Thirty-Six

Played 9 real holes at a course in Stoughton Mass.  Skins format.  Doug took 8 of them.  Id like to say it was my fathers' day gift, but that would be an outright lie.  Accuracy and distance seem to be in some kind of tension, except when you don't have either.  I was lonesome for the par three course after 3 holes. The Rick unwisely gave a stroke to the seasoned veteran and we both went home with fewer dollars.  We were all big winners at dinner, however.  Mixed grill: lamb, sausage, mushrooms, C on the C.  A splendid weekend, in fact, due in large part to The Rick's hospitality.  Starting to wonder about his golf coaching cred though.

35

Kevin Durant, I learned very recently, but I aint posting no roundballers.  Better to have wrestled and lost than played basketball and won--someone said a long time ago.  Pop and I got out to the Stone Meadow again yesterday.  I tanked the first hole for a 6.  The competition offered me a stroke a hole.  The ol' rope-a-dope, not to say anyone's a dope, but an old old trick.  Played a number of honest pars which equaled birdies.  Pop down three units, though he had me in total score because I blew up on the last two holes.  Again.  Gonna try to get out again today.  Let you know how it goes.  To all my muthers out there, happy fathers' day.

Leopold Bloom

Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the City Arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a sick voice doing his highness to make himself interesting for that old faggot Mrs Riordan that he thought he had a great leg of and she never left us a farthing all for masses for herself and her soul greatest miser ever was actually afraid to lay out 4d for her methylated spirit telling me all her ailments she had too much old chat in her about politics and earthquakes and the end of the world let us have a bit of fun first God help the world if all the women were her sort down on bathingsuits and lownecks and of course nobody wanted her to wear them I suppose she was pious because no man would look at her twice i hope Ill never be like her a wonder she didn't want us to cover our faces but she was a welleducated woman certainly and her gabby talk about Mr Riordan here and Mr Riordan there I suppose he was glad to get shut of her and her dog. . .

Tony Dorsett, scoop a chocolate, scoop a vanilla.

Heisman winner, first rounder, 2 Super Bowls (tm), Hall 'o Fame.  One of the greats (Franco being another) of what I think of as the running back era.  100 yd game almost locked you a win, 1000yd season was really a feat.  Could not win w/o a ground game.  Beginning in the 70's going to, say early 90's.  This idea is likely a fiction and easily disproven, but Riggo, Thurman Thomas, Marcus Allen, Otis Anderson, Dickerson, Payton, etc.  The good ol days.  Not really throwing down the gauntlet here,  plenty of guys can still get you 4 and a cloud of dust, just waxing nostalgic.  Remember hating Dorsett, me no Cowboy fan.  Heck, now I feel like he's one of my favorites.  Also lots of other 33's out there, learned of two just last night watching—you know it—the NBA finals.  But I don't know what to say about Kareem except I loved the baby hook and Bird was really white.  And the more I think about it, even if it was entirely googled, Girv's Jim Taylor call is pretty sweet.

Clinic today.  White count up.  RBC up, PLT up.  UP UP UP.  Got first full night's sleep since coming to Boston.  Feel great, which only makes me long more for home and exercise.  PLTs get to 50k and they say they'll take the line.  Once they take the line, they'll be running short of reasons to keep me here.  I am a little worried that I've had few to no GVH issues--they say some is good.  Gonna check with the main Doc on Wed, my next appt.  Is the jersey # talk really that odious? Where is everyone?


One more from Walden.  HDT was just too cool.

FRANCO, of course

Thursday.  You know what that means:  Golf.  Nate, Dad, The Rick and I went to Stone Meadow[sic]. Hit a couple of buckets and then took to the Executive par three.  Nine holes, buck a hole.  The Rick and I  VS.  Nate and Dad.  Back and forth through 5, then Nate and Dad with the box pressed AND changed their order.  NEVER change your order.  They pressed twice more and after 9 they were down 16 units.  The Rick was our team capt and took MVP honors.  He was on the green in one on every hole but one.  I wasn't so pretty off the tee, but I did sink three must haves on the back 4.  Pitch for show, put for dough.  I didn't lose a ball either, my goal going into it.  In other sporting news, I took both games of a chess twin bill from The Rick.  Sadly, no money wagered, but my ship is correct under steam again.  It's all in the opening. And the backswing.

Donnie Shell

When your wife beats you to a member of the Steel Curtain it's hard to argue otherwise.  Though it did seem kinda google-ish considering she probably thinks strong safety means extra child seats.  Hell, I couldn't come up with a 31 to save my life.  It's a bad number.

Nate, Dad and I circumabulated Walden pond yesterday.  Quite a place.  Quite.  Still brimming with the spirit of the man.  I sorely wanted to swim the length and maybe back, but pond water is a no-no.  Something I would rather like to do someday.  The cabin site is, properly, spartan and altar-like.  I had a ball.  And walked just shy of two miles.  Thoreau, you probably know had a sweet donegal beard.

"Live deep and suck the marrow of life."

Terrell Davis

Outta my hat, that one.  Now I'm sweating 31.  I mean, who wears 31?  I'll gnaw on it.  Feel free to chime in guys.  The gals, I gather, don't do jersey numbers.  Shame.

Fell asleep around 6, slept to 11:30.  Is this progress?  Since it was unaided, I think so.  Reading this poet, Frank Stanford.  The one upside of squiggly sleep.  Can almost guarantee you have not heard of him.  I wouldn't have either but I know a poet or two.  It is really jaw-dropping stuff:  southern, american, storyteller, conjurer, learned in myriad ways.  And of course he shot himself.  Probably the only cliche one will find in him.  The work itself is sui generis.  THE BATTLEFIELD WHERE THE MOON SAYS I LOVE YOU.  Not everyone has a 20K+  line epic in them that ain't Homer, but you can let this fall to any section, read any line(s).  I sorta picked away at it like that for a couple days and then the poem itself gave me the courage to start proper at the beginning.  That and I wasn't sleeping.
What are you reading, or not reading, as the case may be?   I'm not reading Finnegan's Wake.

Eric Dickerson (right?)

Mirtazapine. . .Remeron(TM).  When a week of no sleep catches up with you (me) it does so with the force of a freight.  Did sleep though the night, mostly.  Ate breakfast, slept again until 4.  Foggy headed, confused, disoriented, half-nauseous.  Whew.  Not complaining, was desperate, DESPERATE, for the sleep. But such a cost.  Big test will be if I can saw some logs tonight. Nate in town.  Hope you all are dreaming away.

Marshall Faulk

Clinic today.  Numbers good.  Engraftment has no doubt taken place.  Nurse practitioner said they gave me so much poison that I'd have needed many transfusions by now if it had not.  I've needed zero.  Numbers still a little low but likely b/c of antibiotic which they have stopped. Know more Fri.  Still sleepless in Boston.  Diagnosis: my noodle, which is a fun-house place to be right now.  Got a "sleep aid," which I'm keen enough to know is more a brain muffler.  I'm loathe to it all, but things have just come to that point.  Miss my home.  In the delta.  Way down that farmer's road.  Keep 'em coming folks.  Please.  Keep 'em coming.

It's so hard not to bend your arms in the clean: