Writing More Often

I should really write more often here.  It's good for me.  Keeps the mind sharp, sometimes the tongue, too.  Not writing has been a matter of time and the weather.  Good weather means more time outside and less time doing this.  That's a good thing.  Come winter I'll be here and not there.

Like this photo?  It was taken 9 or 10 lives ago.  This is my first class in the first year of teaching.  Do I look the part?  I just noticed that there's t-shirt under the polo that I wore that day.  I never wear t-shirts under shirts.  Never.

The blond kid, yellow shirt in the middle...that's John Wetteland who went on to pitch for the Yankees and the Texas Rangers.  I'd play baseball with the kids during recess.  Because no one could really throw a ball straight over the plate I would usually pitch.  During each and every game John would walk over to the pitcher's mound and plead, "Mr. Watson, I can pitch better than you can.  Can I pitch?"  And he was just that.  Even at age seven John was a pretty good pitcher.

The teaching career was short as I was destined to leave the classroom and be an administrator.  Didn't plan on it.  Wasn't appealing.  But nonetheless it happened.

I posted this photo to commemorate the opening of school.  Doesn't it seem that school starts earlier and earlier every year?  Middle of August and it's school days, school days, good old golden rule days. . . .

Last night was Taco Night at the Lodge.  Once a month it's Taco Night at the Lodge.  Our first experience with that venue was last night.  

Buck fifty for a taco with all you could stuff into it. The Lodge opened its doors last night to non members meaning every sorry ass Tom, Dick and Harry came out for it.  They brought their kids and their barely walking parents, too...adding yet one more ingredient to a miserable experience.

Come time to start the line-up for tacos there was a rush to be first.  You would have thought that it was the Last Supper and first in line got to eat with Jesus.  A wide bodied granny and her two brat grandchildren were first in line.  Then it was like a herd of cows lining up to be fed and milked.  Moooo, I thought.  It felt like a cow ready to be served and serviced.  Moooo.

Help yourself tacos:  No sneeze guards over the food.  Slow ass people who seemed to be picking their butts as they slowly moved through the line.  I wanted to say loudly, "You people would never make it in a military chow line" and they wouldn't have.  Anyone having served in the military knows that you get your chow and get out.  No lolly gagging around.

For a buck fifty the tacos were fairly decent tasting.  Didn't find any foreign objects in my meal.  I liked that part.  I also loved that we had great people to share our table.

Three tacos, two beers later I was ready to go home.   If it weren't for the other idiots the experience would have been great.  Taco Night had me feeling like I was back eating in the school cafeteria with a bunch of seven year olds.

And that wasn't a good thing.