Billy Jean King Nite...
Crap! Well, I just lost my first post to the blogger demons who lurk between the Z and the X on your keyboard and sneak out and hit the wrong button at the wrong time and absolutely zap what you've written.
It is gone. It is no more. I feel like I have just told you something and you weren't listening.
Shame on you.
Seriously, doesn't this look like Billy Jean King is having entirely WAY too much fun? Does that racket take C's or D's?
Perhaps I got edited by the God's of good taste and common decency?
Do they exist?
I mention BJ because she was on the telly when I originally wrote this post, recieving adulation and praise as they had named a stadium after her or something. I had a run in with her and Martina (yes, we're on first name basis--well, at least I am...) while I was eating cheesecake and milking Lyon's coffee at eleven o'clock at night in Santa Rosa, California with my friend R.
They had been playing in a for-charity tennis tournament at the Redwood Ice Arena, which was owned by the late Charles "Sparky" Schultz, who drew Snoopy and Charlie Brown, and who was good friends with my woodshop teacher who had been kissed by Cheryl Tiegs, and my father had finagled a starring role in guarding the "locker rooms" and then did double duty as an usher...
Is that all clear?
Anyway, R and I were young dudes hanging out late and admiring how much coffee we could get for free if we bought the first cup, eating cheescake and running off our mouths about everything that contained a labiUM, and in walked Billy Jean, Martina, and several other very healthy looking women. R had them sussed up pretty quick, and blurted out "I wonder if I should go ask them if they're from Lesbo?"
"Shut the F--- up, R! Do YOU KNOW who that is?"
I knew. R had no clue.
"They look like dykes to me."
R's voice was pointed away from the ladies and I guess it didn't carry over the din of a reasonably busy restaurant and bar.
"THOSE are the best women tennis players in the world."
R knew I played tennis. He knew I knew my tennis stuff. He nodded.
"Oh."
And R and I had a conversation.
I told him about Bobby Riggs. I told him about Martina's backhand and especially her volley. I told him about Billy Jean's court control...
After fifteen minutes of giving R the lowdown, he was understandably impressed. He got up as we had decided we were caffiened out. He went to the ladies' table. He asked for autographs and started in...
"I sure like what you did to that bastard Bobby... Man, I've never seen a volley as controlled as yours... And who might these fine looking young ladies be?"
R was like that. He had been gifted with an appendage that gave him surreal confidence with the ladies, and he never failed to amaze me in just who he was gonna chat up next.
Rosie O'Donnell?
2 comments:
My, you have been a very busy man since I've been away. Just reading the blog entries here for the last two weeks makes it seem like a year has gone by.
Geez, you even got cancer and even survived it since I've been gone. I'm just sorry I wasn't here to help you get through it. But I'm glad you did. Whew. Nothing like a glimpse of one's own mortality to bring out the inner poet, heh?
And what's all this about being hot or not? I would have given you a 9 something before you started wondering out loud about what your score would be.
If you're looking to raise your score a bit, you just need to get up here and let me play matchmaker. Being seen in the company of my best friend would raise your score at least a half point. Making it to a second date with her would add another couple of points easily.
one labIUM.two labia.that picture reminds me of a nasty bit in the Stephen King novel "Rose Madder." That does beg the question of whether there is anything but nasty bits in Mr King's novels,but anyway.I seem to have read more than are good for me over the years..contrast that to taking a year to manage "Lila"(Robert Pirsig,as you are doubtless only too aware),to reach the stunning conclusion that "good" is a noun.That was what he was saying, wasn't it? Think I'll stick with Nabokov.
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