Now get the guns, the drugs, From my generati I’y ll take the fall, the saints, across the nation.
And it’s the sex, the gods, the freaks, the frauds.
They’re messin’ with me, Come on, come on, come on.
Let’s get it on!Move to the music,
Play that fucking music,
Move it to the music, yeah! (Get it on)
Move to my music,
Play that fucking music,
Live through my music, yeah!
The Union Under Ground Across the Nation
Gosh this must be some kind of record for me! Two posts before 10am!
Well I guess I couldn’t think of anything to say for awhile after passing the ammunition. I was too busy waiting for The Feds to use the Patriot Act and come sweep me up in their web.
OK, I really don’t believe I’m all that big a deal to the Feds. I’m just one little Grammy who has said rude things about Georgie Porgy. He hasn’t even got the guts to kiss any girls and make them cry but that’s neither here nor there, this is about the Patriot Act. I dare them. Double dare. I want something radical to happen damnit. I’m tired of this stinking inertia.
Enough of that, this Blog entry is supposed to be about baseball! Now that we’ve had the “bombs bursting in air” celebration (or at least I have. Enough with the firecrackers People!), it’s time to go to another baseball game and so we are. The whole family is going this time. My son had such a good time that he reserved tickets for my daughter’s family, himself and my nephew and me at The Duckpond next Friday. That’s going to be 6 of us in the stands cheering on The Mallards! What fun!
I get the Daily Dugout from the Mallards and on Friday the 20th it’s William “The Refrigerator” Perry Night. The Mallards will be playing in football suits. WTF? <shaking my head> It’s all about the fans folks and we will do anything to please the fans and get ’em into the stands. C’mon, it will be fun!
Perry is an ex Chicago Bears football player for or those of you not familiar with football lore. An extremely large one who was extremely popular and very successful Also a very nice guy. I’m not particularly a fan of football but that is sacrilege in Wisconsin and Nebraska so you sort of learn these things by osmosis since everyone around you worships at the shrine of the Saturday, Sunday and Monday night football game dujour on the TV. Except I was under the impression he played for the Green Bay Packers. Maybe we just wish he did. Whatever. He’s coming to Wisconsin on the 20th, bring a football and maybe get it autographed for a large sum of money.
My Gramma on my Daddy’s side was as big a fan as any of the rest of the family. It’s an illness that settled in after church and Sunday dinne sometime in the early 60s, I tell ya’. I think I escaped it’s feverish grip because I was in the kithcen washing dishes. Hot soapy water will still protect you against a lot of nasty bugs. Make your kids do the dishes. Frequently. Male and female children.
I nterestingly enough I could not get my son to play organized sports when he was a child. I tried to push baseball, basketball (my favorite sport because I can actually see the ball and understand what they are trying to do with it) and football at him. Nope, he would have nothing to do with them. I really tried to push football onto him because football has this cult like significance in my family. All of my brothers played. It was a rite of passage into manhood.
He actually spent about four weeks pretending to go to practices while he spent time in the local swamp hunting frogs to sell at the local science supply shop that sold them to high school labs so he could play video games. I found out when I went to their first game and he was no where to be found.
It’s all because I made him do the danmed dishes in the spirit of male and female equality. But you know what, all of my brothers have problems with their knees these days and they blame it on playing football. Somebody should have made them do the dishes the poor souls.
My son is an intellectual with inclinations towards art and music. He played hacky sack and chess. He was his father’s son. His father did the dishes. I did not have a clue what to do with him except love him and let him be who he was and make him do the dishes. I did not know how to raise a son whose testosterone was not sending him raging after balls other boys possessed with the urge to keep it and push him face down in the dirt if he took it away from him.
He was a pacifist. I had to teach him how to fight because he got chased home so often by little monsters calling him chicken because he had no desire to engage them in combat that he was miserable. It wasn’t that he couldn’t beat the holy crap out of them, he didn’t want to. He was bigger and much stronger than all of his tormenters.
I made him beat the crap out of one of them–the biggest, nosiest one until he drew blood after 4 years of this shit just to prove to them he could and then sent them all home with instructions to pass the word. It wasn’t much of a fight since the other kid had no idea how to protect his nose from a right roundhouse nor his solar plexus from a left hook. He was in pretty bad shape when his friends picked him up and dragged him away.
He scared me because he was different than the men I was accustomed to but thrilled me at the same time. I knew I had done something right and I knew I had picked excellent DNA for my man-child. But how to mold it properly? It gave me nightmares.
Hacky sack was good. It kept him occupied. I bought him a lot of hacky-sacks. I crocheted hacky sacks. I allowed hacky sack playing in the house. I bought Dungeons and Dragons and books on chess. I taught him and his sister and all of their friends how to play poker.
And oddly enough we watched professional wrestling on television together. He loved it. Back in the day, my Father had dragged my family to professional wrestling bouts and oddly enough I liked it too. I had a collection of autographs from those days that would have been worth a fortune if my idiot Mother hadn’t thrown them away. But that’s another bitch.
My son and I and his friends would gather around the television and watch professional wrestling and just like my father did, I would point out the ballet of professional wrestlings’ choreographed the bouts so that no one REALLY gets hurt. Horribly awfully ugly hurt I mean. Broken back hurt. And just like me, those boys were totally fascinated with it and the athleticism of finely tuned bodies that dates back to The Roman Coliseum. That is how I managed to be a mother *and* father and pass on fatherly lore that I learned from my own father to a son that I really didn’t know how to raise. Bless you Daddy.
But weren’t we talking about baseball? I’m really looking forward to next Friday. ;^) I got this fever from my ex Larry. Times like this I wish I could ask him to join us. I sure would like to see his reaction to baseball played in football uniforms. <snort> He’d enjoy himself. I’d enjoy him and so would the family. Too bad breaking up is so damn hard to do. But thanks Larry, you’ve given my family and me something new and wonderful and goofy to share on pretty summer evenings. Maybe we’ll get dignified and take a trip to Wrigley Field some day some day.