“‘Tis The Season(s) Everlasting Or So It Seems”

(October 28, 2019)

some cute, some kitsch;

some shot-gunned along walkways

thus starts ‘the seasons’*

*(Recent personal studies show a great diminishment in time between seasons for celebration. Beginning with the present: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas (and if you must: Kwanzas) New Years, SuperBowl, SpeedWeeks and Bike Week (and if you doubt the spiritual and perhaps religious nature of SuperBowl and ‘Weeks’ You Ain’t Been Here Long, right?), Big League Baseball Tryouts called Spring Training Day(s), followed by Little League startups, high school start ups and of course, Valentines, Easter, The Triple Crown horse racing startup days, Memorial Day, Parents’ Days, (Did someone say I forgot Grandparents Days?) Flag Day, Fourth, Football Kickoff Days at various levels while Little League has yet to crown a national and international pair of champions, (Yes, we did forget NCAA Basketball Tournament because it is not a holiday, per se, as it it more akin to Ramadan – a month (or more!) of celebrations and calamities, and we ain’t yet gotten to Labor Day and I’m already tired of typing all this. Is there a week or a week end with out a Day? If you know of one, please, please, PRETTY PLEASE! tell no one not even yourself as soon enough you will see a sign on those few brief blanks on the calendar – some might suggest a mere sweep-second hand without a celebratory clock’s notice – with the signs: New Construction Coming Soon!)

“Morning Bends Westward”

(October 30, 2019)

morning bends westward

half-promised pre-‘ween rainstorms

no worries: Baseball!*

*(Scored butter – Drat! Salted: teach me to look closer even if the box says “Sweet Cream Butter” – for the popcorn. Now, the question remains: make my “loaded” refried pinto bean dip with diced green and minced red onions, cubed tomatoes, jalapeno- serrano- and habanero-peppers all seeded and finely minced, with sour cream and cilantro. Of course I could go orthodox and stick with beer, but I got a new chuggable California red and for dessert – say ’round the Seventh Inning Stretch – a chilled Proseco. Will pre-game precede the popcorn with a chicken-, cheese-, and hard egg-topped many-veg salad. I may not drink healthy, but I appease with my gustatory selections. {in that case: add a selection of radishes, onion, pepperoni, celery, carrot and olives-n-bread and butter pickles upon which to celebrate my release from customary custodian duties to mourn properly the end of Big League baseball this near-November day!})

“Wearin’ O’ The Pink*”

Popped up on a Facebook Memory-prompt. So, as Okdumber winds down and pink no longer adorns defensive tackles and wide receivers’ socks and sweatbands, it’s time once again for the guys to go ask their moms how to make sure when they ask their brides, daughters, girlfriends, sisters and the like – and please, gentlemen, remember to ask separately of your wives and your mistresses, have they done the self-exam scam…and then the gals can turn-tables and say, “Bend, over, Boyo!”

Commentary, Outrages, Prose and Poetry

*(The following is intended to garner me brickbats. I don’t mind.  I think it needs saying – again.)

It’s sometime in early Fall of 1982.  I motorcycle by my parents’ house en route to Mary Esther, Florida, hard by Pensacola, which is a long way from Sanford halfway down the state.  Taking ‘the scooter’ will save me beau coup bucks in gas money.  I go inside – the front door remains unlocked after near thirty years, though the street has been paved for a dozen years now – a shame that.  Dad is just getting up from breakfast and mom turns around to see why he is wearing a big grin.

“Fish tomorrow?” he asks.  I shake my head.

“Headed to Pensacola and won’t be back until Sunday.  Can you take Monday off so we don’t have to put up with traffic while we murder specks?”

“Sure.”  He puts on…

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