Month: July 2023

I know I have talked of what I do work-wise in posts here before but never really the direct object of such, usually more just a reference for maybe some context as, for instance, I will often mention “our production music website” when I borrow an instrumental or two (shhhh, don’t tell this production site of my borrowing) and write some lyrics to them as if these instrumentals were my “band” and I was dreaming a rock n roll lead singer dreams, something other than my parody songs which are always to the instrumental version of whatever the known tune is that I am parodying, with a political bend, a left one to be upfront with you, as I have a lot to say and a lot of anger and cynicism and sarcasm and dismay and a bunch (more than a bunch, a bushel maybe, or a cartful, or a boatload, maybe even a shitload) of other words that convey a similar thought that I find best to put into these song parodies for easier consumption rather than a straight up editorial where I would most probably lose you before you’ve even yawned over the second or third sentence and gotten up for a pee break with something new in mind when you get back.

For those of you that follow along with the bouncing ball (an old dude reference) of my “originals” or “editorials in song” you have no idea how much I appreciate you all and the knowing that I have a bit of an audience out there for these songs and for those who take the time with me on my other posts of the simple musings of a Frankenlife.

These musings are oftentimes funny or attempts at such at least as, like I say in my header, “who don’t like funny?” and I think I can be a pretty funny guy though minus anything immediately funny here to support that. Sometimes heartfelt (a good friend even noted “poignant” recently which I will certainly take) sometimes poetic, sometimes noticing beauty that can still be found in this world, sometimes of cats as well and plenty of other sometimes of other sometimes things about … well, cats … Ok, kidding, more than just cats (though there is a lot about cats).

It’s an exploration, a sanity, this place, this cluttered Frankenberry’s Attic, of just an everyday kinda guy’s life in a simple sorta mish mash of thoughts everyday kinda guy way. Thank you all once more for your time on that, especially for those that continue to come back, you are hardy souls all.

Anyway, I do radio, have professionally since the beginning of the 90’s minus a six year layoff after my personal life decided to get all explody on me and I had to find a new direction, even if just for a moment, a six year moment that included at one point me wearing tights, clown shoes, Hawaiian shorts and a big ass plastic head. I came back though, as I always knew I would, and have  been in the radio game again since 2003.

After Pittsburgh and Dayton OH I eventually found myself in Poughkeepsie NY, in the Hudson Valley, just north of the big NYC, after that 2003 and where I have been found since, with the most recent 8 + years being at the group stations I’m at now.

I’ve been a morning show co-host, a drive time DJ, a Music Director, a Program Director and then a Production guy which is where I sit in my small lamplit studio where I curse a lot and where I have discovered that I am happiest (often because of the cursing – therapy comes in many forms) this production gig being the one best served for that happy.

It’s a “spot”, a one that I like and a one that I am good at.

Though I may not have a lot to show for all of this in my bank account after all these years I am least one of those folks that can claim to be genuinely happy with what they do, with no trudging, no heavy “sigh’s” to start my day after I wing my feet to the right side of the bed to land on the floor with a sit up and face to rub in my hands, a cat to pet (well some heavy “sighs” still maybe as I don’t sleep well, never have, but the only “trudge” then is to the shower – not to the job).

One of the things I do in my production position, other than to build commercials, with the voicing or sometimes assisting in the writing of spots, voice and build some of the imaging for one of the big stations in our group and market, is to edit and produce some shows, “podcasts” that run on the weekends, one of which I am a part of (and one I will write of and share as well at a soon future time here in the Attic) but another is from a dear friend of mine and where the title of this post comes from.

Now Kacey has been in the radio biz since the early 1850’s as the two of us joked this morning when I slyly asked her asked her without telling her the reason of my new post, how long it’s been that she and Mike, of the Hudson Valley’s “Mike & Kacey” in the morning fame have been together.   

“23 years” she said (and since 1985 in total).

In the radio world? 23 years is pretty impressive for one show, especially when it consistently continues to rank and with her recently being awarded a “Best” from a local magazine’s “Best Of” edition. And as an offshoot of her Kaceyness she, quite some time ago, began a show called the “Health & Happiness Show” which eventually morphed into “Shine On” with a health and happiness subtitle.

It’s a show that has just that intent of the titles, to offer something positive to the audience in the way of health and happiness and shining on in the way of guests that can help lead in that direction. Well publicized self-help guru’s, interesting book authors and their interesting things, both fiction and non, famous people and their famous people stuff brought down to earth in fun Kacey conversation, guests with uplifting stories, maybe those with a spiritual bend, sometimes “woo-woo” stuff as well as Kacey might call the mystical or the otherworldly, local folks who have done and do the community a great service etc., etc., etc.

Plus, the aspect of the show where Kacey directly connects with this Hudson Valley audience through the many good works of her food pantry, or thrift shop, or her Facebook group “A Circle of Women” for a feeling of inclusion and belonging and not being judged that I am sure is beyond being most welcome. She even has planned get togethers to assist in that belonging.

But it is all with a genuine feel good and helpful intent as who can’t use taking a moment away from their world, this world, for some “feel good” right? Well, Kacey does that well and has done, like we joked since the mid 1850’s … well maybe the mid 1860’s as she picked this idea up a little bit into her continuing run on the morning show.  

Recently though, and the reason that I am being my usual longwinded Frankenberry self (I know … “Frankenberry, a back story shouldn’t really take this freakin’ long dude!”) is that she came up with an idea, a direction to take her Shine On show that I find brilliant, a direction, at least through the rest of the summer, where her guests would no longer be those well publicized self-help guru’s or published authors or famous folks but instead be stories of just regular Janes or Joes, stories of a you and a me.

Talking with her this morning I explained why I liked the idea so much as there isn’t a one of us who hasn’t watched a late night talk show host conversating with some famous person that hasn’t thought about what it would like to be sitting crosslegged in that comfy chair themselves, with a bit of a spotlight, with that branded mug in hand, next to the host’s desk laughing and telling THEIR story.

Well, that is what Kacey has done here. She put the idea out there for listeners to email her their stories of maybe kismet, or strange coincidence, or happenstance, or unexpected spiritual revelations maybe coming about through loss, of joy, of funny things that other people might be able to relate to.  

Sorry famous person, but you ain’t Marge or Danny, or Jerry or Elaine from up the street, or just over the way, or around the corner and that story of their dad or mom or sister or brother or friend or neighbor that we can all more relate to, reveling in the regular story of regular folk, those who seem more “real” to us.

The first show which was one of Owls and loss and the remarkable that came with it and a second story about an accent is here.

The second is show here and for the rest still to come? This is a link to her blog/website, Kacey’s Place, where she posts all of her “Shine On’s”.

I really think that you all, my hardy Frankenberry friends, might get a lift here, especially if you are a one that likes taking to listening to podcasts and there is nothing scripted here, no false “genuine”, no, just Kacey being Kacey.

Plus we bloggers gotta stick together right?

Cheers my friend.

Another So Then Sunday post.

Refresher I have mentioned before. A “So Then Sunday” is like a “Throwback Thursday” just on a different day. Why don’t I just do this on a Thursday then, instead of making shit up and moving the concept to another day and confusing people you ask? Because I just don’t … now stop asking stupid questions. Plus I don’t like Thursdays.

Anyway, this one is only from a few months ago, back in April, but as I was reading some of my things in the Attic, as I will do occasionally on Sundays, to reacquaint myself with myself, this is one that I just like and thought to re-post.

That’s it.

Plus, of my relatively small number of visitors to the Attic, compared to the internet as a whole and popular blogs and annoying influencers (we should be sad that that is a thing) and sites that have millions of followers this one got a good number of views for me then.

Again, relatively speaking, in my small Attic Universe.

Just some fun around a story.

“I Still Got It And Staying One Step Ahead Of The Bad Guys”

To Peter Gabriel’s “Games Without Frontiers”.

For a new parody tune I was thinking Peter Gabriel, no particular reason, I just thought maybe “Sledgehammer” might be an idea and I was thinking I could get away with the singing attempt.

So, I found an instrumental for it that sounded good to go, and wrote an entire set of lyrics, but didn’t listen fully enough to the instrumental and when I sat down with it last Friday I eventually found the “Sledgehammer” in the chorus was actually sung in the instrumental.

Fuck.

Well, that kinda killed that idea which was pretty disappointing as it could have been a good one, and there were no other versions of the tune to be had that didn’t do the same.

But now I was on a Peter Gabriel kick. “Shock the Monkey”? No. “Solsbury Hill?” No. Then there was “Games Without Frontiers”. Ok I thought, and an instrumental I did my full due diligence on, listening all the way through. This one though is something of an experiment as to could I get the high pitched parts without sounding silly, something I think I did alright with in my last, “Baby It’s a Tax Scam” to the Beatles “Baby You’re a Rich Man”.

Anyway, here’s “Games of Right Frontiers”.

Games of Right Frontiers

I’m so popular

I’m a blockbuster

I’m so popular

Great leader and more

—

I play with truth, twist it to my will

In ad nauseum, with lies I bluster still

I play with the myth, that I won the race

And I will get back to, my only rightful place

Dog whistling despot disciples want in on the spotlight

Issuing threats I whistle democracy’s dem-ise

—

New State knockout

—

You won’t able soon to control my will

it’s games of right frontiers, new lord for years

You’ll find out that my will can kill

In games of right frontiers, your worst of fears

Games of right frontiers, post truth in your ears

—

I’m so popular

I’m a blockbuster

Great leader and more

—

Strongmen have their Red Flags, and my own will fly

Those on the un-right left side, will cry oh why oh why

While I destroy the intent, of fathers bye and bye

I will control it all then, and show what is to cry

I’ll whistle past graves of those that were deemed be unloyal

Whistling how they missed grand world of new royal

—

New State rubout  

—

If you will subject to a brand new day

I’ll be your new sheep sage, I’ll show you the way

If you’ll just give up a free mind’s say

I’ll gather that new day

A brand new white way

Games of right frontiers, I’ll speak to new sway

—

I’m so popular

I’m a blockbuster

I’m so popular

Great leader and more

There’s so much in store

Teach autocratic mores

I’ll center new lore

Democracy you will abhor

Soon dead at it’s core

With violence we’ll gladly roar

Watch out Libs we’re at your door

Ya know I knew this was going to happen. When my Buccos would finally have a slew of their recent draft pics and trades hit the bigs, where finally I would see some of Ben Cherington’s work come to fruition. Where My Bucs might become relevant, maybe even with an unexpected fire to start the season, though a yin and yang of course to douse that fire as only my Buccos can, but still give me some renewed hope for the future. But I knew this was going to happen, that something would suck the air out of whatever excitement was in my Pirate Ship’s sails.

That something was Rob Manfred.

He had already started with his silly 3 batter minimum rule a number of years ago, as somehow he was allowed to decide now the strategy of mangers and GM’s for setting rosters and in play decisions with just game pace the excuse. No, this was HIS rule change, I’M the commissioner, toe in the water.

I knew this was going to happen.

Now I have been a baseball fan since, well, since. Since I discovered the game and found myself playing it and checking weather reports (constantly looking out the window) to see if I would be able to play getting upset at mother nature and how she could be so heartless as to possibly bring rain on gameday.

I had my moments as a player eventually even making the varsity team in High School as a freshman, though not enough to override that job at Red Mills Market in Mahopac NY where I would have a couple of dollars then in my pocket instead, knew my “moments” were not going to take me baseball anywhere. But baseball was still a constant. Even if it was as a Pirates fan. Oh, the unending disappointment but the greatest of moments when they didn’t disappoint once in 1979 (twice technically in my years, when I was 7 in 1971 as well, but I had other concerns then, like being 7 and annoying my Mom).

Now could I have ever have imagined a day where my boys didn’t get me through a summer with slim hope until September or worse, only July and then just to muddle through the rest?

No.

This summer though?

A Rob Manfred summer?

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Death and taxes. That was/is the pitch clock, an inevitable product of short attention spans you were never going to avoid, that I just deal with like the universal DH that preceded it. What are you going to do? Some things just become a be but at least that DH affords an argument that I can live with, that it would possibly extend some careers. Small windows of baseball lives deserve any extra window widening possible.

That clock though is an is what is now but no, I won’t go so far as to repeat “thank god for the pitch clock” as I read too often early on, like there had been some grand reinvention of the game. The pitch clock means nothing to me, never will, I have never wondered how to speed this up, the beauty of baseball being that you didn’t need to, that it DIDN’T have a clock but I guess I could take the evolution as long as you didn’t screw with the very nature of the game … the numbers.

Or maybe I’m just old like a friend who is in the baseball world has noted, something about me un-hiking my old man pants from around my chest.

Then came the permanence of the Manfred Man on second in extra innings and the disingenuous almost dishonest way it was come about with one of the company lines being that it adds new excitement for fans in extra innings, that it adds new strategy (that strategy thing parroted on many an occasion by players and managers and others alike). Well sure, being forced to a play a blind 3 legged goat in left field in extra innings would add some new excitement and new strategy as well just NOT GOOD new excitement and strategy. No, this is as much a mockery as that Goat would be (oh, and more on the Goat thing at the end).

Part of a cynical me even wonders if one of the only reasons for forcing an absolutely useless 60 game season in 2020 was not to lose the golden opportunity to shamelessly claim COVID as a reason for something that baseball wanted all along, knew they were going to implement no matter what. I’m sure there are even some in MLB circles who might think that this beer league softball stuff was ingenious, pat themselves on the back for what they considered a true innovation. For anyone who thinks this a good idea, you obviously don’t have the integrity of the sport at the top of your list and (you) MLB even admit such by abandoning it in the post season with no real explanation as to why, because admitting it wasn’t legitimate baseball for the last 162 games would be just too much (can’t take the chance that the World Series might be decided by a first pitch lead off single scoring a guy who shouldn’t be there in the first place or worse, a bunt and a sac fly).

It’s an embarrassment. Even beer leaguers will tell you that the only reason such a thing exists is because they just wanted to get to the end of game as light dimmed to hit the app special at Chile’s in time. That friend of mine who works in the baseball world has said to me that the players love it. Well, of course they do. There isn’t anyone on the planet who wouldn’t take an opportunity to shorten possible overtime. But I have no sympathy for such, especially for the paychecks that are more than I could earn in multiple lifetimes with multiple me’s. It is simply lazy and and just gimmick’s legitimate baseball. When I was still watching the game and this came to be, one of the first things that I let go was extra innings. I just turned my game off and checked the final in the morning.

Well, Rob, you certainly did shorten games for this one fan at least to only those that go 9.

Then came losing 6 games against division rivals instead to face teams I don’t care of in the name of a balanced schedule. Face possible division foes, the Cards and Brewers and Cubs and Reds maybe with a possible division on the line? Bring it on! to instead see the Royals and the Tigers? No slight to the Royals and the Tigers or other AL clubs but you ain’t rivals, you never will be, I don’t care about you. That is just a true fan suck disappointment and just another game.

Then came handcuffs on shifts, the subtle intimations for years that somehow teams just adjusting defense were cheating, cheating great players who couldn’t figg’r hits they thought they were due. That’s just what good defense does. But no, the labeled “extreme” shifting was portrayed as “robbing” great players of these hits. Again cheating somehow. Sorry great players, but if you can’t figure out how to adjust to adjustments that’s on you, and it’s not Mom’s job to step into the backyard and tell the other kids from the neighborhood to stop being mean and let you feel better about yourselves.

Then came the bigger base bags, like the size of Hotel pillows now. When baseball tries to tell you that the intent of the bigger bases is to cut down on possible injuries around them, just laugh, heartily. The only intent is to shorten the distance between the bases to make offense easier to come by, all offense, singles, doubles, triples and especially stolen bases.

It has all been cheapened.

Mike Lupica noted in an MLB post of his not too long ago something to the effect that stolen bases had come back from the dead. Well of course they have Mike, when you make them easier to get, hinder pitchers to make them even easier, they will indeed be reborn. When you put them on a silver platter with a cupcake stuck with a candle waiting at second base? Yeah, there will be more of them.

There is though one great advantage to all these rule changes and finding a season I haven’t had any inclination to watch … I don’t have to read stories at MLB filled with Statcast nonsense. Made up things that add nothing to the baseball conversation. No one, NO ONE, is hanging around the water cooler discussing the distance traveled to get to a ball, no one is wondering what the percentage of possibility (the silliest of things) for a catch is after that distance traveled was, no one is remarking on anyone’s “elite status”, NO ONE. They’re just not. You can shove a throat all you want. It won’t make them any more relevant or even mildly interesting.

I still have my fantasy baseball teams, all eight of them, some even at the top their respective standings, I still pay attention to a point, I am still excited that the Buccos took that “generational” talent with Paul Skenes and the first pick in the draft and I might even pick the game back up again at some point as, after all, it has been a defining thing for me. But I will never look at the game the same way. I will always know that that stolen base really was stolen, I will always asterisk 2023 and beyond. I’m thinking all mentions of numbers moving forward should be “player X has certain # of ‘new rules’ stolen bases this season” for example. Something to that effect.

Now I am sure that some, if not a great deal of you baseballers out there will echo that friend of mine who is in the game that I mentioned earlier and tell me to just un-hike my old man pants from around my chest and get with the new, more “exciting” version of the sport, will surely note the new numbers that attest to such, or just get out of the way.

You say potato “new excitement”, I say potaato “cheapened”. Fine. I’m a relic.

But for right now? I’m ok. I have other things to fill my time that I just short distance travel, if Statcast were to uselessly measure such a thing, to get to.

PS – coming next season MLB will experiment in the Minor Leagues with outlawing the bunt. When asked why Rob Manfred replied that the bunt slows down the tempo of the game that he has worked so hard to quicken, wastes an opportunity for a major league hitter to showcase their talents with the bat and get a hit on a ball in play that he has worked so hard to make easier to achieve, plus the casual fan really doesn’t understand or care of the “why” of a bunt and that bunts are just f’ing boring anyway and have really shitty exit velocities. Who’s gonna miss that he said?

PSS – and for future reference because it bugs me, really bugs me, bugs the shit out of me. The GOAT was the guy that cost you the game, NOT the Greatest Of All Time.

I don’t do selfies for obvious reasons …

“Steve, move your phone … no, move it up … you want your face in this”

“Why?”

“Ummm, ‘cause it’s a selfie? … that’s kinda the idea here, it’s in the name.”

“Why again am I taking a selfie?”

“You were thinking of a dating app, a profile pic?”

“No I wasn’t”

“Something to make your Mom happy? Ya know, show her you’re getting out there”

“But I don’t want to be “out there””

“Yes you do”

“I do?”

“Yes … (hypnotic social pressure music drone) Yes … yes. you. do.”

“Ok well, you can turn that shit off now, it’s annoying … people do this?”

“All the time”

“Really?”

“Really”

“No, I guess you’re right, I have heard of such”

“Right? Like I said, all the time …”

“But what if my face might scare the children?”

“They’ll adjust, maybe with some therapy but they’ll adjust”

“That could be years and really expensive but ok … well how about this?”

“(sigh) Work in progress my man, work in progress … ”

“Ya know, I think I might just need a painting or a Beatles poster or something on that wall behind me”

“(sigh twice)”

Had a Facebook memory post pop up for me earlier from 12 years ago today and it was a picture of THIS hanging from under a light on the back porch of the old homestead I shared with Maria and her son, Jagger.

Now I haven’t received any phone calls or read any wild news stories since the house was sold back in ’15 or ’16 but I still feel kinda bad that we were weren’t totally forthcoming with the realtor about the house possibly being built right on a rift in time that opened directly to prehistoric days.  

Right after this picture was taken this inspiration for many a Japanese monster flick tried to fly off with Brady (who was still only a puppy back then) and head back through the time rift. Luckily, I was armed at the time with a broom. Still have yet to see any of those monster flicks end with a simple broom, one of the reasons I always view the usual overly dramatic end to those movies with a bit of skepticism … “seriously, was a fully deployed military and destroying an entire city really all that necessary?”

All you needed, instead, was one of the stock nerdy scientists from those movies to just explain (in awfully matched English voice dubs) the numbers/equations detailed confusingly on a chalkboard, his design for a supersized broom. I could even go with a bit of suspension of disbelief if that broom were nuclear powered.

(no prehistoric dragonfly looking monsters were harmed in the making memory of this memory – it actually buzzed it’s wings at my broom and hovered with what was almost a mocking wink right after dropping the dog and before flying back off to the land before time).

Recently my nephew Matt pulled off a unique trifecta (no, not the ponies again, freakin’ Destiny’s Tap Dance for the win! Outta my way sketchy old man, grab a shower will ya! Gotta cash in my ticket! … it was an issue once for Matt … or maybe was it me … but we’ve, I’ve, been seeking counseling) he graduated, birthdayed and Eagle Scouted all at the same time. Now right there my brain hurts a little. The only time I’ve ever had the Universe converge in such a way was when I celebrated a birthday once and then did two other things, like wake up and then trudge to the shower. But he pulled it off, and with aplomb I might add and for his efforts he was gifted a well earned brand new electric guitar from a group of us old folks who will surely try to glom off his future fame as the next John Mayer.

Beck, my Sis, group texted a number of us to see if we would be willing to chip in a dollar or two for said guitar, and there was something in there as well about a purple one and a new color instead because purple wasn’t now available and clashed possibly with his shorts of future guitar playing fashion choices or Prince wasn’t really dead or velvet Elvis posters also clashed in the black light … whatever, but I was all in. I even figured out how to send Beck some $$ from my PayPal account instead of waiting for some moment where we were all together to hand her a check that she would look at me then with a sideways, scoffing glance, “Dude, you really are old aren’t you?”

Seems this was an “everybody wins” kind of thing Matt. Ol’ dog, new tricks my friend!

But Matty, I wanted you to know, that in the span of that new guitar group text, the back and forth’s, that Buck and your Uncle Steve, “Unca Steve” if you were still only 5, proved themselves to be nothing more than 12 year old boys.

//////////////////////////////////////////

Beck: Matt wants a purple electric guitar he saw. With his birthday, graduation and Eagle Scout all next week. Group gift? Just an idea. Throwing it out there.

Mary Anne: I’m in.

Other phone #: We’re in!

Buck: Ya

Other phone #, #2: I’m in!

Nick (my brother): Ya

(Buck and Nick cut of the same verbose cloth it seems)

Beck: Yay!!! Thanks

Me: Put me in as well!!!

Beck: I put $100 down but it was for a different guitar. The one he wanted was gone already but this one was the same price and he loved it (and he said it would go with more outfits than the purple one would have 😊).

(Hey, don’t be tryin’ to Jones my signature parentheses lady!)

Then Beck added a pic of Matt at the store on a stool with guitar in hand.

First other phone #: Looking at the pic real quick I totally thought Matty had some kind of Forrest Gump leg brace on … totally threw me off.

Beck: Lol, nah, just a stool.

Buck: Lololoo … she said stool

(and yes Buck, I saw what you did there with ‘loo’)

Beck: (a poop emoji)

Mary Anne: Hahaha

Me: You know I knew “stool” was coming right? And how did I know? ‘Cause Buck beat me to it.

Buck: Lol

Me: We’re guys. We’re always 12

Buck: She always asks me that

//////////////////////////////////////////

So Matt, as you play your well earned new not purple guitar and find some better color coordination fashion with it and write tunes that will Wow us I’m sure at some point in the future (oh, and let Jacob chip in some lyrics by the way, gotta have some wonderfully dry and too funny sardonic wit additions) (parentheses are mine Beck!) and be all creative know that there was a stool joke involved.

Outside, a just me and Beck text.

Beck: You’re an ass.

Me: I know.

So in the Attic, at the bottom of every post are three possible choices of other posts you can click on to maybe continue your surely glorious reading (or listening) experience as who wouldn’t want to endeavor to more right? I mean, how could you not? You’re in the Attic for God’s sake. Does it get any better? They are usually as current post similar as can be.

Below my latest post then was this one, reminding me of one of my better days from a couple of years ago (and one of my better bits) that talked of just this time of year, 4th’s of July’s and birthdays and also new stories told. A day where I actually got out of the house and hung with family and friends for a little while … and even enjoyed myself. 🙂

This was a good day.

//////////////////////////////////////////

July 4, 2021

My Sis and my Mom came down from Albany this weekend to Buck’s place in Wallkill (Buck is Beck’s guy) for a little July 4^th get together. Just a few folks, Buck’s son and daughter in-law, Scotty, a cousin of sorts and some friends, two other couples one of which I hadn’t met before but am so glad that I did as they were a too cool. Funny, relaxed, easy to join in conversation and share a silly story or two, especially Angie I think was her name, though I would need a few more get togethers to really remember it, newly introduced names can get lost sometimes in a just almost there kind of way, like car keys in your other hand. We, and Beck, talked of being crazy cat ladies (guys) among many other things.

And there was also Victor, Buck’s grandson, his daughter’s talkety talkety talkety 8 year old who regaled us with an 8 year old’s stories and brought us nothing but smiles while he held court on Buck’s patio pushing his baseball hat back and forth around his head. He even read us the story he wrote for Buck, who the kids call “Choppy” (don’t know where that comes from but certainly much better for Buck’s not old feeling piece of mind I’m sure, much better than Grandad or Grandpa) a one Victor bound with stapled pages about how Buck was 61 years old and was named “Choppy”, and maybe how that was even his given name if I remember the story correctly, like a Mom and a Dad would actually name their kid Choppy and how he bought what he thought was a house from three “sale guys” named Bob, Hazmat and Fart who actually tricked him into buying a spaceship instead that Choppy jumped out of after screaming “NOOOOOO!!!” when he realized he’d been had.

It was quite gripping, edge of your seat kinda stuff and reminded us of the wonders of 8 and the talkety, talkety, talkety that comes with that 8 especially from Victor who is fabulously good at the tellings. It was also illustrated by the author himself by the way, who made sure to note that on the title page, and of the reading of that page twice to us for emphasis.

Now I’ve mentioned this before, many times, but I don’t go out much, even less than the nothing that the last year and half forced us into if that is possible, perfectly happy to ignore the world if I can with only my furry girls, a few words here in the Attic, a Bucco game or some Sci-Fi on the tube, but I do truly enjoy going to Buck’s place and hanging with the gang, good food at the offering, MY gang and just sitting spinning stories and laughing sometimes at the stupidest of shit once I do decide it’s Ok to get my ass out of the house and relax in a bit of something people call being social.

Actually, when I got home tonight I saw Celie in her kitchen and when I told her of my day she said …

Celie: You mean you weren’t here?

Me: No

Celie: All day?

Me: Well, not since 1p when I left

Celie: You mean you left the house?

Me: Yes

Celie: Oh, good. Glad you weren’t dead up there

Me: Thanks, glad I wasn’t dead up there too

This today also included a bit of celebration of my birthday, which was a couple of days ago on the first, a celebration that just involved some ice cream cake, candles, Victor making sure to remind me not to spit on it when I blew the candles out which I assured him I wouldn’t, discussions of Fudgie the Whale and whether Carvel still made such and a few presents.

Mom seemed excited to give me hers. Now keep in mind that she is only an in the moment anymore, I’m not really sure she even remembers where this gift came from, it’s heartbreaking, but you just try to live in that moment with her.

It was a box inside one of those cool little pouches with a pretty ribbon for the sinch squeeze at the top and I’ll tell ya, in a million years, if anyone had asked me to guess what was in that box inside that cool little pouch with a pretty ribbon for the sinch squeeze I wouldn’t have guessed this. It was probably something that Beck bought for her to give to me. A Day of the Dead Sugar Skull. I kinda knew what that was, but I still had to look it up just to be sure. It was a Pittsburgh Steeler one. Yeah, apparently there are those but there ain’t no guessing that is ever going to bring you to a Pittsburgh Steeler Day of the Dead Sugar Skull birthday present from a Mom. I would have only, at best, gotten to socks or a Pirates T-shirt or maybe some underwear in the guessing.

I did though try to make sure that it fended off any unwanted spirits from around Mimi’s ass … just in case of course.

Beck also gave me a present of meat, something from her and my nephews. Yes, It was a bit of a different day when it came to the pressies. A couple of steaks and some higher end hotdogs (I do love hotdogs so that one was well received) and they weren’t actually hotdogs but were “Wieners”.

I know huh? Fancy.

Victor giggling: “Wieners”

With ya Victor. If I’m 8, “wieners” is some pretty funny stuff, hell I’m 57 now and “wieners” still makes me laugh.

Victor: That’s funny that they’re called wieners. Hey Ms Becca (what he calls my Sis) where did we buy these?

Beck: At BJ’s.

We all erupted in laughter, with a quizzical Victor wondering why the hell that was so funny.

Other Victor’s from the day?

—

He had gone fishing with Scotty, that Buck cousin of sorts I mentioned earlier, cousin through marriage kind of thing I think, though that stuff, extended family ties and the labeling of such eventually just confuses me.

Me: How’d ya do guys?

Scotty: He was the man! Just kept catching ’em.

Beck: How many Victor?

Victor: Somewhere around more than 9.

—

He and his Uncle Neil braved the pool, I say braved as today was a bit on the chilly side for July. When they got out, Victor came to the blue-lipped realization that wearing a T-Shirt always seems like a good idea at first until you get out of the pool to a breeze.

Neil’s wife Siobhan (the coolest of names): How was it?

Neil: (cavalierly) It was fine. Not too bad.

Victor: No words just a cold askance wet shirt raised eyebrow look that shiveringly said Uncle Neil you’re a freakin’ nut job! That was cold!!

– —

Victor: I’m gonna wrap a potato with potato eyes in some paper and give it to my Dad like a present.

Me: Why?

Victor: Potato eyes freak him out.

Me: Really?

Victor: Yeah.

Me: I love this kid

—

While he was head down in the ice cream cake he made sure I didn’t spit on in the candle blowing?

Victor: Thank you for having a birthday.

Me: Ummm … well you’re welcome my friend. I’m thankful of having a birthday as well.

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Yes, I’m thankful of birthdays Victor even if they add a new number every year that I’d prefer not to think about but sometimes they come with good days of actually getting out of the house, Pittsburgh Steeler sugar skulls, unexpected hot dogs (wieners … giggle giggle), new friends and funny small stories.

Cheers all,

My Sis called me just now on her way to see her guy, Buck, who is in death’s throes of sniffles and coughs and lack of sleep hallucinations, all those symptoms of impending death that only a Beck hovering can cure to wish me a Happy Birthday. #59 and not counting, though of course, there it is, counting.

Son of a bitch.

But talking to her just now reminded me of last year when, for said birthday (#58 then and not counting) she got me a little care package from Adam’s Market, one that included a murder balloon.

My post then from then.

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July 10, 2022

So, my Sis got me a few things from Adam’s last week for my birthday. A surprise bit of groceries from a fave place that came with a balloon. Apparently, no matter how old you are you can still get balloons.

But it was a homicidal balloon, or murder balloon as Beck named it, immediately trying to kill me on my way home with my open windows and too loud music (no, the music wasn’t a balloon issue, I’ve just been loud lately) bouncing, wrapping, blocking view, everything it could do to make me dead. It even took a look outside like some tongue hanging dog balloon before it got back to its nefarious balloon nefariousness.

When I got home, evil balloon plan seemingly thwarted it proceeded to kill one of my fans instead, wrapping itself around the fans throat.

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Stopped at Home Depot for a new fan yesterday, answering the unasked question of how much someone’s gift for your birthday can cost YOU? 50 bucks in this case, but that’s not your bad Beck.

I mean, what are you gonna do with homicidal balloons right?

There was though, this. New fans come in boxes. Blind cats find boxes. Blind cats get comfy in found boxes.

Fuck you balloon.