Muesday Morning

I have a hard time going to sleep on Monday nights and Tuesday mornings. Not sure why. Probably something to do with an aging metabolism or fears about how big the sweet gum tree outside my house seems. My wife says I’ve been screaming in my sleep recently.

I had intended for my previous post to be the Birthday Post you all woke up to. But after a few games of Yahoo! Euchre, a few songs downloaded from Audio Galaxy, and enough tap water to keep my uranium-coated insides glowing for months, sleep didn’t seem so important.

The Missouri Tigers played St. Louis Univeristy tonight. I don’t get to watch much Tiger ball anymore. Living in the southeast, we get a lot of Duke, not so much Big XII action. So, the opportunity to watch them play on ESPN 2 was a treat. I accidentally missed the first half, but saw enough to make me yearn for the days of Hearnes Center. When Wesley Stokes dropped a jumper to win the game with no time left on the clock, I nearly popped my jock strap. I called Brother Beaker. I knew he’d be watching the game. Strangely, he seemed deflated. Then I heard it in the background. He doesn’t have the Deuce, so he was forced to listen to the game on the net. He had a 75 second delay and had no idea that the Tigers won. I felt bad for ruining the surprise.

[An aside here…The odd thing about this Blogging world is…you get a real sense for how your blogging friends are dealing with life. I read friends blogs and can tell when they aren’t doing so well. That bad thing about it is…you can’t just call them up and invite them out for a beer. That’s a shame.]

By the way…I’ve given up on the “I Feel Old feel-sorry-for-me fete.” It was BS and I knew it.

However, just because I’m not looking for sympathy anymore doesn’t mean I can’t tell a story on myself…

Saturday night…I was a little lit up. I’d spent about six hours on a deck with my friends. We were signing silly songs and tossing back a few (dozen) beverages. When I got home and crawled in bed…I heard the strangest noise.

Vrooom….thwack. Vrooooom…thwack.

It had a familiar timbre. I had heard the noise dozens–if not hundreds–of times before. A moving force meeting an object at rest. This particular version of the noise was immistakable. Mailbox baseball.

I never actually played the game myself. My young buddies and I were into a game called Bottling. Glass bottles, metal roadsigns. You get the idea. We were masters of the craft.

But there I am…drunk, in nothing but boxer shorts, hair in full Turkey Head-effect, staring out my window at a group of kids in a car taking pathetic swings at my neighbor’s mailboxes. Something moved me. At first I thought it was the urge to tell those kids how to do some real damage. I mean, these kids were sad.

Then I realized…my vandal-youth is gone.

“Get me the phone.” I was slurring, unshaven…”No wait…’

I was able to pull on a pair of blue jeans and stumble downstairs. I’m in the middle of a dew-soaked road. I’m barefoot and examining my neighbor’s mailbox. The damage was minimal. The little riff-raff should be arrested for being such lousy vandals, I decided…or maybe I was rationalizing.

I stumbled back upstairs, picked up the phone and dialed 911.

I am The Old Man Across the Street. All I need is a wife-beater undershirt and a pair of slippers and I’ll be set.