If you ever pitch to me and I discover that you’re out of shape and have a bad knee, I’m going to lay a bunt down the third base line that will expose to millions of people watching television that you’re totally unable to throw me out.
I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, as you and I rarely find ourselves in head-to-head matchups any longer, and anyway, you can’t get the ball over the plate. Nor can I bunt. But even knowing this, you get all bent out of shape each time I metaphorically square up.
If you really hate it that much why don’t you just throw at me?
I doubt it will be a problem to get out of the way of your 45 mile-an-hour “fast” ball. And anyway, I’ll be wearing military helmet and bullet-proof face shield. And I’ll deploy a missile defense system to shoot down your softballs, just in case.
One or two columnists might write a few inches calling us both jerks, but many people (mostly lawyers) will defend me vociferously, saying that I’m just doing my job by laying down that proverbial bunt. And that, let’s face it, you’re not exactly spritely any longer.
Heading to the proverbial batting cages to work on my metaphorical squaring up, and all that.
People often ask my agents how many statues I own. Like my agents are really going to answer that question! Of course, their non-answers cause the imagination of the average person to run wild with possibilities. Rumors get started about the large number of monuments to past historical figures I have erected right there in my backyard, and which of them I’m going to get rid of at bargain basement prices.
“I’ve heard he’s got statues of Jean-Claude Killy and Raymond Flynn!”
Sorry, not selling those so just get the idea out of your head. Anyway, most people have their own statues of Ray Flynn. Or at least one or two statuettes, or a bobblehead, or just an old cracked wallet photo.
But the fake lies of the news media make it seem like I’m the only person in the world to have life sized statues of both Bill Clinton and George Clinton in his garden. Yeah, right! I’d like to go into the backyards of some these reporters and see who they're honoring. Probably war heros who really aren't war heros at all because they got captured. In fact I bet you'd find some very bad people being honored. On both sides.
Not to change the subject, but have I told you that my winery is one of the largest in the country?
If you’re like me, you’ve never lost a password in your life. Or a critical file. Because you backup everything several times a week, just in case. And when the IT people at work offer to upgrade your computer to a more recent operating system, you know not to panic, even though it means that everything on that computer will be erased.
Anyway, it’s not like you don’t know the password of your very own website. Like, if you wanted to go into your website and post a blog, you would be able to do so from anywhere in the world on any computer because your password is stored in your own physical memory up there in your powerful brain.
The above cautionary tale will help you understand why I’m so relieved that mhp multimedia developed and supports my website. Because Stephen Wilcox, founder of mhp multimedia and all-around great guy, quickly fixed my headaches and had me logging into my site, which allowed me to post this blog entry.
I’m sure you’ve been thinking about starting your own blog to compete with mine (good luck with that!), but I’m so confident my blog will kick your blog’s butt that I challenge you to a “blog off.” But first, you probably should contact Steve to see what he can do to get you set up.
There is nothing I find more moving in the world than actually picking up and moving. Because when you move, all your stuff gets wrapped in puckered cloth and tied up with miles of plastic tape. And suddenly it’s a fascinating work of art. You come to see that these are not movers clomping through your home, but conceptual artists, and you finally understand Cristo and wonder, hmmm, maybe he started out as a mover.
One thing I’ve learned about moving: lots of stuff gets boxed and then forgotten, until the next move. How do I know this? As it turns out, I’ve moved before. And I will admit that I’ve stood by and watched things get boxed even though I knew full well that I would never take these things out of their dark tombs, until it would be time to move again and therefore time to open the dusty box that arrived all those years ago to see if there’s anything inside of interest. Or simply have it moved again without bothering to look inside.
I’ve seen how boxed items can sit on a shelf for years, decades even, which someone is paying for. Not as a line item per se, but paid-for by virtue of the space that your boxed junk is occupying in a corner of your attic. That space may feel free, but it’s really not. According to a dry-cleaner I went to a few times, “Nothing is free!” The dry cleaner posted this sign because apparently someone had asked her to sew a button on a blouse, but didn’t expect to pay for it.
Well, before you know it, you’re dead and your kids have to hire a guy to come and dispose of all those precious 1940s commonplace wall sconces you were unwilling to part with so they can sell your old cranky house. And after opening boxes and looking at all the rubbish therein, everyone has a good laugh, even the junk removal dude. And then they start to weep bitterly because it turns out that you really were a pretty good guy.
There’s a bad novel in there somewhere.