Contrary to the obvious appearance of my lifestyle, I do get out of the house once in a while. The life of a hapless blogger isn’t all about the excitement of jabbering into a microphone to nobody in particular, watching commercials and eating cheapsicles. There are lots of things to do in one’s middle age and I’m just the person to avoid them until there’s no possible way out. One of these things is beach volleyball.
I agreed to play beach volleyball with a local group of baby boomers as part of a fun social mixer night. Having been born in the 70’s, I missed being lumped in with generation boom by a decade. Volleyball didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I’d take it easy on the old timers. During college, I played lots of indoor volleyball. Well, the talented people used me a one of the poles that held up the net. It was a workout, because the blood flow to my arms often felt cut off after holding up the net for hours (“Is it my turn to rotate? No? Can I at least be the ball?”). I figured the Boomadelics would be easy pickings. They’d just stand quietly humming Cat Stevens songs while I went all Misty May and Kerri on them, spiking the ball onto their hippie heads. So, I went out to the beach wearing shoes and socks, ’cause I’m old school. Keep the sandals, you free-spirits. The shoes seemed to fill with sand faster than expected. The boomers started to knock my lead footed carcass around a lot, playing with passion I wasn’t expecting ( having assigned them so many clichéd descriptions already). They beat me two games in a row before I went home to cry in my Creamsicles (which ran out, so no more about them). The aging hippies, it seems, have a winter league and play year round while I sit in the house, venturing outdoors only to take stupid Cookie Monster pictures. Ahhhh. So humiliating for a competitive slacker like me. I’ll be back next week for a rematch. They need someone to hold up the net.
There are certain gauges in every person’s life to measure their exact level of tiredness. Mood-o-meters that indicate when everything has been said and done and its time to eat a jar of Vapo Rub and go to sleep (don’t do that. Only included for visual imagery). The gauges for me are unkind behavior and swearing. I don’t swear much on this blog, for instance, except in cases where I’m writing tired or a word just sounds funny to me. Tonight I called the dog some version of “fudgeknuckle,” after I felt drained enough that there just weren’t any other words to describe her fudgeknuckleness. We love Grace, the Lazy Beagle (formerly the Wonder Beagle, but she’s tired these days, too), it’s just that she has a penchant for howling at me when I’m outdoors. I could be out running and nine miles from the house, and Grace would howl the entire time because I’d ventured outdoors. Tonight, when I’d moved ten or so feet from the house to clean the car, she started her death yowl. We’ve had burglars ransack the neighborhood, but she doesn’t wake for them. She just woots and wails at me. Flummoxed and feeble, I managed to say in a kind, loving dog daddy voice:
“Fudgeknuckle!” and then stalked off to find an inanimate object to express my wrath upon. The toaster is certain to be feeling some low self-esteem issues after I got through. I figure after some sleep and a plate of scrambled eggs, I’ll be back to my cheery self. The self that thanks to years of off-label migraine therapies smiles goofily at strangers and creeps people out. No more living on Creamsicles and dreams. I’ll live a life of early to bed, early to rise, last to say “go knuckle.” Sure I will. That, and I’ll give up Vapo Rub. We’ll see.
Lately, I’ve been downright well behaved. Lots of hours worked, followed by sitting quietly waiting until I can again get back in the car to go clock in for another day. Sometimes I enjoy a Creamsicle, or some cheap beer while sitting quietly. Sometimes both. Mmmm…cheapsicle. Once in a while, usually after my wife tells me stop sitting around drooling like a gibbering file clerk on a cheapsicle break, I look at words and colorful pictures on the magical blog writing box. Someone told me once that I was staring at a Coke machine, and come to think of it, there a lot of quarters under it. Anyway, the magical flashing blog writing box has featured lots of stories on the internets about new reality TV shows debuting this summer. Reality shows are a treat, because other people’s versions of reality tend to suck more than mine. This summer, there are new programs featuring most of the Palin family (Sarah, not Michael), General Wesley Clark, Puck Rainey, the remains of James Brown and a talking replica of Britney Spears’ lower torso (or it might just be her). Instead of writing letters to cable networks that begin with
Dear TV Land,
Can you please just re-run episodes of What’s Happening? The theme song is the only thing that helps my cheapsicles digest…
I’d rather suggest some new reality TV shows of my own. Here are a few:
- Osmonds VS. Steamrollers. The concept is simple: A death match between Donnie, Marie and construction equipment.
- B-List Reenactment. Hollywood’s “sort of” stars spend a half hour recreating their most famous (only famous) movie moments. Episode 1 would involve something about Denise Richards. What was she famous for? Oh, yeah. Champagne. Got it.
- James Lipton Stunt Interviews. Why not ratchet up the old actor interviews with Jimmy and have the host ask his note card questions while wearing a loincloth and wrestling a bear? Danger Shmanger.
- Are You Smarter Than an Inbred Comedian?
- Swamp Blogger. My story, played by loincloth clad James Lipton.