Sounds fishy to me.........

I sit here, pretty much, 365 days a year. No, not 24/7, but, there comes a time within the day, I land my happy ass on this chair.

I drive to/fro work, and thinka crap to write about. I lay in bed, PRAYING for an idea - something that will hopefully sparkle, keep you interested, keep you here… draw an occasional comment.

I’m striking out tonight.

Perhaps my favorite ‘striking out’ story of alltime.. Back in the day.. I was a mebbe very ok (perty damn good for our hometown) baseball player… Way before the days of competitive baseball, moms in vans with shoe polish painted rear windows “We’re going to Nationals!”, or “Go Mudcats!”…….

We played our little hometown schedule… filled with kids that shouldn’t oughta been there… We kicked some booty, but shoulda…

We were 12. Enda the summer, adjoining town invites our All-Stars, to face their All-Stars. Pumped. Excited. Happy. My uncle Don lived in this adjoining town, and he - back in the day - was a pretty damn decent player himself - so of course my mother (his first cousin) invited him to come watch. I just knew I’d hit two home runs, scoop three throws outta the dirt at first, and steal six bases - and we’d walk away with “My Victor, you ARE something!”…..

Ahm.. Well.. And a… We get to the park… Warm up.. Nifty park.. Had ads on the walls.. New to us… Enclosed with wood fences painted Hunter green.. Also new (we were ‘country’, chainlink’.)

Out to warm up, their pitcher. Now this dude was 12, but he (honest to goodness) had a 5-oclock shadow. I swear he drove there, and parked inconspicuously. He shaved, I swear to God he shaved.

He threw, approximately, 30 miles per hour faster than anything we’d seen all year.

Needless to say, I didn’t hit two home runs, scoop three throws outta the dirt and steal six bases.

In fact, I struck out all four times I batted.

D-Day. Meeting my Uncle Don in the parking lot after. Shorn. Shame. Head down. “My my Victor, you’ve gotta GREAT swing!”… hehe… It’s all he could say… It was perfect.. I was old enough to “know.”.. One of my first life experiences with adversity - and good ole’ Uncle Don helped me through it.

Ok… But there I was, I was taken to a place, the hall of the mountain kings .. (NO VICTOR, NOT ANOTHER LYRICS BLOG, PLLLLLLLLLLEASSSSSSSSSEEEEEE!)…

Ok, u win. (Although Eric Burden is onea my ALLTIME fav’s)…

So there I was, not knowing what to blog about…. Then I thought about ‘fishing’. Yes, fishing. Of late, I ain’t fished. I usedta love to go with my ex brother in-law fishing for catfish at night - ‘cause it was mostly about “throw the bait out there, drink beer, wait.” Right up my alley.

Or with my next door neighbor Gene, bass fishing. His intensity, desire, want, enjoyment, thrill of - wore off on me. At one point in my life I mebbe even had in excess of $37 wortha ‘tackle’ in my bait box.

Then, as I waited, wondered, thought-about blogs, fishing came to mind. You cast your lure (go out in life) and you wait (go places, go to sites, mingle.).. You never have any idea if you’ll even catch one (meet up, place four eyeballs on each other) and even if you do, it ain’t a certainty it’s a ‘keeper’. (I love this’ fish’, I ain’t lettin’ her offa my hook.)

Dating, being single, really is like casting into a so GD green “can’t see two inches into the water” kinda thing… but… mebbe - like fishing - never knowing whatinthehell is gonna be on the other end, that’s the beauty of it.

Sometimes you go home with a stringer full. Sometimes you come up empty handed. Sometimes you have one mounted. (No double entendres here!)… Small mouth, large mouth (domineering, steer clear here), lungfish (stacked, definitely wire bra), sharks (gold-diggers), swordfish (Bobbit types, watch out for them), guppies (them ones too GD young), lobsters (fair skinned, redheads, normally Irish), spoonbill (normally silver spoon from Johnson County), whale (generally, in online profiles, they’ll only have a pic of their head showing… [Victor, did u just type that], ahm, I think I did.. Remind me to tell you a story later about the English chick)..

Koi.. These are like the one’s from China that email you, want an American husband. Seena few. Most with broken English. Tis ok, the thought that counts. Croaker (an older woman.) Puffer (one that orders ‘hella’ off the menu when you go out.), rockfish (really into music, which is cool, but usually turns out that’s absolutely all she’s really into.), snapper (these are hard to read, until like you’re married five years, then you’ll ‘get it’.).

So, one casts that lure out there. Ya never know what you’re gonna get, if anything. You mosta the time come home empty handed. Next time you’ll find a different spot. A new water hole. You might even purchase a ‘fish-finder’, or, like my cousin from Jeff City said as we walked into the bar “where’s the women’s restroom?”.. I’m like “whyinthehell do you wanna know where the women’s restroom is?”.. “THAT, is where you sit.” I never was good baiting the hook.

Victor, for not having much to type about, you’ve managed over two pages, long for you.

Yes fish-breath, sorry about that. I got on a baby roll. I likes rolls. Sounds fishy I know but I was having fun until you sank that treble hook in me.

Should you go fishing, hope you get some action. May you bag your limit. May you getta bite. May it not be a drag. I hope you dance a jig. If you take your johnboat, I hopes u don’t gets no dear john letters. May u snag a keeper. May you let your night-crawler loose. Victor, again, did you just say that. Sorry, did. If you wear Brut, by Faberge’ (stink bait) - good luck…

Ok. I’m gone. Sorry you had to wear waders thru all this shit. Life’s all about landing a keeper. And mebbe someday mounting it. VICTOR! Sorry, I’m the baby, gotta love me! Love, Victurd.