Paint by numbers............ Mores or less.......

The apple doesn't fall very far from the tree.  Life, long ago, was easier and harder.  Scooby says "Huh?"  Yeah, you know, Father Knows Best..  He goes to work.  She stays home.  He pretty much calls the shots, she takes the kids for shots, is on the PTA, minivan soccer mom, fixes their lunches, changes diapers - but not him, The Man.

And then... And then it happened.. No Victor, that's a song about love, that ain't what this is about.  What's love got to do, got to do with it?  Another song Victor, go take a nap.  And then, Highlights kid's educational magazine came out........ had one page devoted to "What's wrong with this picture?"

"Well, we let 'em start voting in 1920, ya really think they should work outside the home too?"  On behalf of men everwhere, geez Louise we're sorry. But Victor, that's the way it was.  Gee thanks Mr. Cronkite, now go put an apron on and cook dinner wouldya?  Oh, and peek thru the cabinets, fridge, freezer, make a grocery list, run to the Piggly, but first, fetch them clothes off the line, fold em and put em away. Don't lose any clothespins, damn things are expensive.

And then, back in '68, they started burning their bras.  NO?  Yep.  Tit for tat they inferred, I guess.  Something about "tired of making coffee, not policy."   Uplifting, to a generation of women. The simpleton scratches head, wonders how taking bra off, burning it, becomes uplifting?

This blog really wasn't intended to go in this direction (women, gradually, attaining equal rights, pay, stature in, on the home front, and yes, aware, the struggle is real, and still, sadly, continues.)  But, it's huge, mores or less.

And then, the hippies attacked norm.  The guy on Cheers?  He ain't never hurt anyone, how come?  They didn't do nuttin' to Cliffy did they? Ahm, somewhere up there I see the word simpleton. Hmmm.  Hippies stood up (or had sit ins) for a lot of believed misguided 'mores'.  Way back in the day, school teachers couldn't even date, for real.  The damn hippies were saying "Baby it's ok, move in with me."  Hated war, materialism, inequality, and yeah, even haircuts.

I wander, sorry, kinda.  So does my grandson. Like, from the day he figured howta use them legs, he's been off and running.  The park, for example.  Nifty rectangular area, bordered by large rocks, much, much fun inside (slide, swings, things to climb) nope, not him. I have to keenly eyeball him, for if I don't, I lookup and he's a runnin' a hunnerd yards outside the confining rock wall.off to who knows where. "Damnit get back here" is combined with giggle, "Atta boy!"

Paint by numbers.  My way or the highway. Because our parents did it that way, that's why.

Sure, sure, sure, we need laws. Jails. Guidance.  Lined highways. Pulltabs at the DMV denoting you're number 32 in line.  HOA's, I guess. 

We are unique.  Some HAVE TO live the way they're sposeta. Aghast at anyone who does elsewise. And that's OK.  It just ain't me. You?

I've said before I really suck at art.  I abhor paint by number.

Life, if ya ain't hurting anyone, should be an easel with a blank canvas. I understand, "RV's ("one per property") must be parked on drive, and should not hangover public sidewalk", that my grass can't exceed six inches in height, even if my Briggs and Stratton is sick, and ma' hair is 8 inches.

Far out. As in live so far out, I'll get the paper in my undies. I'll park my grandpa's 61 Ford Falcon over there, be damned if it's only got three wheels, three fenders and no back windshield. Incorporate that, HOA, City of Liberty(?).

Victor, you're old, grumpy, wrong.  I'll giveya two outta three there. I believe in kindness. Harmony, yes, in a world of difference. Painting the fence whatever damn color I wanna Mr. Miyagi.  Helping others. Occasionally swallowing pride and asking for help if I need some. (Kenny, can you check my Briggs out? Tommy, can you run me to Sutherlands in your truck so I can get that ten foot 2 by 4? I'll buya a beer or three!)

Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood? Insteada, "The people in your neighborhood MUST comply with (Do this, don't do that,can't you read the sign?")

Victor?  Why do you always breakout in song?  Sorry, kinda. It's my version of runnin' off like my grandson I guess.

Paint. However you wanna, even if ya ain't got much talent.  Karaoke, or not, even if ya might make the dog howl,.

#9 is the belt. Use the brown paint.  #10 (and #11) are the sleeves. Green.

You can't do that!  Hold my Budweiser and watch me. (OK, you got me. It'd prolly be a Natty Light or Milwaukee's Best.)  I'd prolly have a larger 401K had I played by the suggested rules.

Oh well.  Victor? That's a song.  I know, and the lyrics are:

Can't help about the shape I'm in I can't sing, I ain't pretty and my legs are thin. Don't ask me what I think of you I might not give the answer that you want me to. (I'd be diplomatic though, promise.)

Adams? Present. Adkins?  Here. Barton?  Yep. Brown? Yessir. Bueller?

Bueller?...  Bueller?.. Ferris Bueller?

Hey, grandson?  Take a day off now and then.  Promise I won't rollover in my grave. (To everything urn, urn, urn) I give up Victor.  Find your niche' grandson. A labor of love. Have work at fun. Get, win, Ben Stein's money, don't do as I do, do as I say and stick fitty in the bank every week.

Dance to the music. Or, the beat of a different drum if you like.

Mores........ or less.

Paint the fence.

However  ya wanna.

Forward by Nariyoshi Keisuke Miyagi,

Love, Victurd