I have only myself to blame, for this all began when I asked my sister to make me an aunt and specified the form of a nephew. She complied twelve years ago with my godson James, who grew in favor before God and man and then begged to attend Redsfest.
For those of you unfamiliar with Redsfest, it is a conglomeration of baseball memorabilia merchants, interactive displays, stage shows, and autograph sessions with Reds players, which feature the excitement of standing in line at Walmart Customer Service, combined with speedwalking to catch a malodorous bus to reach a job you despise, all vaguely
interrupted with a sense of standing around a used car lot awaiting word from your salesman’s manager that your car loan on the Honda Accord has been approved.