Too deep...........

I'm weird, but, that's a given. In life there are collectors.  Coins, stamps, baseball cards, LP albums, video games, action figures, and money.

Me?  I, oddly, 'enjoy' reading obits, collecting memories of folks and their lives, is fascinating.  It's little to give in one's life - to not have known them, but, to dedicate two minutes to read five or six paragraphs depicting who, what, where, when of their footsteps here.

 I can just see mine.  "He played TOO MANY softball games."  I know, by that time, I'd be too damn stiff, or, perhaps "to everything, urn urn urn" by then, I'd be unable to raise an arm and holler "BS", but, would if I could.  How'd Bill Medley say it? "Now I've, had, the time of my life.."

"TOO DEEP" is a saying by an umpire...  a slopitch umpire (and I never really knew, know how to spell slowpitch slow pitch slopitch and don't care).. but, when a ball travels over the plate, but, too far back to be a strike, he hollers "TOO DEEP."  It was a friendly saying to fellow simpletons who played too many games as well.  Oh well.  Scroll to raised arm, BS, I had the time of my life.

NOW, when I look at obits, anytime I see an obit of someone born after me, it's "NOOOOO!  TOO YOUNG!"........  Watching the news, I have extreme difficulty looking at pics of fallen policemen/women, soldiers.. NO!  SAY IT AIN'T SO.  NOT FAIR. DIDN'T DESERVE. WHY?  The same (I can't look) when a child is involved, be it a stray bullet from one they didn't even know, or, at the hands of domestic abuse, aka, killer.  It's all, too deep.  As for pics of killers.  I can't look. The Good Book speaks to judgment, hate.  Too hard for me.

Rearrange this blog Victor, we no likey. Thanks, me neither.

Too fun:  Dogs. Cats. Good friends. Firepits. Barn doors open. Nylon undies static clung to a dress. Unintended farts. Hot chocolate/winter day.  Cold beer/hunnerd out.  Relatives.  Cars that start.  Every successful 'trip' over three inch 'ledge/divider' tween bathroom floor and shower.  "Can't wait to hear" after name you like pops up on caller ID.  Compliments, both directions. Smiles, whenever, however for whatever reason.

Howabout Goldilocks?  Porridge too hot, too cold... chairs, too big, too wide... bed... too hard, too soft.  Sometimes, just right happens.  

So, in our quest for finding, sucking up good - we dive into the pool.  Careful, can't be too shallow.  We make, keep friends, unless, we find one a bit too shallow.  In a casual setting with friends, we pick a place to sit.  If we find one that is........ too loud... talks a bit too much... talks about folks that ain't there too much... are 'right' too often (a hunnerd percent in their brains) next time, we choose not to sit anywhere close to them. Live, learn.  Ain't that what life's about? 

In spitea you basta's (said too lovingly) occasionally calling me a misogynist, I'd MUCH RATHER sit within a group of ladies...say... like, after golf, than to sit, visit with the same ole fuddy duddy guys I grew up with.  Aside from 'much more appealing to look at', funner to listen to.  One thing though I've noticed, and yes, I've prolly said it before.  After us fuddy duddies finish golf of Mondays, the ladies league is by then gathering on the back deck to play.  Twenty or so of 'em.  I LOVE IT.  Fun to watch, listen, say 'howdy'. I will say though, if there's twenty of em, seemingly, twenty of 'em are talking. which, tells my brain "too many" and, asks, who's then listening? 

Retirement is ALL ABOUT "Too".  Hey, that's too many small chocolate donuts (who cares), you've already slept 8 and half hours today and it's only noon (who cares, watch me nap).. You're forgetting you're on Social Security, you've overspent this month, put your (billfold/purse) back, who cares, my grandchild wants it, I'll figure it out later. 

Too tired.  Sounds like 'too much fun', LET'S GO!  Too far to drive (we'll Uber then, split the costs).  Too late, can't.  BS, Get up offa the couch, let's go you can sleep till noon if you want.

Sounds too dangerous..  Shuddup and put your seatbelt on.  But, but, but, what if the parachute packer has a bad day?

I fall in love too quick. No, you fall in infatuation too quick.  It's when that parachute don't open you fall too quick, oops.

Too cold. Wear a jacket.  Too many steps. Take the elevator. Too loud, wear earbuds.  Bad neighborhood, what if we get lost?  We gots GPS.

The Royals have lost TOO MANY this year, I don't wanna go.  Shuddup, go to the closet, grab your Royal's shirt.  It's too small now.  We'll go to Rally House, get another.  Cost too much.  We'll go to dead people's store, get another, I'm buying.  It's too far to walk.  Hush, bring  your handicap placard, we're on the front row.

Thirteen dollars a beer?  THAT'S TOO MUCH.  Quuuiiisssshhhhh, man that tastes good.  Just one or two though. Don't worry, long time "too many."  Besides, I already walk funny, don't needs me no beer to do that.

The Golden years.  Too fun. Everything, our beck and call.  Too many dadgum good friends to meet, see, talk to them all. Try your best. Text, message, call, go see.

I owe tooooo much to you all for being here, reading.  It makes writing, fun.  There is sooooooooooooooo much good in life.  Too much to see, not enough time to do so............but by golly, let's try.

Forward by Desmond Too Too

Were you aware too too (tutu) means Grandma in Hawaiian? Too fun.  Victor, you tell 'em, we'll decide if too fun or not.

Too deep.  I'm getting a lifejacket.

Love, Victurd 

 

There ain't no emotion in sports...........

Hi, and apologies (I guess) for once again spinning this blog towards sports.   It's maybe all I know, like, which, is maybe why in life I find myself a hollerin' to whateverhername is in life "HEY!  Come back here!"

I read the Sport's page (hey, not even finished yet) and I cried.  THERE. How is that?

Yes, there's the tragic loss of Kyle Bush, 41 year old Nascar driver - but, I hadn't even made it to that part of the paper.

Dander. Up. Distaste in mouth.  Kansas City Chief receiver Rashee Rice, ALL the talent in the World....all the decision making skills of a Jerry Springer audience member. (Nutshell, a couple years ago now, he wrecked a rented car in Dallas, was driving 117 mph, lost control, wrecked, hit another car..... occupants of the other car needed medical assistance..  Rashee walked away.  A recent 'hint' of domestic abuse - and who knows on that stuff but it does make one wonder... and then the most recent.. .tested positive for THC which, is a violation of his probation.  So, he's in jail, will miss an early mandatory 'OTA' camp.  Dear boys and girls, "This is the way not to do it."

Turning the page, which, in today's E edition of newspaper, means, clicking the arrow for the next page, or, pressing the touch screen if you don't mind possibly getting grape jelly on the screen.  (How come everything that tastes so good is so dadgum sticky?)

Lucas Erceg, KC Royal's baseball pitcher, and the story behind '6/10/20' written in magic marker on his baseball glove. It's pretty commonly known around these parts, the 6/10/20 is Lucas's date of sobriety.  In town to visit, record, Lucas - the Vice President of a State of Kansas behavior healthcare entity, Mirror Inc., and, along with him, the 9th ranked heavyweight boxer of the land. Each, equipped with their own redemption story. They had noticed the date on the glove - and surmised it's meaning.

Lucas willingly participated - and video will be taped, spliced. used and seen by over 20,000 people in Mirror's treatment centers and jail programs.  He was specifically nabbed to show that 'those needing assistance' come from any, all walks.

Blogger note.... I ain't real sure howinthehell you denote, annotate, whatever, whichever article these excerpts came from, ie, I plagiarize. . Theys all in the KC Star, fork up $9.99 a month, you too can get 'em, but, be warned, them suckers raise your rates without telling you, and if you pay no attention to your bank account, the rate goes from a fingernail to the whole damn arm in six months or so.)

The ugly of Lucas's story.  Not a great childhood.  Drinking started in High School.  Continued through the adulation of the "nothing can go wrong on or off the field" thanks, basically wholly, to athletic prowess, lack of discipline, 'life GPS'.  It continued, escalated, though every minor league town on the path.

6/9/20, the day before the date written on his glove - he sat 'in a haze' by 37 empty beer cans and his PlayStation. His then girlfriend Emma, told him she was leaving Arizona to go back home to Cali, and, she wasn't returning if he was still drinking in a few weeks..

The pretty/good of Lucas's story.  Then girlfriend Emma is now wife Emma.. oh, and they added a beautiful daughter, Elsie Marie. "my everything, man" Lucas proclaims. Objects in the rear view mirror may be closer than appear - and that's certainly the case for Lucas.  His initial withdrawal was a horror with cold sweats, body functions grappling with hydration.  "It never gets easy, but it gets easier."

A test was, after the Royals defeated the Baltimore Orioles in the Wild Card Series, sprayed champagne accidentally landed on  his lips. "Nope."  Puckered up even harder, "not getting in."

Click that arrow, next story.  It's the one I cried on.  Uh huh, the lineup card exchange that happened between the Red Sox and the Royals.  Victor, you're an idiot, WHY would you cry over that?  Well...

Hey, first.. did you know newspapers added video in the form of X?  I was like, "wahl I'hl be damned."  The video showed the Red Sox third base coach...  Norman Rockwell couldn't painted it any better... EXACTLY what you'd think a 3rd base coach looked like.... hat, shades, grizzed face with stubbled whiskers, a build that looked like he'd been thru one too many Golden Corral buffet trips...  You cried over that Victor?  No... patience...

The coach's son works behind the scenes for the Royals - in scouting. 20 something, also painted succinctly by Rockwell in the X video.  Insteada normal Royal's coach bringing out the lineup card, coach's son was dudded up in Royal's gear.. HE, was there to give the umps the card, meet in the circle. While it wasn't as cool or unsuspecting as a military mom or dad getting home from, say, Afghanistan or similar, sneaking up on their child, hugging... but... the dad (grizzled coach) kinda lost it... pounded his chest with his fist - looked to the Royal's dugout as if to thank them, then, of course, big hug with son.  That, that brought a tear.  Make fun however you wanna!

Click the arrow.

If old Norman Rockwell was given 'structions to sit at the easel and paint 'Perfection", it might look like #15 of the Kansas City Chiefs. OF COURSE I'm biased, but this much I can tellya, as a man, he's a leader.  In however many years we've had him here, only two times have I questioned him... Once, Super Bowl parade, obviously one too many Coors, eh, ok.. and two, screamed at a player on the sideline... mighta been warranted, who knows. 

He's respectful. In glory he deflects the praise to his teammates.. admits his own errors.. never verbally disparages an opponent, takes responsibility when things go wrong... all in all, a joy.  Fans of other teams hate him, which, to me, tells me, again, we're lucky.

I've built this up too much, sorry.  Mahomes had very serious surgery to repair an ACL and LCL in mid-December.  Certain, Vegas has betting odds on will he (or not) start the very first game.  There is worry of a tweak, a twist, a hit, yada... but GM Brett Veach put it pretty darn good when he said "Needless to say, he's way ahead of schedule.  I think the biggest challenge we're going to have is protecting him from himself."  That's it Victor?  Uh huh, bite me, it oozes of accolades and thanks.

There ain't no emotion in sports.

OK, I'm off.  Now that I got ESPN again, I'm gonna go watch a 30 for 30 on Chris Herron.  He's a former NBA player who overcame cocaine/heroin addiction and now travels to speak to NBA teams about it...   His last dabble with it, found him lying in a back alley in Vegas. He'd learn that day his family left him.  He'd been robbed.  The only thing on him was a pawn shop receipt where he'd pawned his son's PlayStation.

There ain't no emotion in sports.

God I love this land, and you.  Thanks for the tears.

Love, Victurd 

After 70, the happiest people do these 7 things every day..............

OK, I bit.  ie, I gave in.  I listened.  Twas a 30 minute video (I got twelve 'atta boy' points for staying awake.   "Simple, easy things to do for folks after 70, to help make you happy."

1.   First thing when you awaken, show gratitude.   I am SO SO glad the Royals are in first place.  They aren't? Well, at least the Presidential election is in November.  It isnt'?  At least that lady in Apartment #1 started using doggy poop bags. DAMNIT, I knew i shoulda worn shoes when I went to get a packa smokes outta my car.  OK OK, thank you for this day.

2. MOVE!  I AM!  Can't you see me hopping to the dadgum bathroom to shower and get this friggin' dog crap off my foot?  OK OK, when I get out I'll do push-ups.. or, maybe thumb circles, something.  HEY, I found these elastic bands.. I'll do 20 of em... 2, 4, 6, 8...OK OK 1, 2, 3, 4............................

3. Spend time outside getting sun.  Remember the trip to the car?  OK, I'll ride my geezer scooter to get a six pack.... OK OK, I'll grab my 'you ain't breaking this one, 300 lb capacity lawn chair..........sit a spell..  BUT, I ain't petting that lady's damn dog.

4. Spend time with people.  Touches.  Hi Melissa, get that damn dog away from me... Hi Amed, yessir, Natty Light is perfect...  OK, I'll text both nieces to tell them I love them and then I'll listen to how they kicked my rear in Wordle.

5. Keep your mind active and curious.  I JUST got destroyed in Wordle...Curious.. hmmm.. why would ANYONE wanna work at Hamburger   Mary's? I write a blog, there.. Stick that one up your Funk and Wagnall.

6. Simple, nourishing meals.  Ow-ow-ow-ow, (<- supposed to sound like Horshack) WOW, I'm rolling to Cascone's, the BEST lasagna this sidea Armando al Pantheion! And, they have Modelo Negra, the best!   Well, it is 20 miles round trip, and gas is $4.29 a gallon, maybe I shouldn't.  Chili Cheese Fritos it is.  I've got a medium size bag put away. No?  OK, I've got a box'a thin mints stashed in the freezer.  Just one (box) won't hurt me. OK, Kale it is. How doya cook that crap?

7. End the day with peace, not regret.  OK. First, jumping on Facebook for a bit.  Surely there's a good conversation or two going on... let's see.. here's one on DOJ slush funds.. .no?.. ..Here's a post by a single parent looking to see if someone can help.. that oughta be gratifying,  you know, pay it forward folks.  WOW, he said that?  She called him WHAT?  I might as well have Googled old Miller Lite "Taste Great - Less Filling commercials.    OK OK.  I'll give peace a chance... and I guess I don't regret not wearing shoes to the car..  'cause, I decided after to go get a pedi..  Wonder if it still smelled?

SEVENTY is cinchy.  I can hardly wait until 80... you honey?

Victor?  Yes?  You got divorced in 2005.

 Oh yeah, sorry.

Love, Victurd 

96 Tears.........

Which, of course EVERYONE knows was by Question Mark and the Mysterians.....

Alex, I'd like "Song titles that ask a question for $200 please."  Tain't Alex no more, may he RIP, it's that Ken guy that won big bucks on a contest some years ago... so here ya go": 

What's Up?   (Nothing but the rent............. well.... and ground beef... and...   gas prices...  minor stuff)...

Where's My Mind? (Depends on your age, sex)  Little girls, Barbies. Little boys, Army guys, ballgloves.. Young moms:  Supper, laundry, lunches for kid's tomorrow.  Young dads: "Did you like those flowers I brought got you?"  Middle age moms: Bunco, girl's night out.. Middle age dads:  gutter.  Old moms and dads:  "We're not sure....  probably Depends."

Should I Stay or Should I Go?  Life is short, go.

What's Goin' On?  George Strait.  Iran. That other Strait.  Basketball/Hockey Playoffs. Baseball Ray.  THE. WORLD. CUP.  Would you like ICE with that Pepsi?

Why Can't I Be You?  You don't wanna be.

Who Are You?  Bond, James Bond.  Dr. Roboto.  My name is Slim Shady. My name is Forrest Gump. People call me Forest Gump.  I'm Bart Simpson, whothehell are you?

Why Can't This Be Love?  Please just Uber me to the Airport, my flight leaves in an hour.

Why Can't We Be Friends?     46.  47.  Were you on that one cruise ship?  I'm not a great fan or people.

Do You Want To Dance?  Yes. No. Let me think on it, I'll give you an answer in the morning.

 Where Did You Sleep Last Night?  64068.  What's sleep?  In the jungle, the mighty jungle.

Are You Lonesome Tonight?  One time, in band camp........

Have I Told You Lately (That I Love You?)  Just get me to the damn airport, and what's your badge # btw?

Why Does It Hurt When I Pee?  Frank Zappa you are disgusting, and did they actually play that on the radio?

Do You Hear What I Hear?  At one time, I did have tinnitus, but Mr. Miagi helped me get it out.

Why Don't We Do It In The Road?  I KNEW I shoulda called Lyft.

Are You Ready?  Wife "Five Minutes"..... Hubby "OK, I'm gonna go play 9 holes, back soon."

Where Does My Heart Beat Now?  Well Honey, I hate to break it to you.. but, remember that boob chart we've been doing for years on the door facing?

Ain't That Peculiar?  No, it's Raymore, they run together.

Does Your Chewing Gum Lose It's Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight?  Ahm, it's Fixodent, but, no, it doesn't.

Is That All There Is?

Something tells me I'd better not answer that.  Besides, I'm leaving on a jet plane... and with diesel fuel what it is, don't know when I'll be back again.

Love, Victurd 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Might as well.............. can't dance.......

A goal in life, would be smile.  If per chance that ain't your goal, just hop on the bus, Gus.  Drop off the key, Lee... and set yourself free. Which, is short for, amscray, waller elsewhere, WE WANT HAPPY.  Happy = smile.

 

Let's talk about sex.

 

No, wait, that ain't it.  Let's talk about dance.  Dance = happy.  Happy = smile.

 

I've noticed, there are two types of dancers.  There's those, like a doggy that's been couped up indoors for a few days (with the exception of "Go pee Fido... Back inside Fido."..)  So when the leash comes out (or, the band strikes up).. .They tug, pull, tain't nuttin' stoppin em..  I've seen a 12 lb Schnauzer durn near pull a 200+ lb fatman to the ground (yes, me.)  That's the group of people (dancers) who are up, EVERY time, when the opportune to dance arises, they then do.

 

And there are the wannabes.  Wannabes come in all shapes, sizes, dress, age, sex, yada, yet, just one level of alcohol, zilch/none.  They no can do (conform) to the "Dance like no one is watching"_... they might be afflicted, chair-bound, skeered, Nothing they'd love more than to get up and go, dance... yet, they can't.  Just can't.  So, they 'dance' in their chair. And, ain't a thing wrong with that.

 

The normal gravitational pull on a human suggests stand, sit, lay.  At least the wannabes don't hypnotically transfer from sit to lay... so, in their minds, they dance in their chairs.

 

Wiki say, dancing is a powerful tool for boosting mental health and well being.  It improves mood, combats depression, boosts brain function, fosters happiness and can even improves relationships.  ie, dance = happy = smile.

 

Victor, this blog is kinda, scratch that, definitely, dragging. This all ya got?

 

Bite me, and no.  So, for the up-to-dance-moments-notice (notice?) and wannabes: 

 

                                                                                                                                                                     Say, get up and dance to the music!
Get on up and dance to the music!

[A Cappella Break: Sly Stone, Freddie Stone, Larry Graham]

[Chorus: All, Greg Errico, Freddie Stone]
Dance to the music
Dance to the music
Dance to the music
Dance to the music (Hey, Greg) What?

 

I'm gettin' happier by the moment, nevermind that I just fueled up for $67.93, the Royals were swept by the White Sox, and, the check engine light just lit up again. 

[Verse 1: Freddie Stone]
All we need is a drummer
For people who only need a beat, yeah
I'm gonna add a little guitar
And make it easy to move your feet

 

Put this sucker on youtube, or Spotify, Pandora, something, just move, listen to it!

[Verse 2: Larry Graham, Sly Stone]
I'm gonna add some bottom    <- OMG
So that the dancers just won't hide

You might like to hear my organ, 

I said ride, Sally, ride, now

That OMG, bass. THAT RUNS RIGHT THROUGH YOU! .. if that don't get to your feels, check your pulse keep your eyes out for a defibrillator...  That's right up there with "Daddy sang Bass"...And Blue Moon's "Ba-bom-a-bom-bom, Ba-bom-a-bom-bom, Ba-bom-a-bom-bom, Ba-dang-a-dang-dang, Ba-ding-a-dong-ding, Blue moon 

[Bridge: Freddie Stone, Cynthia Robinson, Jerry Martini]
Cynthia (What?) Jerry (What?)
If I could hear the horns blow

Cynthia on the throne, yeah
Listen to me, Cynthia and Jerry
Got a message they're sayin'
All the squares, go home (Yeah)
Yeah, ooh
Listen to the voices

[A Cappella Break: Sly Stone, Freddie Stone, Larry Graham]

[Outro: All, Sly Stone]
Dance to the music (Ah-ha)
Dance to the music (Yeah, yeah, yeah)
Dance to the music (Oh, now, now)
Said, dance to the music (Yeah)
Dance to the music (Yeah)
Dance to the music
Dance to the music

 

Victor, it's like that one lady from past say, "Not everyone is excited about your ideas as you."

 

Yeah, vely aware.  That said, I think the idea of dance holds water.  Some other suggestions..      Footloose... YMCA... Girls Just Want To Have Fun..  Dancing Queen.. and my personal fav, The Isley Brothers  Shout, Parts 1 and 2.

 

I REALLY dislike "Like I said"............ but,

 

A goal in life, would be smile.  If per chance that ain't your goal, just hop on the bus, Gus.  Drop off the key, Lee... and set yourself free. Which, is short for, amscray, waller elsewhere, WE WANT HAPPY.  Happy = smile.

 

Love, Victurd 

 

 

 

Footprints.... impressions... curriculum.....

Kids really don't give a rats about footprints.  Oh sure, if the City's been in the neighborhood putting in new sidewalks, dang straight a kid wants very badly to put footprints in it, but, they're also aware that'd be trouble, right here in River City... nope, don't do it.

Mom, dad.  They observe four coming to the alter...  sometime later, two more beautiful little ones poking on mom's belly wanting out.... another year and a half, four big footprints in the sand... two little bitty ones, for awhile anyways.. then sometimes four again (Mom or dad is carrying Junior)... and sometime down the road, six appear again, jualah "No, you're too big, I'm tired, we're in a hurry, you too can walk on your own two feet."

Six can grow to eight, ten, twelve... and oft times along the way Gramps, or Granny, perhaps with tiny smirk offers "You do know what's causing that don't you?" 

Kids then go to school... Curriculum Victor?  Well... no.. and yes, I guess.  A fun teacher, or maybe even one who hears "It's your turn for recess duty Shirley".. arranges a record player...  a buncha chairs placed in a circle...one less chair than the total number of kids...  music is played, the snotnoses Pavlov around the chairs per Teach's 'structions, the music is stopped unannounced.. the kids plop quickly into a chair.  Next go round (when the music starts) there's one less set of footprints.. anudder chair is taken out... so on and so forth, until there only two kids to make footprints, one chair to plop on.. music stops.. Boom, Winner winner Chicken Sitter.

Life then, is a systematic play on "Musical chairs" fore'er and 'er, except, kinda vice versa.

Like, if there's eight footprints walking along... then, all of a sudden, on Monday thru Friday, there's only six... .(four little footprints, one medium), and Saturday/Sunday finds a differn't looking six (four little footprints and one set of big'ns), it's pretty obvious mom and dad are splitting up, Mom gets the kids thru the week... Dad on weekends. Sure sad, but that's footprints. 

Many, many combinations come forth into the future.  Half brothers/sisters, step brothers, sisters, step parents.. that, them.

Life, family reunions, Christmas, Ballpark bleachers, visits to relative's houses, relatives coming to our house to visit - sometimes, 'produce' a set less of footprints, meaning, leaving a sad looking, feeling, empty chair.  As times goes on, kids start noticing this, yet, fun from the get go is at the top of life's list - and, oft times not enough attention is placed on all footprints.  It's called "being a kid."

Impressions.  In my lifetime, I prolly spent too much time analyzing footprints and impressions, thereby shortchanging curriculum, which leads to the end 
"Your IRA is hella bigger than mine."  Oh sure, there are those of the A or B ilk (Remember, I'm C+) that can and do juggle all three... quite well.  Oh well, maybe I'm still "Being a kid."  While I've never completely walked thru freshly poured concrete, I confess to leaving my initials, or mebbe even a full handprint.

I will never, ever forget the trip to Western Auto (I think it was!) for my very own Schwinn bicycle.  It was approximately 8 or so years before Richie Havens opened Woodstock singing "FREEDOM", but, it was that for me.

Bike. Kid. No footprints, but, impressions galore.  Tweren't no "hold my hand crossing the street"...  "Dad, can I ride on your shoulders"...  It was Me and You and a Dog named Boo.. .or, mosta the time, simply by myself, off and about, Big Chief People Watching, two eyeballs left to stop, hey, what's that sound, everybody look what's going down.............. and form my own opines.  Easy to see, "that coach is mean".. "that kid really hustles"..  "wowzer, he needs to push away from the dinner table a little sooner."..   "That coach was COOL, and his kids worked hard for him!" (TBC)

"That one guys is working his tail off digging, how come there's ten others (that would be 20 footprints) watching him work?"...   "Wow, cop stopped that guy, wunner if he's a criminal, or, if he was simply speeding and mom and dad are gonna whack his booty?"

We observe fun, toil, sometimes the two together all at once... people in love.. people arguing.. .people relaxing... much.  After awhile, buzzing around town, you can pretty much guess which oldster will giveya a dirty look (for nuttin) and which ones will smile, mebbe even buy'ya a Grape Nehi.

We put two and two together.. whether it's two pop bottles from under the bleachers to buy our own Grape Nehi......... or, go see coaches, watch how their players react, how hard they work based on the coach's leadership (or lack thereof).. ... we add all that crap up............... and (TBC)

Those impressions give us a nice sendoff into adulthood, where, we can be the one who jumps in and digs..  lazes back and watches... yells at those under us... praise those under us so they'll work harder...  frown at moms who put their kid in the middle seat next to us on United.. or, mebbe we bring out work scrap paper and see if Junior in the middle seat has interest in Tic-Tac-Toe.

Victor, are you saying ALL OF THAT is a result of, when you first got freedom, rode your Schwinn.. .went out and about on your own.. it formed the way you take on life later?  BINGO little man, which, by the way is a game we geezers play.. usually once a week for ten bucks, only to win $130 every seven years or so.  "That ain't smart Mister!"  Good observation from, what the hell kinda bike is that Sonny?"  

I can, to this day, conjure up a list of twenty or so folks who back-in-the-day, made very wonderful impressions on me.  As we ultimately jump off our Schwinns, we try to foller in them footsteps. I'm sure you can think back to who helped guide you along the way.. whether it was on that expressed purpose, or, you were simply observing their interaction with others.

This golf tournament I keep talking about. A buncha dudes, lifelong friends from our little town of Liberty.  Fun and while-we-can being our main goal..  Yesterday, I had a nice visit with a young man (he actually ain't so young now).. but he was the guy a few years after I was out and about on my Schwinn... he did same.  Please know, if you've been here a minute, you'll know this blog is usually about self deprecation, ne'er a pat on my own back.  This kid, now an older dude like me, told me I was a mentor.. one he looked up to. Damn that felt good to hear.  It was long, long ago.  Along the way, I've faltered, struck out in more ways than one.. Had the 6.. then 4 footprints in marriage... Forgive me Father I am human hear me roar.. at least one stop along the way some dude thought I was an OK Joe.

Ahm Victor?  Yes?  You forgot curriculum.  Tell me.  Hell, Edward D. Jones locks their doors when they see me coming!  I shoulda been a butcher but i was deathly afraida knives.

Life is fun.  Life ain't perfect, neither are we.  Footprints on a belly are the most beautiful footprints I've ever seen.  Music can help in all the chairs we now see that sit empty.

I hope you remember your childhood as a wonderful formative time... and that the pitter patter of footprints, all ages, have brought you joy.

That's the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it.

Love, Victurd  

Round round get around, I get around, yeah

Yesterday, i was playing golf, so, all my troubles didn't seem so far away.

Golf brings, wunnerful stuff.  Nature, sunshine, blue skies, smiling at me.  Comeraderie, libation (best to wait til after in spite of some calling it 'aiming juice'), more colors than a rainbow - and that includes white, pink, neons of golf balls, and the most colorful Temu golf shirts your cheapskate buddy can buy.

It brings laughter, tears, frustration, stuff yain't never seen before, repeated stuff ya see almost every time you play.  Three Dog Night might say, it's Easy To Be Hard.  On a par 3, you can sail a ball a couple hunnerd yards, off justa bit to the left - 9/10's of the way there, but mebbe still only 20 to 30 yards from the hole.  You 'lay one', which, ain't to be confused with sex... you've hit it really close, so, ya figure prolly three (total), mebbe four at worst. So of course, it takes you four more shots, you take a five. and laugh, cry, kick, swear, throw a club, mebbe alla the above.

Life, and hitting a golf ball - are kinda alike in that it never goes as you visualize.  Tom Watson, he of Kansas City/golf fame, mebbe one of the ones they'd pick for The Mount Rushmore of Golf -  got a hole in one in a tourney.  After, in an interview, a rookie reporter tried twisting Tom's arm, "Tom, it was a great shot, but... ya gotta admit, there was a little bit of luck there eh?"  "Yes, but, it WAS where I was aiming. 

Life, as a golf ball. Well, you're borned, or, created, or, manufactured, sumpin.  You're stamped (you mean like a dog, kitty, is microchipped? No, I don't). You are a triplet, or, packed in a sleeve of three, all alike. "Then how can I be THE BEST golf ball?"  Shut up, golf balls don't talk.

Or, you're manufactured, shipped in a package of a dozen.  We call these Catholic golf balls. Victor, you're gonna get in trouble for that one.  Oh what the hey, I'm 73, sue me. take me to a jail for three squares a day, I ain't gotta fret about SS not covering rent, life, filling the gas tank, even if they wipe out that gas tax.  Besides, I grew up next to a family with nine kids, uh huh, Catholic, they had a sense of humor.

Then, you're placed in a long thing they call a golf bag, and put into the trunk of a car until big daddy has permission from big momma to go play golf. It usually entails something like doing the dishes for twelve days, folding five loadsa laundry, and two or three 'huh uh, no smooching' backrubs.  Then you can go.

So, when they open the trunk, can I be like they say dogs are (you know, when you lock a dog and a wife in the trunk, which would be happy to see you when it's opened?}  No, golfball, you ignorant slut, you have no feelings, emotions. 

If you're lucky, you might get a long vacation in the forest.  Or, perhaps, knocked into the lake for a swim. FUN! Will I get to wear floaties like them little kids?  No.  You'll sit on the bottom of the lake, maybe forever.  Maybe until the golf course hires some scuba dude to come fetch you, then he sells you back to the course, who in turn, puts you into a basket of used balls for sale.  Used balls look a little rough, like worse for wear.

So.... if I look rough, worse for wear, and I'm sold and sold again and again, would that make me a hooker?  Mebbe, or, you could be a slicer.  You mean, like those rich guys on the LIV tour?  Paid so by a slicer?  No, not that.

Sometimes you'll simply get lost in the fairway.  Lost until that is, the prevailing whine in the clubhouse is "when in the hell are they gonna mow the fairway on #11?"  Then, the mower guys might pick you up.

Then do I go into that basket and be resold like a hooker (or a slicer?)  No, by that time, your stamp has mostly worn off, you're old, of not much use by now - so, you're sent to be Home, Home on the Range. COOL! Like a ranch?  No, more like an assisted care or a nursing home.  You're put in a machine, then, in a bucket. You're of use, until you then kick the bucket.

Wow, I ain't sure I'd like to be a golf ball.

Eh, I dunno.  You'll have dimples, mebbe be cute.  If you're owner is a sicko who can't really golf, you might have a fun motto stamped on you like, "Be the ball", or, "May the Course be With You", or, "Return to Pro Shop for  a Free Round", or "If you found this, you suck too."

There's kinda a caste system in golf balls.  Ya got the uppity ones, you know, for like Royaly, Congress, Lobbyists.. the ones that The Working Man might purchase... Then,  you might be onea them Nitros like they sell at Wally.  Name sounds great but you're usually purchased by some dude who plays golf once ("I'm gonna try this here game") only to be sold the next summer in a garage sale to someone even poorer like me, and then, we'll lead you to the forest or the lake.

Cheer up. You come in many bright, vibrant colors... while you'll never get SS,  you'll never have to work..  you get to fly... eat worms.. hide under leaves... and if you're real lucky, get your picture taken by some dude holding up one finger, and you'll be Facebook hero.

Geez.  Life as a golf ball ain't exactly what I visualized. 

Uh huh, what I said... fore sure.

Victor, this may just be the dumbest blog you've ever written.  Tune in tomorrow, I'll try hard to make one worse.  Like, life as a fire hydrant.  Or, maybe as a curling puck. Or, maybe as a rugby ball. It takes leather balls to play rugby don't it?

Uh huh.

Oh if I could only putt like Justin Rose.. chip like Phil Mickelson,  and drive like Tiger Woods.

On second thought, nevermind on that last one. 

Love, Victurd