with any of the characters. The setting is very familiar, but I'm not blubbering about the Washington landscape here. It's puzzling. Meantime, I could use some more tissues.

On business, I know there's been little to no posting, but I've been away. The attendent being-back rush isn't going to treat me well either, but I'll make it up somehow.