Mekaleka-hi Mekaheinie-ho
Wish? Did someone say, "Wish"?
It was my birthday yesterday. So, Happy Birthday to me.
Didn't really have any special plans - maybe poach an egg, watch a George Raft movie on TV. Then go to bed so I can go into work at midnight. Needless to say, it's a drag when your birthday falls in the middle of the week on a work-day. In fact, it's always a drag when your birthday falls in the middle of the week on a work-day. But that goes without saying.
So I spent the first part of the day watching that new Lillix video to Sweet Temptation on YouTube and despairing over the fact that I wasn't young and 16 anymore - and that the girls in Lillix probably don't dig me.
This is how I've been kicking off my birthday since turning 50 a couple of years ago. By feeling sorry for myself. Because there probably aren't too many left to come. I looked outside yesterday and the Grim Reaper is down the street about a block away. But I could tell he was headed for my front door and who knows how many years or days till he gets there. I'm not going to leave the porch light on for him, but what can you do?
Besides, once you reach 50, it seems kind of silly to expect an annual fuss. I mean what's to celebrate? That I've managed to live for over half a century without getting myself killed? What kind of accomplishment is that? Trees, parrots and those big turtles in the South Seas can make the same claim. So can half the people I know.
So I force myself out of this blue-funk by telling myself that I'm just looking at it the wrong way. "Hey, sport! You've lived half a century without getting yourself killed! Way to go, man!" And that always helps.
Then my parents phoned and my father told me that since it was my birthday, I could do whatever I liked. And that helped.
And for the rest of the day, I did just that. I tellya, it was like Dude Where's My Car all day long around here.
Went out and bought some corn-on-the-cob and a bottle of wine. That helped. Sat down with the boy, Gnut - and watched a Pee-Wee Herman marathon. Had a visit from Daughter 2 and her new kitten. Looked at baby photos of the dog (Rover) from Daughter 1. Opened a couple of cards and presents and ate corn, hot-dogs with fried onions, baked beans and apple pie.
Then went out and bought myself a new CD, which is a birthday and Christmas tradition of mine. Always buy yourself a gift. Run Devil Run was recorded by Paul McCartney a couple of years ago after Linda died. It's a rockin' set of old '50s foot-stompers from his pre-Beatles days. Probably the sort of stuff he and the lads played in those Hamburg dives. You might call it a bit of a vanity project to prove to himself that as a widower in his 60s, he was still alive.
Well, works for me. I put it on, got out the bongoes and started thumping along. And even tho I'm no Pete Best, I'm happy to report that I've still got it. Sir Paul, on the other hand, I'm sorry to say, sounded a twee bit off key a couple of times.
And that helped a lot. If it's your birthday today, the secret word for the day is 'Corn-on-the-cob.' Remember, whenever anyone says it, you have to scream. Real loud.
It was my birthday yesterday. So, Happy Birthday to me.
Didn't really have any special plans - maybe poach an egg, watch a George Raft movie on TV. Then go to bed so I can go into work at midnight. Needless to say, it's a drag when your birthday falls in the middle of the week on a work-day. In fact, it's always a drag when your birthday falls in the middle of the week on a work-day. But that goes without saying.
So I spent the first part of the day watching that new Lillix video to Sweet Temptation on YouTube and despairing over the fact that I wasn't young and 16 anymore - and that the girls in Lillix probably don't dig me.
This is how I've been kicking off my birthday since turning 50 a couple of years ago. By feeling sorry for myself. Because there probably aren't too many left to come. I looked outside yesterday and the Grim Reaper is down the street about a block away. But I could tell he was headed for my front door and who knows how many years or days till he gets there. I'm not going to leave the porch light on for him, but what can you do?
Besides, once you reach 50, it seems kind of silly to expect an annual fuss. I mean what's to celebrate? That I've managed to live for over half a century without getting myself killed? What kind of accomplishment is that? Trees, parrots and those big turtles in the South Seas can make the same claim. So can half the people I know.
So I force myself out of this blue-funk by telling myself that I'm just looking at it the wrong way. "Hey, sport! You've lived half a century without getting yourself killed! Way to go, man!" And that always helps.
Then my parents phoned and my father told me that since it was my birthday, I could do whatever I liked. And that helped.
And for the rest of the day, I did just that. I tellya, it was like Dude Where's My Car all day long around here.
Went out and bought some corn-on-the-cob and a bottle of wine. That helped. Sat down with the boy, Gnut - and watched a Pee-Wee Herman marathon. Had a visit from Daughter 2 and her new kitten. Looked at baby photos of the dog (Rover) from Daughter 1. Opened a couple of cards and presents and ate corn, hot-dogs with fried onions, baked beans and apple pie.
Then went out and bought myself a new CD, which is a birthday and Christmas tradition of mine. Always buy yourself a gift. Run Devil Run was recorded by Paul McCartney a couple of years ago after Linda died. It's a rockin' set of old '50s foot-stompers from his pre-Beatles days. Probably the sort of stuff he and the lads played in those Hamburg dives. You might call it a bit of a vanity project to prove to himself that as a widower in his 60s, he was still alive.
Well, works for me. I put it on, got out the bongoes and started thumping along. And even tho I'm no Pete Best, I'm happy to report that I've still got it. Sir Paul, on the other hand, I'm sorry to say, sounded a twee bit off key a couple of times.
And that helped a lot. If it's your birthday today, the secret word for the day is 'Corn-on-the-cob.' Remember, whenever anyone says it, you have to scream. Real loud.
posted by Sonny Drysdale at 10:00 AM
9 Comments:
Holy Mackeral! Sonny, you've got the same birthday as my wife, Betty. August 23rd. No wonder I don't get along with you, you old shrivelled up prune!
She refuses to come to the baseball games too.
"Shriveled up old prune?"
I know you are - but what am I?
Thanks, Pops - I didn't know that you knew Ms. Cora.
I'm the luckiest boy in the world!
Male baseball players and their macho fans know how to get to first base with chicks.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know that diamonds are a girl's best friend.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know that rounding second and third base is a prerequisite to sliding into "home base" to make the Big Score.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know that swinging the Big Stick with the bases loaded means that you've got a Grand Salami.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know that when "you're out in left field" you don't get no nookie.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know that a line drive is the shortest distance between points A and B.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know that without a Big Bat and some Balls, Rotating Piston Hips don't mean nuthin'.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know you've got to swing your Bat to score.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know you've got to have a Good Eye to hit on the chicks.
Male baseball players and their macho fans know that theoretically, a baseball game on a diamond could last forever (no time clock).
I like the baseball players in 'A League of Their Own' better. That Gina Davis, she makes me cry.
Without a doubt Geena Davis and the girls from the All-American Girls' Professional Baseball League were human dynamos, but let's not call a spade a shovel.
Swinging the Big Stick is a man's job.
Incidentally, the Canadian women that played in that league (that were still alive in 1998 -- about 27 of them) stopped by Labatt Park before they were inducted into the Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame and signed their names on the walls of the showers in the Roy McKay Clubhouse.
Most of them were in their late 70s at the time. When they arrived at LaBatt-LaBall park they ran to the field with gloves in hand and threw the ball around like old pros.
I even smoked two of them up in the bushes.
Butch - it was Madonna and Lori Davis you smoked up with, right?
Only bad thing about that movie was the presence of the always-unfunny Rosie O'Donnell. She's about as much laughs as Oprah in the supermarket when she realizes they don't have 'O' magazine at the check-out.
C'mon Sonny boy, get the friggin' lead out!
The whirld wants to hear what happened between you and Honey Pot Sugar Scoop under the Guy Lumbago Bridge last week.
Either you spill the beans or your ass is grass and Ivan Kasiurak is a friggin' lawnmower!
Thanks for the birthday wishes, HP.
And please ignore McLarty's comments. He's still pissed that I didn't buy my corn-on-the-cob from the stand out front of his and Betty's farm. I know 'feed' corn when I see it. And altho, the livestock won't complain, it sure ain't no peaches-and-cream.
Post a Comment
<< Home