MUDVILLE REVISITED







I love football. Especially the pro game. High school is good,too. I even enjoy youth leagues, though I wonder about the punishment little bodies take in a tough sport. Did I leave out college? It's good, but my least fave, because they stop the clock too much. The pro game is long enough, but in college, you're there for four hours plus. (I love the atmosphere of the bands and cheerleaders: I could do without the language and the imbibed, but you find that on a smaller scale at all football games, unfortunately.)





But I hate it that baseball is not America's pastime anymore. It just seems that it should be. Long, hot Summers are made better by baseball. Back yard wiffle ball games, too. It's the best sport of all to talk about. It connects generations. And, you know what? I don't know how it does it, but it does.





I also know I've given no viable reason why baseball should be America's pastime. It always had been, so I guess I just see another American tradition going down the tube. Sweep it under the rug. Say goodbye to cork ball, bottle cap ball, Indian ball, wall ball, tennis ball and a variety of other games we played as kids.








No use to look forward to TWIB (This Week in Baseball) or the Saturday Game of the Week. It doesn't really matter much until the playoffs. It's morphed into NFL and NBA. Even the NHL. They play all those regular season games, and they're meaningless. Just as long as you make the playoffs. And in all the other major sports only the worst of the worst don't make the playoffs. But in baseball, the longest schedule of all, the 162 game grind is secondary.





Oh, well. I guess I won't be seeing the baseball fanatic lined up outside the ball park or ticket window. He doesn't want to play: he doesn't want to watch. Sorry to say, baseball, we hardly know ye.

"HELP ME OUT! I LIKE DOGS WET AND QUIET"

I admit to reading 3 comics daily: F Minus, Bizzaro, and yes, Family Circus. And when I think of Bob Barker's last Price is Right show today, I can just picture Jeffy telling his little sister that he was just doing what Bob Barker told him to. That is, yelling at the dog to "Shut up," turning the hose on him. If I need to explain, it's my fault and not my readers'. When Bob always signs off he says, "please remember to have your pets spayed and neutered". Jeffy heard, "sprayed and muted". What a long way to go for a weak joke!

Will I miss Bob Barker? Sure. Do I watch his show? Nope. But he's part of Americana. There's something about the permanence I like. Bert Parks and Miss America. Walter Cronkite and the News. Leave it to Beaver. These are just a few staples that need to remain. Why? Just because. There's so much changing in the world today. Men wearing earrings. Young men wearing jeans that nearly fall off. Unattractive greasy looking hairstyles for both men and women. Especially the bed head guys look. Hilary and Bill making millions off foreign investments and big oil and acting as if they despise people making money that way.

I could go on and on, but like Bob Barker, I'll call it quits. Oh, faithful reader(s), don't panic: I just mean today. But I can't imagine who will replace Barker. Maybe some guy like Mario Lopez or Ryan Seacrest. But it won't be the same. I mean the emcee must be sappy and that won't work too well with young hosts or hostesses. And old guys who are sappy without the familiarity are just that--sappy.

So, so long Bob. You had a long run. I still liked you the best though in Caddyshack.

JUXTAPOSITION AND GOLF

Loosley defined, juxtaposition is the placement of opposites next to each other. It's mainly used in the arts or by students studying for their SATs. But in the photo, the hoodie and the fence posts are in juxtaposition and therefore made me think about golf.

What? Well, you see my achey leg affected by my bad back has put me on the golf DL. And that hurts. So when I see the US Open is beginning today, once again I won't be playing. Not in the Open or anywhere else. But it doesn't keep me from thinking about golf.

The juxtapositions, and I am really bending the intention of the definition here or bastardizing as an old English prof of mine used to say, are as follows:

1. If you want to hit the ball in the air, then hit down on the ball.

2. If you want the ball to go a long ways, then swing easy.

3. If you want to see a good shot, then don't look up.

4. If you want to hit the green, then aim at a green-side sand trap. If you want to hit in the sand trap, then aim at the green.

Ok, the last one won't often work, but I'm astonished at how many times I'll miss a huge green and land in a small pot bunker just short of the green or to the right or left. Numbers 1-3 are legit juxtaposes though.

So is it any surprise then that the US Open is closed to me, a natural born citizen, but open to VJ Singh from Fiji?

CENTRAL AIR CONDITIONING AND HOW IT RUINED THE SUMMER TASTE


No doubt about it. This toddler is going to enjoy this slice of watermelon. How much he eats will probably be dictated by a concerned parent or two
but he's digging in, and he's starting in the middle.



So how did central air ruin watermelons desirous taste? Easy. In the pre-central days, we stood in front of a lot of fans or stood in front of the window unit for cooling. Directing the louvers to accentuate the flow in our direction cooled us from Summer's scorching.



Either we ate a lot of fried chicken, corn on the cob, and watermelons, or my memory only flashes on those times of days gone by. As much as I liked chicken and corn, there was just nothing that would cool you down like watermelon, iced down in one of those galvanized tubs. Not even homemade ice cream could bring that bite of cool refreshness that a melon afforded.



With the advent/invent of central cooling, though, watermelon fell out of favor. Oh, it's still very good: it's just lost its comparative cooling quality. Our whole body systems have dropped a few degrees because of central cooling, so we don't need or appreciate the rush of coolness.



Besides, no matter how cold the AC gets, it can't beat that bit of liquid that ran down our chins and dropped to leave a watermelon juice scar on our shirts.

START

YOUR

ENGINES

No doubt for me. The Cat in the Hat car wins by a mile. First, the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (CCBB for the rest of this blog entry) is being driven by a woman. Ok, just kidding. I'm actually rooting for Danica or another woman to win at Indy. I think it would really shake up a lot of the good old boys in the grease pit and on the track.

Secondly, just look at how much more sleek and aerodynamic the Cat car is. The pipes running from the back to the running board--how cool is that? The silver color with the needle nose, literally. Wow! Plus, there's a huge spoiler on the back. This baby is loaded. And how about the interior that matches the Cat's hat? Seuss thought of everything, apparently even a moon roof to allow the hat some breathing room.

The Chitty Mobile could have a lot under the hood. Who knows? I do like the way it rolls back for easy access. I also like that it doubles as a family car. The fold down windshield is an additonal attractive feature. It, too, boasts running boards. The open roof could be an advantage if the wind is blowing favorably.

But the Cat in the Hat car (CITH) has more eye appeal. That finalizes it for me. Props to both cars, though. And both authors of kids' tales. At least these cars are recognizable without having to read on the back what and who makes them.

" I DON'T KNOW WHY SHE SWALLOWED THAT FLY"


When I was younger and lived in MTV, I recall seeing television shows and movies that showed people having their windows and doors open. I thought they were crazy. I mean there were no screens on windows or doors.

So how could that be, I thought. Who would want all those flies in their house?
I don't know what it is about the common housefly. Why are there so many in the Midwest? We have only a dozen or so in AZ. Well, maybe that's an underestimation, but we don't have many. We'd be more likely to have a hummingbird fly into our house than a fly. It's the same in California and lots of other places I've been. Does it have to do with humidity? If so, I guess Houston and Atlanta lead the league.

They're just spooky insects. No wonder they call them bugs. I don't even want to think about where they hang out or where they've been before they land on my face or arm. Plus, all those eyes. Also the sticky feet. They're ugly, too. Yesterday I saw the tiniest praying mantis on a beach towel. Now those guys might not win any beauty contest, but they're cool: they don't bother you--they just pray. Now that's a good bug.

But the fly. Now if I swallowed a fly, I think I'd, well you know the song.

IN VOGUE

I am so current; I'm on the cutting edge. With tongue firmly planted in cheek. I'm so out of it that it's like a calculus class you get lost in and can't find your way back. That never happened to me, never advancing that far in high school or college math, but it did happen to my son in high school. He was away from school for golf regionals and sectionals and orchestra county tours on back-to-back-to back-to back, etc days and missed his calculus class. After his hiatus, he was swamped and dropped the course. Of course, he picked it up again at the U of I in the following year, but anyway(s) that's a long digression. So I'll add another one. He informs me that contradictory to one of my previous blogs, he is an excellent tie tie-er or tyer. So he's the first male in a long time in our family that was able to conquer the knot. Mea culpa, Scott.

So, back to current times. Oh well, I didn't have much to say about Paris Hilton anyhow. I honestly thought, "I've stayed there," when I first heard those two words put together--Paris Hilton. It's not far, in fact within easy walking distance to the Eiffel Tower, and we've stayed there at least twice.

How the person, not the hotel, came onto the scene, I'm not sure. How she's stayed on the scene I'm even more unsure. From what I understand, she parties/partys a lot, sings a little, and was in a reality show about farm life. To prove my premise that I'm out of it, I'm dead serious--that's all I know about her abilities.

And now she's violated parole and is in the pokey. So what's the big deal? There are laws in a society (no pun) and if you break them and get caught, you pay the price. I don't care what gender, color, religion, social class, clubs you belong to or not, people you know or not--just do the deed. It all seems simple to me.

But then again, what do I know? My Paris Hilton didn't have bars on the windows.

"BUT THE FRUIT OF THE POOR LEMON..."

When we first moved to AZ, we had one orange, one grapefruit, and one lemon tree in our yard. The oranges were just delicious. Not much of a grapefruit eater, I didn't care much for them, though they were better than ones I had from the store. Lemons, well Trini Lopez said it, and a famous poster said something about making lemonade, so they weren't missed much when we moved 14 houses up the street.

At our current abode, I just realized by a little mistyping abode becomes adobe, oh well--we have one navel and one citris good only for orange juice. So I figure I'm ahead in the fruit growing department.

Around the corner from us is a huge lemon tree, just chock full of lemons when in season. Creative occupants have hung a huge decorative lemon, about the size of the body of the Spa Citron woman in the picture. At first glance, one is apt to do a double take because of the exact color and placement in the middle of the tree. The fake lemon is probably 2' x 2', healthy even for an Arizona lemon.

Other neighbors have basketball goals. Now if I could just play enough basketball to get the tread like bumps and seams off the ball. Naugh.