I have a buddy who just turned 20 and I envy him. I envy his get up and go and his initiative. When I was twenty I had my thumb firmly planted up my bum while the world spun by me in a blur of self absorbed oblivion. And now I’m thirty five (gasp!!!) and I feel like Crash Davis in “Bull Durham.” Yep, I am now officially the old catcher bouncing about like that damn feather in Forrest Gump. I know I know, life is a gift and not a privilege. But come on, who hasn’t felt like the Road Runner trying to catch Wiley E Coyote? In my twenties, during my prolonged blue periods, I probably would’ve put a bunch of stones in my pocket and sunk to the bottom ala Virginia Woolf. I know it’s an off reference destined to promote blank stares and make me look like an intellectual braggart. Trust me, get yourself a copy of “To The Lighthouse.” I swear, you won’t regret it. Now where I was? Oh yes, my friend is twenty and he’s full of vigor and ambition and I’m the Crash Davis of this world. Anyway….. this is not a declaration of self pity. Well, it is… maybe. Or maybe it’s something greater. Maybe it’s a way of keeping my self from hating myself to the point that I can imagine stepping in front of an Amtrak and saving the world some occupancy space. But I’ll stay I guess. Because this big wide world needs its share of disillusioned liberals who wake up everyday, look in the mirror and then break down in despair. I guess I’ll stay because…. Well….. the world needs its share of washed up back up catchers with a lifetime batting average slightly below the dreaded Mendoza line. Resist Tyranny!!! Toot!!! Toot!!!
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