So Then Sunday Twice – Apologies From Guyville

So Then Sunday Twice – Apologies From Guyville

Every now and then I’ll do a random dive in the Attic, pick a month in the scroll down and then read whatever that month had to say “back in the day”, see just where I was at when I wasn’t old or at least when standing back up from a sit down with Bella now and a cat toy or crumpled paper ball or two wasn’t such a grunty, breathy production.


October of 2009. (Sadly it seems, as you will read, I have regressed back to pre-relationship days as the underwear I’m currently sporting are, again, ready to give up the ghost).

Apologies from Guyville

October 8, 2009

This entry in the “Attic” is really nothing more than a self observation and a note to my Maria because, as write this, I’m noticing that I’m very much in Guyville. I realize it’s stereotypical and it’s been written of and performed about in comedy so much so that it’s become boringly cliché’ but I’m in desperate need of a shave, I’m wearing a ratty t-shirt from, I think, my college days, old flannel pajamas that have holes that show glimpses of me that don’t need to be seen, not even by myself, and the underwear I have on are one thread away from not just falling off, but from simply ceasing to exist.

Shoes (the cat) is licking the condensation off the beer can and I’ve got on two socks that don’t match (they don’t just “not match,” by the way, one of them I don’t even think was designed for the human foot but seemed clean this morning). I’m definitely in Guyville but the problem is, of course, that I’m not the sole inhabitant of this mismatched sock shanty town.

When I think about it the women in our lives certainly deserve way more credit than we give them because they continue to be the women in our lives as we roam around the house in just such outfits. When my Maria is in and just “around the house” she still looks quite fetching while I, as I’ve just described, look like a schlub. So a thank you is in order first and then, secondly, a plea is also in order to not toss the stuff if I promise to not answer the door in them, bible holders nothwithstanding, though that can be some fun

I guess there is a comfort in these clothes that goes back to the genuine days of Guyville when I was by myself and just looked forward to being done with the day. Schlubbing at the end of it was always in order even if I didn’t wear anything all that nice during said day in the first place. There is also laziness but I won’t go there as that’ll just open up a whole new can of schlubness when Maria reads this.

There is too the comfort of being together with someone but that can lead to complacency and I’m doing my best to not take that for granted and instead remember, as I said earlier, that I don’t exist as the sole inhabitant of my world now. I haven’t been reading any relationship self help books or sappy novels, sorry Oprah, but I can safely assume that looking like a schlub during most of the time that is spent together isn’t all that great in fostering togetherness.

So what I’m going to do now is be proactive and finally let my underwear no longer exist and instead find a pair that I didn’t buy, like 200 years ago in a super K-Mart while also picking up steaks, beer, lawn chairs and a leaf blower. I think it’s also high time that I retire some of the said ratty t-shirts and jammies (“jammies”, yes, I’m still a child at heart) and instead find a nice three piece outfit of new t-shirt, new pajamas, sans holes, and new socks that weren’t worn by an animal at some point to keep it from chewing off its’ own foot. Then I will finish my attic thoughts, find a razor and remind my Maria that she still and always looks quite fetching “around the house.”

Plus Shoes has finally finished licking the condensation off the beer can and instead has decided that something in my overgrown face looks interesting.

It’s time to exit Guyville. Now where’s that razor… “Ouch Shoes! that’s skin!”…


So Then Sunday: She Said (Old T-Shirt) (song)

As with last week and a So Then Sunday this is something from finding an instrumental at our production site that I liked and writing/singing to it.

Something about exes.

From last March.

She said where have you been because ya seem lost

Feel like I’m living a fever dream but at what cost

Where you’re here one day then gone the next is this a test

I’m even wearing that old T-shirt that you liked the best

But is it yours or mine I’m not quite sure

Did I even one time even know this band I forget the tour

Found it on the floor newly washed I’m sure I think it’s yours

But you’re somewhere gone I think I must report you lost

We used to be on page in the same book

And you would give me looks to make me bend around with you

And send me stars as dots to connect of how you and I were them

Until we reached the moon no lookin’ back just … postcards to send 

She said we sillied with the best of them

Made others envy green when they couldn’t contend with us they bled

That green and not just in the month of March is what they jigged

You’d make us angry year round if we could only ever be mad at you …

But you’re missing now … she said

What’s happened to you … where is your head

But you’re missing now … she said

What place do you go … one that isn’t our stead

You’re missing now … she said

Is it a place where I can bring you back now from the dead


I guess this T-Shirt’s mine now is what she says

I think I might just even have to wear it to bed

But not with thoughts of you if that’s somehow in your head

No I won’t be wearin’ it long … that’s what he said

No it’ll hit the floor running as he gives me looks   

To bend around with him in writing pages fresh book

And he sends me new stars on new trips to the moon

Where all is small, lost is not found

We’ll send postcards soon

Mock It Up (song)

I’ve struck out a couple of times in the last few weeks of trying to build a new musical editorial in the Attic. A couple of song attempts that sounded right sung in my head but in actuality? Not so much.

So a one here then that worked out a bit better.

Oh, and it mocks Jim Jordan, a man worthy of nothing more than a good mock, so there is that.

To Elvis Costello’s “Pump It Up”

Mock It Up

Jim Jordan feels import

Says this is of utmost

Importance of a sort

He gets to what is his real sport

Saying gov is weapon sent

While he’s Jim sweaty bent

Fig’ring new distractions

Nothing else matters

Mock it up

Even though we don’t need it

Fog it up

Distractions we feel it

Says gov weaponized

But not in the right right light

If you’re gonna weaponize

We want it with a left left prize

So we can order lives

Get “others” all in line

Mock it up

We’ll fake it and sell it

Fluff it up

Distractions fall for it


Jims been a bad girl

Livin’ in his Trumpy world

Does what he can

To make truth go in a whirl

Living Trump bat ass unhinged

This’ll truly make ya cringe

Sycophant I’ll call you sir

Run through border walls I’m yours

Mock it up

We work in post truth now

Muddy up

Jim Congress waste time now

Now in a passion show

Start demanding DA’s show

Papers bout the real blow

To great leader you should know

We’ll keep him above the law

Not right to hold him account

He came to us from down the mount

We’ll make sure law for him don’t count

Mock it up

We work in post truth now

Fog it up

Jim Congress waste time now

Mock it up

There’s only our truth now

Muddy up

Making point to waste time now

Mock it up

We will make up the rules now

Fuck it up

G O P new false truth now

New post truth now

Different set of rules now

New post truth now

Call ourselves Ruth now

Hit homer for Trump now

Clear bases of truth now

Prayer call the lord and how

Charlatans gather up now

Cause god is Trumps cow

Call for pro-tests here and now

Insurrection again now 

So Then Sunday: Flat Earth (song)

Another try at creating a song from a production site instrumental that I did back in October. I’ve always really liked this one but I’m not quite sure why.

Flat Earth

I looked out onto the water

To a horizon that’s always just one crest away

It keeps stretching getting further

With every stroke ta-ken

Till soon a-gain  



Another day now

To leave me wonder

Do I even know what I want there

If I swim out

To the edge now

Skirting sea demons

But still fall off of this flat earth

Into space

What would I hope to find

Maybe a lover

From my immor-tal days

One blithely left behind to fend her heart’s ways

Maybe my father and a proper goodbye

Say sorry for not being there not looking to the


Or maybe Mother have her wake from her daze

And maybe recognize the world once again

Or am I just treading waves hoping they hold

Long enough

To skirt more demons

Before I fall

I looked again now

Onto the water

Horizon still always just one crest away

It keeps stretching getting further

With every stroke ta-ken

Till soon a-gain 


Maybe there’s still more air to gasp

Grasp and flail swim up from beneath the heavy waves

Back from off the edge of a flat earth

From space  

And swim back

Take on sea demons face to face

Dearest Son: Facebook Memory of an Unintentional Helmet Safety PSA

Facebook did its “memories” thing again the other day going back four years and reminding me of an unintentional PSA of motorcycle helmet safety.


Dearest Son (licensed dirt/road bike),

Mother and I wanted to let you know that that wheelie you felt the need to perform alongside a gentleman’s car from one traffic light until he pulled off just before the next (maybe a quarter mile or so) where he stopped for a to-go from Popeye’s for his dinner? It was quite impressive, as juvenile feats of stupidity go, especially as the kids may like just this sort of thing these days. We don’t know, being old an out of touch of course, as you always remind us.

Ahhhhhh, youth. But, at least, keep wearing that helmet son. We know it may soon come in handy though we pray not. We love you after all.

The gang at Popeye’s, when the gentleman relayed this quick story, while ordering his 5 piece, mild not spicy, spicy hasn’t sat well lately, all agreed that your worried manhood shouldn’t hinder you from future displays of the same such stupidity. They may even offer an extra piece of chicken for the laugh. But again though, the helmet, please, always the helmet. We’re also SOOO relieved that you didn’t fall after that tire hung in the air for such a long stretch. But at least you can sleep well knowing that that gentleman’s car was small. It might not have been that much of a bump … bump … anyway, if things had gone awry.

Don’t forget to continue to send us postcards from stupid by the way. Your mother and I treasure them. And your handwriting has gotten so much better.


Ps. Please try to impress someone other than an another gentleman in an unimpressive car by the way. Your mother would love grandchildren.

Pss. I think I’ve got the gout. Mother is a little worried.

Letters to Ron: The Courage To Be Free As Long As Free’s What He Decrees – The Fascist EP (3 songs)

Thought I’d get these tunes in one spot before I possibly have to register with the State and put myself on a list.

Love letters can be hard.


“BANG BANG BANG!!” (at the door)

“Yeah, hold your tall boots, I’m comin’” …



“Back away Sir! You’re on a list!”

“Hey! What the … ?!”

“I mean it! Back away SIR! … grab his electronics Jed.”

“What is this all ab …”

“Don’t make me use this Sir, I’m quite good with it and it’s heavy. If there are children grab them Roscoe, we have that school.”

“But … a list?!”

“You’re to register, by law … but we already know you … I said step back SIR!! … you can no longer question or criticize.”

“But it’s not a law yet. DeSantis even disavowed it.”

“Did he really? Does he really disagree with it? Optics. It’s out there. Just the threat is out there. Smart operator that guy huh? … Clyde if the cat gives you any trouble open a door … c’mon sir, let’s go.


Danger Ron (Mighty Mouse DeSantis Theme Song)

Mr Crow he never hangs around

When he hears this frightnin’ sound

“Here I come to save white day”

That means that Danger Ron is on the way

Yes, when histry’s taught not solely white     

Danger Ron will pick a fight

Say no classroom legit’macy

Of lessers having part of history

It’s a clear and present danger

To the ex-ceptional

Rewrite he will instead to fit right’s call

(right’s call, truth’s fall, white’s tall, patriots)

Free thought’s only his to decide

To all others he will deride

Thoughts of inclusivity

Danger Ron’ll even ban diversity


He just flies in now to save us all

From real truth that can’t stand tall

Against Danger Ron’s fascist tries

He’ll sure cut the lessers down to size


Woke Hopes (little dictator song)

Next time you’re told

To be woke isn’t bold

By a Ronnie who scolds

Know he just trolls  

Just what makes little dictator rant

About some things that he says ya just can’t

Eyes open to inclusion now

A weakness you can’t allow

But we’ve got woke hopes

We’ve got woke hopes

Hopes not turning blind eye to the “other” folks

But when you need a bigot’s screed

To tell you what truth’s to heed

Just remember his rant

Ohhhhh …

Ooops, there goes another Ronnie slam

How being hu-man is just another scam

Ooops, there goes the truth a now also ran

Ronnie now calls

To his herd of mind smalls

That they must all stand tall  

Or think to brawls

Now Ronnie says CRT is just crap

Doesn’t fit his supremacist rap

His white kin they were ex-cep-tional

Racism don’t even track

Cause he’s denier of truth

With slaves country didn’t build roof

And if you say otherwise

Laws he’ll pass making rights go poof  

So anytime you hear Ron speak

Know his white’s been tweaked

And he just won’t couch for that

Ohhhhh …

Ooops, there goes some more to demonize

Inclusive compassion that’s a bunch a lies

Ooops, here goes some hate to try on for size    


Ron threatens anyone who don’t agree

With his hist’ry tree

Don’t be of them and not we

Ohhhhh …

Ooops, there goes another truth to turn

Ooops, there goes another book to burn  

Ooops, there goes democracy to be spurned

Mm Mm


The DeSantis He Can

Alright everybody

Gather round DeSantis man is here

Now what kinda country he want?

Ignorant, compliant, revised history, brainwashed

A Fourth Reich?

He’s working on a right plan because only DeSantis can

Who can take agenda (who can take agenda)

Of a fascist POTUS dream (a fascist POTUS dream)

Put it into practice Flor-ida a test run scheme

The Ronnie can (the Ronnie can)

Oooh DeSantis he can (DeSantis he can)

DeSantis he can

Test there his despot plan, prove self a new strongman

Who can make the classroom (who can make the classroom)

A site of culture wars (a site of culture wars)

Make them a battleground to settle whitey grievance scores

The Ronnie can (the Ronnie can)

DeSantis he can (DeSantis he can)

DeSantis projects into classroom learning texts

Indoctrination’s pre-text

And then he just bakes everything at stake

A vision’s cake of normal crumblin’

He’ll make the gays and blacks go runnin’

Applaud him please for his true cunnin’

Ohhhh who can fudge the numbers (who can fudge the numbers) 

Of a shit COVID response (a shit COVID response)

And jackboot whistleblowers who point that out at once

The Ronnie can (the Ronnie can)

Oooh DeSantis he can (DeSantis he can)

Collateral damage was always part of the plan 

No worries if base at hand

And then he put the brakes on election takes

That his was one of real gold standard

Integrity it must be mastered

The big lie being votes true bastard

Yeah Yeah Yeah

Who can add police force (who can add police force)

For this claimed integrity (this claimed integrity)

And have it to intimidate new SS just for he

The Ronnie can (the Ronnie can)

Oooh DeSantis he can (DeSantis he can)

DeSantis he can Democracy it’s not the plan

Fourth Reich new Uncle Sam

DeSantis he can even take a Disney stand

Free speech an also ran

DeSantis can

DeSantis can

DeSantis he caaaannn

DeSantis can

DeSantis can

DeSantis he caaaannn

Alright everybody

That was nice

Break it up now

It’s curfew

Go home

Stay straight

Stay white

Of Radio Engineers, Cat Crunchy Paper & Possible Spaceships

Downstairs at the station on Monday was a recent package for Tom, one of our engineer guys, possibly the tallest radio engineer guy on the East Coast which means absolutely nothing here, he’s just pretty tall, thought I’d mention it.

It was a big box, with lots of smaller boxes of surely important and expensive radio equipment stuff, smaller boxes of radio thingy’s and whatchamacallits that Tom would recognize in an engineer way that would eventually be replacements for old thingy’s and whatchamacallits or be completely new additions, or maybe even be part of the bridge controls for a spaceship Tom was building on the station’s dime on the down low to get him the hell out of here, but conduits to buttons that I would probably at some point push (or not push – depending on the yellow post-its with pointed arrows that say “Frankenberry Don’t Push This”).

Noted I thought, but I just used the word “eventually” earlier as to installation of all of this so I was good for the moment to not concern myself with personal yellow post-it notes just yet, but notice instead the more important aspect of what was also in this big box, with the lots of smaller boxes of surely important radio equipment stuff, the smaller boxes of thingy’s, and whatchamacallits that Tom would recognize and come with soon post-it warnings for me (though I might try and stow away on his spaceship to get the hell out of here as well – hopefully he brings post-its, I mean, it’s a spaceship … waaaay more important to note buttons I shouldn’t push out there, in space, where spaceships go – wouldn’t want to accidentally send us hurtling into a sun or something because that particular “send you hurtling into a sun” button didn’t have a simple post-it note telling me NOT to push it).

There was brown packing paper, lots of brown packing paper, or more famously (for me and Bella) “crunchy paper”.

I was excited! Crazy cat lady guy excited! (been a while since I had refreshed the crunchy paper, the old paper rolled around on and slept on scratched on and cat puked on and cat toy played on so much by my little Bella that it was now nothing more than cloth soft paper tatters).

I asked Tom if he thought he might need any of this “crunchy paper” for possible returns and if not, could I have it … for my cat.

He looked quizzically, annoyedly and in his usual “why are you bothering me Frankenberry?” kind of way, the way he often does when looking at me (he most probably being the one most understandably responsible for those yellow post-it notes in the first place) and said “Sure” hoping I would just leave his office as quickly as possible.


I thanked Tom earlier today for my Bella, told him Bella said I must, and even showed him pictures, like any crazy cat lady guy worth their catnip would, that he feigned interest in like a real trooper instead of just looking at me again quizzically, again annoyedly and again in his usual “why are you bothering me Frankenberry?” kind of way and said “You’re welcome?” hoping, once more, that I would just leave his office as quickly as possible (got a spaceship to work on man! and don’t you dare try to stowaway, don’t know if post-its stick so well in space!).

New crunchy paper Bella!!

Tom says “You’re welcome” by the way.

“Crunch Crunch Crunch”

Small Milestones

Been working in the Attic for going on 14 years now, first at Blogspot back in 2009 and my first post there (though there were plenty of thoughts before that of course just without a space – without an Attic) and for the last few years at Word Press. There is nothing better than a place to call home and put a rambled rambling head on “paper” no matter who may or may not stop by and mind their noggins (duck at the top of the stairs by the way … I’m always hitting my head at that last step).

Reached a bit of milestone today (with help from some friends to get me over the top) as I hit 10,000 views.

Now this number is miniscule comparatively speaking in the grandness of the internet, I’m a blink in a one traffic light, one general store, one bar town kinda way, small, but it still hits home and reminds me that there are some eyeballs out there, some earballs for a tune or two, that I can continue to move forward with, with the silly or the profound or thought to be profound, move forward with the dumb or the smart (they jockey back and forth) or even maybe make a point or two on occasion.

And the cool thing about Word Press is that it shows you numbers and the places they come from, Finland, Pakistan, Australia, Sweden, England, Canada, Portugal, Spain, Russia, Ireland, my god you’ve gone international, China et al (seems I have at least a few fans there) and that one of them maybe recently did a dive and found this one from last April, a pretty good one I’d like to think.

Of Spring … (and cats and dogs and dead snakes)

Not quite there yet on the Spring thing but it’ll come and it’ll be open window glorious (right Bella? right Cricket?) with some new words surely for my little circle of worldwide friends.

So Then Sunday: Ballpark (audio post)

Well baseball is back. Usually this would cause me to excitement, my “finally we’re out of the doldrums of Winter” yearly mark, pitchers and catchers, even with Winters no longer being the Winters we knew (it’s real dumbasses) making me look to my too many years old glove next to the TV under another offseason worth of dust, shake it off, give it a wipe, rinse repeat for so many years and so look forward to the Spring and the Summer it promises.

Though it won’t be the same game, my “looking forward” taking a serious hit (Rob Manfred has made sure of that) numbers now soon to be skewed, extra inning games off the table for me for good, a large grain of salt taken in the new ABB (after big bag) / AS (after shift) era, a cheapened version of a national treasure, but I am still an addict.

An addict who will still buy my single team package however much the checkbook pop, again. I will though miss those extra games against division foes now lost to a balanced schedule (sorry, don’t care of matchups with the Royals or the Tigers or even the Yankees, heck, even less the Yankees actually).

Anyway, a reminder of my always love of the game, a So Then Sunday, an audio post from last September after catching a game with Jeremiah Johnsen after too long a time.

If I would rank things of mine, this would be up there.

So a few nights ago I watched the best ballgame of the season, for me at least, with my MLBTV subscription, something I’ve paid for every year since its inception to catch my beloved out of town boys, even when I couldn’t afford it, which has been often. Now as a Pittsburgh Pirates fan it’s not really all that difficult to differentiate between the other “best ballgames of the season” that have come before this one as, well, like I said, I’m a Pittsburgh Pirates fan, there haven’t really been a whole lot to choose from, not a lot to “Raise the Jolly Roger” to in too infrequent texts to my Sis these days, after a win, our thing, even the not so memorable ones, any victory, especially since the All Star Break this year can be considered memorable I guess.  

There was the sweeping the Dodgers in LA for the first time since someone from a Darwin text first started grabbing sticks and hitting stones with ’em (though probably more just simple defense from the stones being thrown AT them from others in a Darwin text – no game yet, not quite, but maybe thoughts a bubblin’). We split a couple with the dreaded hated Yankees earlier in the season when they came down from the Death Star to visit Pittsburgh and get some thick breaded sandwiches with thicker fries and coleslaw on ‘em ‘n that and we did get back at and have a sweep of the Brewers who have owned us in a we’ll wear leather and spikes and hold a whip, you put on this mask kind of way for the longest of time.

But there hasn’t really been any other singular game moment to crow about, or to parrot Pirate squalk “aarrgghh matey’s” about from my shoulder until this one, just the waiting for late August and September to finally see some of the young Bucco’s of the future on a rebuilding team finally being allowed to play regularly, after dead weight DFA off the heap claim roster fills have finally been cast off, and show me some hope that I haven’t felt in , well longer than a while.

That waiting paid off with this “best game”, a combined one hit shutout highlighted by an electric kid’s nasty stuff, Luis Ortiz in his MLB debut. This game was hope. A long suffering Pirate fans hope


Now I’ve been a Pirate fan since I first discovered baseball, right around the time when they won only their second of three World Series since the cold war, only two in my lifetime and I was watching this “best” game with two different pairs of glasses, one for the close of the Tablet sitting to my left with the game and the other for distance of the TV for the almost good bad bad good movie I was also watching, that needing two pairs of glasses old now lifetime long.

It was Granddad who turned me black and gold when Grandma would allow me, and only me for some reason, to sit with him on some weekends when we would go to visit the two of them and the aunts and the uncles and the cousins. I’ve often joked that watching sports with Granddad back then (sometimes baseball or often bowling) usually with me sitting cross legged on the floor and he in his big chair in the big living room of a big old dusty breezy house was where I learned how to curse and throw shit at the tube, maybe consider a bowling team when I got to High School and be a Pittsburgh fan. Some Steelers yes, but most importantly the Pirates.


Went down to Citifield over the weekend for the first time since 2018, a yearly pilgrimage for a best of best friend of mine and I, Jeremiah, starting back In 2005 but paused in 2019 for what, I don’t remember what, though it must have been a something to cause a pause in a 14 year run and then came the the. Pandemics and useless 60 game seasons that I didn’t’ watch a single inning of for the first and only time in my long baseball fan life and then another year where I wasn’t ready just yet for not quite done pandemic crowds.  


We thought, back in ’05, a trip down to Queens and still Shea Stadium back then, would be a cool get together moment for a new morning show crew and we eventually played fetching verbal tag with a group of pretty young women, out on their own cool get together moment in seats so far up and away from the field that we were like in baseball clouds. We knew there was a game going on somewhere down on earth, in between the lines, but we played this fetching instead and had such a time. Couldn’t even tell you who won that one. Baseball has that way, a way to make you sort of forget things even though you knew, a mine vs yours, or a mine vs them, as long as it was being played somewhere near you and you were there meandering, meandering with it as baseball wondrously meanders and you talking and laughing and paying attention on occasion.

But this past weekend Jeremiah and I caught a game again, finally, after these too many years, ones that sneak up on you and have you think of windows closing more than you’d like, years, and “breaking out the fancy chairs tonight” he said in his driveway with a lugging to the car fancy parking lot chairs for lounging pre-game dog grilling and sauerkraut heatin’ in a cat’s water bowl (hey, it’s what I had on hand. It worked for the warmin’ is enough as a good baseball hot dog don’t do cold sauerkraut) and upscale beers and spicy mustard awaitin’ some hot dog buns. And not just regular hot dog buns on this night mind you, no siree Bucco, but brioche hot dog buns, this was an occasion after all, you break out the brioche for an occasion I guess. I know. Nice touch right? I thought the same even though I have no idea what brioche is, other than it just ain’t some regular white bread fashioned as a hot dog bun. It’s fancy sounding where hot dogs ain’t fancy.


Everyone was asleep, or close to it as I grabbed that one seat at the back of the car, at now a quite happily baseball night spent almost 1 in the morning that allows you to ride WITH the train and with no one behind you, not ride backwards as some do. I don’t know how people sit in the “backwards” seats as traveling with your back to wherever you’re going is just so unsettling to me. Maybe if you’re with company, for the distraction Ok, but if you’re not with company as is always the case for me on nights like this you just grab that one seat, at the back, that one first step in if you can, that one one that points you forward.


Next to Jeremiah and I tonight was a family. A Mom and a Dad and five kids, all tremendously good looking, cover of a family magazine good looking, almost unfairly so to all the regular ol’ families out there, Mom and Dad troopers that took the gang out for a night at the ballpark all around 7 or 8 or younger, and did it so well that I wanted to go back to a trophy store that JJ and I had passed on our way and buy them just one javelin lookin’ throwing gold idol prize or something similar and say well done, maybe even engrave their names that I didn’t know on it. I wanted to buy them their own ice cream too that I watched dad so gingerly walk with, balancing five, while I was in the concourse on line for the loo. What a team these two were with this five. And that would be the emphasis of the story in that family magazine they were featured on the cover of by the way “How to balance five children at a ballgame and look good and accomplished while you’re doing it”.

Jeremiah noted to me that he didn’t think he could do that, have so many kids, his thoughts equally distracted and focused by the fact that he is in the family way, he and his better half, Britney, just a few month to go now, or 12 or so weeks in babyness parlance and he’s scared to death in the best and most understandable of possible ways.

Then Rodolfo Castro got a hit (I love that guy) not a lot of that kind of Pirate thing was happening on this night so I had moment for a hard clap clap into my glove and a holler of “you go Rodolfo!!” and before you ask, yes, I brought my glove as I have for every game since I was 13 at that double header with Dad and Granddad, where I met John Candelaria courtesy of a homemade Candelaria jersey and a chance bumping into his suddenly excited and beaming parents as we were heading out of the ballpark, mom spinning me around to show her husband the back of this “jersey” maybe realizing for the first time what their son had achieved to reach all the way to the suburbs and to some 13 year old kid who spent his hard pedaled earned bicycle paperboy money to fashion a sort of jersey of his favorite ballplayer and then head to a game, two of them (what a bonus that was) with a Dad and a Grandad, to show it off with glove in hand.

You’re never too old to bring your glove to the ballpark.

Just like then I still dream of foul balls.


After so many years of not doing this and so many years of not caring to do things LIKE this, I am famously anti-social in my own small circle these days, I finally let myself go a little bit. Train rides on the way down along a gloriously sun glinted Hudson River next to happy laughing college girls with some adventure waiting in the City while sportin’ the coolest of old school kicks, smiling couples being smiling couples with their own anticipated adventures in store and babies singing baby “La-La” songs, singing singing singing and bouncing at the front of the car with an on top of the world Mom & Dad showing bouncing baby off to strangers on a train but not in a dark mystery way, maneuverings through people in a packed stadium playing my soon 100 loss boys no less, as, of course, a playoff push will fill the seats no matter the competition, a multitude of too many folks almost but I endured for baseball’s sake, a ballpark’s sake, ordering a couple of beers from a tiny woman behind fried heat lamped somethings and beer taps who noted my birthday when I jokingly said my license read “Old dude” and admonished me ever not so slightly for her and I sharing a birth year “Hey, we’re not old!” with a pointed wagging finger.

I realized then that, though I don’t really do people anymore, they still have their moments.

That small woman gave me a fist bump before I left to go back to my seat, but with a smiling glare, a double fist bump as a matter of fact to our shared 1964 and the not feeling old, I mean, you can’t be old at a ballgame now can ya?


I didn’t completely talk Jeremiah off the ledge of thinking too much of the wonderful and the frightening and the down the roads but maybe I at least made him back up a bit on it, he knowing that I’m not totally unfamiliar with fresh off the line new baby models replete with working horns and racing stripes after having spent the first 5 years of my nephew Jake’s squirmy, screamy, grabby, happy, poopy existence in a house shared by his Mom (my sis), myself and my brother, the two of us playing Daddy-Uncles and I followed that almost immediately with another youngin’ just in the next stage of youngin’ evolution from 6 into the early teens with Jagger (The JG) and his Mom and I wrote of him and all of us quite often.

I was probably not really any good at this as I look back now, look back a long way as both Jake and JG are in their beginning 20’s, or maybe I was Ok for my short stints as both of them are really fine, smart and most importantly just good young men, but I did at least earn a couple of chops along the way, and an I love you and an I hate you and an I love you or two, so maybe enough cred there to at least get JJ’s toes off their curl on the edge.

I know it sounds silly, but baseball did this, it’s where this best of friendships really first began and this weekend it got me and him in a place where we could talk after too long a time as we always could and did at the ballpark, in a dog grilling parking lot, in a couple of really nice seats with cool strangers as momentary companions and especially on the ride “home” to a train station and a sit down at a little pub in Hastings waiting for the 12:27am, it got me out of the house, finally, reminded me of those multitudes at a ballpark, of life, of a Mom and Dad worthy of trophies and an extra ice cream they didn’t get to enjoy at the game after spreading it around, but maybe a reach into the freezer at home after a gang finished and in bed and toes then met on a couch sharing a spoon and a tired knowing nod to a night well done and spent.

You’ll be good JJ. I have absolutely no worries there, you’ll be really good. And maybe in a couple of years we’ll go back and do this again, you and I and Britney and a newbie, Grant, a name I’ve been told to expect and you’ll be the guy who catches a foul ball with a baby in his arms and makes the big screen in center field for replays and the best of “Awwwww” moments from a packed ballpark.

Thanks for the start Grandad, and I did do some bowling on a High School club team just to let you know, not very well, but I did.

Greene Crackers Part II

Back in December of 2021 I thought to a little fun and a dig at Margie Q Greene, someone who deserves as many “digs” as can be thrown her way, gotta point out the nutters, the ignorance that endangers us and our democracy as often as possible right?

A version of the Green Acres theme song, “Greene Crackers”.

Just some simple little pointed stuff.

Well, I thought again (yeah, I need to stop doing that, the thoughting, nothing but trouble) this time to updating it, to making it more current.

Still just some simple little pointed stuff.

Greene Crackers Part II

Greene Crackers has more thoughts you see

Though that leads to scary possibilities

Now she wants red states simply to secede

With no thinking who it is that pays for all their needs

Margie Greene crackers howls ironical  

How libs are fascist devils taking us to hell

They try to be inclusive but their woke’s a death knell

To her Christ white oppression in her genuine fascist spell


Libs fought


Libs shot

Autocracy’s wife

Marge fascist right

Greene Crackers she wants there