This is Houston, kids...

So, this is Houston. Okay, it's about the umpteenth time that I've been here, so I finally feel qualified to comment on the flora and fauna. And there's lots of both.

Cosmo has conned me in to a 'Stros game. That's Astros for the uninitiated, thank you very much. Now, just like everywhere else, baseball fans are nuts. Not just kinda kookie, but really, amusingly crazy. It's a thing they've got and it works for them.

Houston, on the other hand, is technology-mad. This, I'm told, is normal. Nevermind that Cosmo's family have about six to eight computers all in a room that's about ten feet by ten, or that there's a phone in every room, even the baby's, excepting the bathrooms. I should've taken this all as a hint, because this isn't an isolated thing. Most people are like this here, according to the people I know.

So here I am at the now Minute Maid Park, which was once Enron Field. But I don't think we're allowed to talk about that. Baseball in Houston is fun, right from the train that goes down actual tracks at every home run, to the military guys recruiting in their t-shirts that say "Pain is weakness leaving the body," to the airconditioning. And, man, is it airconditioned. I mean, not just a little bit, possibly more than an actual home. AND I have laptop connection. It's a little bit of wonderful.

So there you have it. Houstonians love them their technology. But I've never been anywhere where I was so reminded that we're just borrowing this planet and the bugs and creepy-crawlies have just moved over for the meantime. The other day, I was sitting outside and saw a wasp so big that even from about six feet away, I could see it's stinger. And this is nothing. When you leave the house on warm evenings, which is pretty much every night, you see geckos. Which are really neat. They live in the brickwork and thrive on humidity. Lucky things. Let me tell you, it's more humid than... I don't know, a god's ass, or something equally quirky and gross. And the frogs. From morning till night, various little froggies call to eachother over distances. Some of them converse, some are just noisy. Some are the size of your thumbnail. Being the big not-quite-reformed tom boy I am, I still like hoppy things and things with tails that stick to walls. I can't help myself. The wasps, though, I'll stay away from, thanks.

Well, we've bought four hours worth of broadband, but we've only been here an hour and they're already at the bottom of the fifth. And although there are lots more interesting things to be said about baseball, Houston and geckos and the fans of each, I just can't think of anything more, mostly because the fans of baseball are reading over my shoulder... Maybe Cosmo will get me some of those nachos at the 7th inning...

Mmmmmnachos.

Yeah, so me and my big typing fingers. One hour = six innings. I'm starting to rethink my stance on baseball being boring, which is, of course, that baseball isn't that boring... Well, yeah, right after I think that, one hour begins to equal one inning. Of course this makes me wonder what I could've been thinking. I'm going to chock it up to the wicked amount of humidity that's been frying my brain for the past three weeks. Yes...

At least the nachos were good.