I’ll just go ahead and admit that I mainly watch the womens’ matches. With few exceptions, it’s the epitome of graceful athletic beauty, an ideal, if you will. If you go for that kind of thing. The matches are generally better, too — point/game/set strategy — if you go for that kind of thing.
I also giggle over the ballkinder showing their palms like a Vegas blackjack dealer at the end of a shift. Odd.
The insurance company can’t seem to find a Yea or Nay in it’s bag of tricks. I continue to sit here on my ass waiting to learn if & when I might be allowed some of that awesome chemo sauce. So this week is another wasted week. Once I got the news, I looked at the map, desperately hoping for some small bit of heat in Texas where I could go to get out of this icebox, and there is none. I wanna go fishing, but I don’t feel like fighting the cold.
The closest 70+ is frigging Panama City, F-L-A. Which actually sounds pretty sweet, being as I’ve never been there. My old buddy Ron retired somewhere near there, I think, after blowing his knee up and getting a replacement that didn’t work all that great. I should ring him up. Knowing him, he got married again, maybe even to one of his ex-wives. I always admired his persistence, if not his judgement.
This post was entirely derailed by my Sainted Mother calling to find out what the name of the James Brown song was because some girl won Miss America by tap-dancing to it, ‘something about “that thing.”‘
That’s OK, but she ain’t no James Brown, and who is?
It will remain an eternal regret that I never saw The Man perform. Good Lord, what a musician, what a showman.