I think I’m starting to look waxy. Do you know what I’m talking about? When some men reach a certain age, they begin to look like exhibits at a wax museum? Think Billy Crystal, or Jon Voight. Of course, I’m not nearly as old as those bastards, but I can see it all going in the waxy direction. And I’m not a fan.
Apparently “So….” has now replaced “You know what?” as our go-to sentence starter. Right? For the record, both annoy me to no end.
“What do you want for lunch?”
“So… I’m thinking Wendy’s.”
What the hell, man? Are you brain damaged? Have you suffered a severe electrical shock? Why?! Why does this kind of thing keep happening?
In more positive news, it seems that people have stopped saying “Really?” all the time. Or — and I sincerely hope this isn’t the case — I’ve just accepted it, and don’t really notice it anymore.
It bugs the crap out of me, all this monkey-see, monkey-do bullshit. Get it together, people.
You know what I never see anymore? Kids throwing a baseball around. When I was an ugly teenager (and before) I spent many an evening passing a baseball back and forth with a friend.
We’d also buy these baseball-sized pink rubber balls at House of Toys, throw ’em against the side of the NAPA auto parts store, and field the things. For hours.
It got to the point where I was a pretty good fielder, and started at first base for the best Little League team in town — even though I was a horrible batter. I remember our coach, Dean Thomas, yelling at me in front of everybody: “Kay, if it weren’t for your glove you’d be sitting on the bench!” And then he turned to Ronnie Bush and said, “And if it weren’t for your bat, you’d be sitting right beside him.” Heh. Good stuff. Nowadays they’d have to send in grief counselors.
But I never see kids passing baseballs in the yard anymore. My own kids told me, long ago, that baseball is “boring.” It was like a wooden stake, driven directly through my heart. And I don’t think black kids play the sport anymore, either. It’s all Latinos, Asians, and whiteys. It makes you wonder… If Willie Mays were 15 years old right now, would he be focusing on baseball, or some other sport? I’d put my money on some other sport. It’s too bad.
A few weeks ago, when we went to New York City, I stopped somewhere in New Jersey (I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right to call it Jersey), to buy gas.
Some dude came bounding out, and asked what grade of fuel I wanted.
“Oh, am I at the full-service pump? I’ll move,” I said. No way was I paying the full-service price. Funk dat.
“In Jersey, everything’s full-service. In Oregon, too,” he answered (pronouncing it Ora-gone).
Interesting. It seems like I knew this, at some previous point in my life. So, I got back into my car… while a stranger filled my gas tank. It felt really weird. I didn’t like it. It was foreign and strange, and almost an invasion of privacy, or space, or something. I can’t put my finger on the exact reason, but I didn’t care for it.
I have no problem calling the man. No way I’m changing my own oil, or any of that nonsense, for instance. And I’ll let my fingers do the walking when it comes to most home repairs. But this gas thing felt like a bridge too far.
I’ve had a yard service in the past, and felt a little guilty about it. I thought both my grandparents (and probably Dean Thomas) were looking down at me from heaven, and shaking their heads in disappointment. But I HATE mowing, and that trumped everything. If I could afford it, I’d hire a service today.
Where do you draw the line on such things? And can you explain my feelings about the full-service gas? I can’t. Maybe you can?
And I have to go back to work now. It’s not a good sign when you start your work week exhausted, but that’s what’s happening. I’m tired as a mofo, right now. Oh well.
See you guys again next time.
Have a great day!