Right here in River City (right here in River City)
With a capital "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pool
(That stands for pool)
We've surely got trouble (we've surely got trouble)
Right here in River City (right here)
Gotta figure out a way to keep the young ones moral after school
(Our children's children gonna have trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...)
This is where I'm supposed to acknowledge whointhehell wrote the above for whatinthehell, but, since I don't make a wholehellofalottamoney doing this (other than pure joy of doing so), I ain't gonna.
Victor, you recently did a blog on Bud's Pool Hall. Yeah yeah yeah, I think I remember. This one's about pockets though. But. But, Bud's was unique. It's where we learned howta roll up a pack of Camel nonfilters in one's short sleeve sleeve. It's where we heard things like "And so is your old man." A right of passage. Out on our own, first time, in public, with, sorry in advance, our first pubic hair.
Editor's note. I never understood Snooker. It was an old man thing. All along, common belief was your balls got bigger as you aged, nuh uh, not in Snooker. The balls were smaller, the pockets even smaller.
Victor, is this where you're gonna tell the story of you and Jeff as 9-year olds, in the basement of Mattingly's and one of those old ladies (about your age now) accused you two of stealing a football inflation needle, and she frisked you both, reaching into your pockets? Well, ahm, you just told it, thanks.
Old age is all about losing it, and cold beer. Yesterday, I did both. I no havey washer-dryer in my apartment, so, laundromat for three loads. I go every time I'm down to one paira undies. Day before, I'd been to play golf with buddies. When playing golf with buddies, it's imperative the beer is kept cold. So, (whisper whisper... hey Charlie.. how do you spell %%^^&%$...yeah, that's it, Koozie, thanks.) So, one places their beer in a Koozie. Koozies are made outta some kinda material that keeps beer cold, and they usually come with the names of a niece or a nephew, cousin or good friend, who got married ten years ago, passed those things out as gifts, and they've been divorced for seven years now, but, the Koozie still works it's magic.
Where was I? Oh yeah, laundromat. You know those basta's raised the rate a quarter to $3.50? In all seriousness, I just may have to start flippin my undies. Bottomline, "losing it, and cold beer." As I grabbed my jeans outta the dryer to fold up, there in the back pocket was my Koozie, "love Angel and Charlie" whoeverinthehell they are. Yes, I'm losing it. Yes, my beer was cold.
But that ain't really what this is all about. Victor, you've already mentioned how joyous it is when you put on a pair of jeans and there's a $20 in the pocket. Yes, yes I have, and tomorrow you're gonna write the entire damn blog, deal?
I Bubba Shrimp Googled 'pocket' and it had pictures of all kinda pockets. About all I know are the ones in jeans.. you know, that little pocket inside the regular pocket.. hells bells, if you put something in there, you can't get it out. They say it was made for the day and age of pocketwatches, but I ain't seen no pocketwatches that small. It redline underlined pocketwatches, but I ain't gonna go back and find the proper way, you get the drift. Apparently, redline is redlined too. Bite me auto-person.
I ain't much on organization. The only time I organize my pockets, is golf: Big, long tees in front left pocket, little bitty tees in front right pocket. Other time, laundromat. Quarters in front right pocket, all other denominations in left front pocket.
In life, pockets are personal. We keep things close. They're 'ours', not belonging to anyone else in the whole wide wide world of sports. Unique.
I am gonna suggest two pockets.
You know those crap jeans kids wear nowadays? Victor, that sounded REAL old. Well, I am. Those crap jeans that have holes allover 'em to make 'em look worn I guess. Knees sticking out, upper thigh, lower shin, cracks, lines... hell, even sometimes buttcheeks stick out. Well, the other day, I saw some torn to badly they had POCKETS sticking out. I've never understood youth in dress, even when I was a youth. Bellbottoms? Really?..
OK, just a suggestion, I think everyone should buy a pair of those ripped, torn, bullcrap jeans where the body skin sticks out allover, and yes, the pockets stick out too. Inside those pockets. Or, as Mrs. Sumpter who would turn up the volume when she wanted us to remember something, INSIDE THOSE POCKETS place every shitty thing said personally to you your entire lifetime. You know, the ones that grab you when you're sitting in the easy chair. You wish like hell you'd never been attacked like that, but it was said, and it wasn't said with a dry erase pen, it was a PERMANENT MARKER. Your brain goes back to it often,and when it does you get down, you wanna go take a nap, another Wellbutrin, maybe have a cocktail. A lifetime of misery we've allowed that person to impose on us. This is where I call bullshit Stick 'em (all those horrific things people said about you, to you, about some aspect of you that depressed you), stick 'em all in that pocket that's hanging out. THEN (thanks Mrs.Sumpter).. THEN, cut that bastard off, immediately throw it in the trash, then immediately take the bag out to the trash bin outside and be rid of those awful 'sentiments'. Rub your palms together a couple times like they do when you get ridda something. Be done with those 'sentiments.'
The other pocket, lets call it our hip pocket. Yeah, I like that. Our hip pocket. Our hip pocket is reserved for those people that keep us afloat. There's not one damn thing we could do to ever make them stop being there for us. Those. Them kinda people. That's what our hip pockets are for. You know, the people that make us feel good about ourself. That kind. Them kind. They're kind. Emphasis on kind. That kind, in your hip pocket. Your hip pocket is close, or should be, because anytime you get down, just reach that hand down in the hip pocket, and whoop, there it is, or there they are. Our blessed friends, loved ones that make us feel good. All revel hip pocket friends!
A buddy. A buddy, who forever and a day, for what kinda reason I dunno, he's been in my hip pocket about writing. Today, the same. Some very encouraging "DM's" I understand you young folks call it. He's in my hip pocket and I'm so very thankful for that.
Don't ever forget to go out and forget to wear your pants. We all needs those hip pocket kinda people on instant standby. Life. It's all about walking through molasses. Driving at night where you can't see those damn white lines. It's about getting you a bullshit protector so you can ward off any future Debbie Downer statements from evil intending 'friends'. Thankfully, they are few and far between.
Hip pocket, always nearby. 8 ball, corner pocket, even if you scratch, it's ok. Game = Fun. Life, it's a good thing, thanks in large part by those in our hip pocket.
By Henry Gibson Forward by Levi Strauss
Love, Victurd
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