It was a night of bar hopping. I had a few fuzzy navels in me and a little liquid courage. I had been trying to get the courage to ask this girl out all night, I will name her Becky. My attempt at being macho had backfired. She knew who I was and I knew I wasn't fooling anyone. I could have used a better pick up line. There was a guy she liked who wasn't wearing five pleated le Chatueu pants and a short collared Alexander Julian button down shirt. No, he was rugged and void of anything that could called  style. He was a white tee shirt and jeans grease ball.  "Hey Becky! Why don't you get rid of Tony Danza so we make some music together!" This was not my best pick up line. I was never good at pick up lines. To be totally truthful I have always been intimidated by pretty people. It didn’t matter if they were male or female. In my mind I was an average guy with an above average phobia of pretty people. Tony Danza was not real Tony Danza, he just looked like him. And...

  The Do, Do Dodo I was sitting at my usual table at the café. I had my blog page open on my cell phone to collect thoughts. Thoughts always turn into stories, and I wanted to be ready when the juices flowed. What would be the flavor of the day? I am not referring to coffee here but in case you needed to know; large drip, two creams. The flavor I am looking for is a story. I often have a thought that wakes me up in the morning. A quick short sentence or a daily mantra. Sometimes I must write about another crazy dream I had the night before. Today I was looking at a blinking cursor. I had nothing. Eventually, a young couple walked in with a small child in a stroller. They looked up at the menu for awhile and were ready to order. The girl told the barista that she’d like to “do” a macchiato. The guy said he’d do a drip. I suddenly knew what the flavor of the day ways going to be, it wasn’t a flavor, more like a rant. This wasn’t the first time I heard beverages orde...

I am a late blooming baby boomer. That just means I didn't get busy until I almost couldn't get busy.  What a weird name. Baby boomers. What if one day we died of natural causes: Exploding. Just random people walking down street. Exploding. Zombies you can outrun but that overweight bald guy walking beside you. A ticking time bomb.  Nothing but booming boomers everywhere. No mask is going to save you. Better pack a slicker. The hell with the weather, you got bigger unnatural, natural disasters waiting for you. And walking down the street is no walk in the park.   Hey look! there's my old pal George. You shake George's hand and boom , he explodes. The only thing left of George is in your hand, his hand. Texting while driving suddenly doesn't seem like a big deal. Waiting at a red light, is a bigger deal. Especially, if the windows are down. The punk with the boom box that's sounds like he's trapped someone in his trunk is tolerable. That old lad...

  Lawn maintenance is for the birds   I didn't want to do it, but it was my turn to cut the grass. It was a cold day, and the threat of rain forced me to kick myself in the butt. Our property is huge and weirdly shaped, and I never know exactly where to start. It is like most daunting jobs; I got to get it out of the way and let momentum kick in. I feel the same way when I go for my outdoor walks. The first lap I'm feeling stiff and uninspired. The second lap is better but now I have caught the attention of overprotective red wing black birds. I pretend not to notice but I can hear them as they swoop down just above my head and yell at me with that annoying call. I convince myself, "only four laps to go" Lap three yellow jackets decide they want to have fun too. Now I have birds and bees swarming me. I walk to help me with my stress and  it's not working!!!  In fact, I'm about to freak out ! I just want to exercise damn it! Leave me alone!!! I would lik...

My father had a hobby. I could have called him a hoser -he liked hockey and the odd beer- but he was over-educated for the slang, so I'll call him the man with a hose.  The hose-man of Buckingham Drive had an obsession: Washing cement. Dirt and pebbles had no place to hide. And every little tree trying to grow between the cracks stood no chance against the hose-man.  Have hose will spray His routine started with a car wash, next he watered flowers, the lawn, and then he finished with tree plucking, cement washing. It could have been ninety-five degrees, but there he was wearing his faded blue foundry coveralls, courtesy of Ford Motor Company. Underneath he wore a Pepe’ Joe standard issued white (fruit of the loom) tee shirt. The boxers I won't mention. Somethings you just don't talk about more than once. I went into detail in my post about laundry day at Wassi Lodge. To complete the attire; slip-on black safety boots. There was only one thing missing: A be...

Our friends painted-wood-porch was our shelter from the storm.  Most storms came from the west, and we could see them approaching from our porch. Our front porch was cement and had wrought iron railings, so it was a no-brainer; safety was across the street. The old wood porch was painted gray, and it was on an angle just enough to allow water to roll off like little waterfalls. We would wait for the flash of light and block our ears, but we felt the thunder in our bones. Between the flash of light and the rumble we counted Mississippi's, trying to guess how far away the lighting was; of course, when it crashes beside you, there's no need to tell time: Time stands still when you're shitting your pants. We watched many summer storms from that porch. But eventually, all storms end.  We waited for clear skies, so we could play in the puddles. A rainbow's promise was God's way of saying “Okay boys make a splash” and we did. Camp fun and games Some storms took us by...