The Wrapup/BB Freak Annals

It’s 1975 or so, and it’s a gorgeous September day. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and Whit and I are outside, running across his big yard as fast as our little legs can carry us. We’re fighting Dr. Octopus maybe, or pretending we’re helping Ultraman defend the world.

We’re running, just running, unfettered by real worries or cares.

***

I had a fine visit with the one and only Whit McClendon for about 24 hours. My sore shoulder kept us from doing much in the way of martial arts stuff, and that was disappointing.

See, I had a plan. When I first thought about making this trip, I wanted to spar with Whit again.

And I shared my plan with a couple of folks, like International Wife.

I wanted to take him down.

Yeah yeah yeah, I know I don’t have the tools to be a formidable opponent to the man himself, okay. But I’ve had a few more months of training since we last sparred, and I figured that if I could send HIM to the mat (instead of the other way around for a change), that’d be a fine goal.

I’ve been pretty enamored of this new takedown we learned a few weeks ago. I figured it’d work well from the clinch, maybe catch him off guard.

***

So I was sitting around his school, watching his intermediate class as he taught some defensive techniques.

And damned if he wasn’t teaching them the very takedown I’d hoped to surprise him with.

Son of a… I mean… what are the chances of…?

Ah crap.

***

The legs worked fine, unfortunately—er, however, so we hit the park for some wind sprints the next morning.

***

It’s 2006, and it’s a gorgeous September day. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and Whit and I are outside, running across the soccer field as fast as our aging legs can carry us. We’re fighting Father Time maybe, or trying to raise the bar, improve our conditioning in the face of middle age.

We’re running, just running, unfettered by real worries or cares. For a little while at least.

***

Except I swear that in ’75 I was the faster one.

***

Thank you, McClendons, for your hospitality, a place to crash, and some mighty fine grub. Not to mention friendship.

***

After Katy I headed down to Angleton to see my family.

I’d finally spent my birthday money; Whit helped me out with some quality sparring gear. I’d gone back and forth between the gear and a new pair of boots. Finally the gear won out.

But I got to Angleton and Dad wasn’t about to let the fact that I’d blown the birthday cash he gave me stop me from getting new boots.

***

So not only did he stuff us with some fine fried shrimp and Spanish mackerel; he drove me to Damon, Texas to get me some new boots at TNT Western Wear.

Now, he had it in his head that I’d take the opportunity to get something pretty exotic. And we certainly saw boots made of things like snake, alligator, ostrich, kangaroo and stingray, okay. But really, I wanted a fairly modest pair of black, traditional Western cowboy boots. Something that’d go with my other black winter wear, something I could shine up but also worked for a casual look.

So we went with this pair of Tony Lamas. While not cheap, they weren’t anywhere close to the priciest boots in the place.




Thank you, Dad.

***

It was good to visit with the family. I got to see Sis and her crew. Nephew is getting taller, and his voice is deeper than it was. Like THEBOY, he’s doing well in kindergarten.

***

I was prepared for a long, bad drive home, and that’s exactly what I got. I left at 3:15pm and got home at about 9:45.

Traffic on the north side of Houston was really bad, and I drove through some heavy showers.

On the way home I saw a cute little deer by the side of the road. I also ran over a snake.

***

And now for the latest entry in the BB Freak Annals:

I knew the 24 ounce coffee would be a bad idea as I started driving, okay, but hey, what’s the fun of a compulsion if you stop to listen to the little voice in your head?

So by the time I hit that bad traffic on the north side of Houston, I was, shall we say, dying to take a leak.

Finally I spotted a gas station that looked like it’d have the facilities I needed. I zipped in, and I as I stood in the stall doing my business, the following occurred:

[Strange black man’s voice]: “You are so dirty.”

[Me, to myself]: Is he talking to me?

[SBMV]: “So you want somebody to pee on you?”

[Me]: Uh… did he really just say that?

*

It became apparent in a moment that this voice from out of nowhere wasn’t offering a complimentary golden shower (at least not to me). He was on the phone.

*

So let’s have fun and script some alternate versions of how that could have gone:

[Strange black man’s voice]: “You are so dirty.”

[Me, to myself]: And?

[SBMV]: “So you want somebody to pee on you?”

[Me]: Chuck Berry’s here!?!

*

[Strange black man’s voice]: “You are so dirty.”

[Me, to myself]: Whit?

[SBMV]: “So you want somebody to pee on you?”

[Me]: Dude, we’re not six years old anymore. But yeah, okay.

*

[Strange black man’s voice]: “You are so dirty.”

[Me, to myself]: Damn straight.

[SBMV]: “So you want somebody to pee on you?”

[Me]: Wait, I thought I was wearing my “kick me” shirt today… weird. The “pee on me” shirt is usually reserved for Mondays.

***

Boogie time. Ya’ll have a good weekend.