The story of a boy, who enlisted in the Navy, who became a man, who still retained the emotional maturity of that boy, yet convinced a woman to marry him.

Friday, July 29, 2011

So Long, We Hardly Knew You

  I never liked Sunday afternoons as a kid.
  Sure, there was the chance we could get invited to Grandma's for a wondrous feast which would make the Pilgrims look like the Donner party.  If the old folks were either in Atlantic City for endless buffets (gambling in New Jersey being non-existent at that time) or the Pequot Indian Reservation to drop serious wampum at the bingo tables, we'd have to settle for Mom's "What's-In-the-Fridge" safari.
  At least football was usually on-the New York Giants, always the New York Giants in my house.  Big Ken bled big blue.  And gravy, I suppose.  And never underestimate the joyous thrill of chasing your sister around the yard with dog poop on a stick.
  Still, Sunday afternoons meant we were that much closer to Monday morning and school.  Somehow,  weekends always flew by and two days just wasn't enough of a break from Sister Caligula and her ilk.
Instead of enjoying what still remained of the weekend, I watched the clock and bemoaned the fact that  school loomed like Lindsay Lohan at a frat house kegger.
  The fact that I hadn't yet started my homework-a diorama of Jamestown using elbow macaroni-didn't help things.  I usually never started that until Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom came on.
   I feel the same way about the impending ending (hey, that rhymed) of Wawa's Hoagiefest 2011.  Of course, intellectually I know that there is plenty of summer left in the tank.  Many family vacations to the Jersey Shore have yet to be taken (gotta get those henna tattoos and fried lard on a stick, dontcha know?).  Heat Wave #5,000 or something like that is due to hit this weekend like a blast furnace from hell (Keep the old people, dogs, and small children inside where it's cool!!  But, you can leave the poor people outside.")   Pre-season football hasn't begun (football of any kind has barely begun).  And the local communities have yet to issue dire drought warnings (a sure-fire way of spurring flash floods).
  Finally, I also know that fall (or 'autumn' to snooty rich people who probably have central air) doesn't actually begin until September 21st...or 22nd...or a few weeks after Labor Day (which has nothing to do with pregnancy).
  That being said, I view the end of Hoagiefest and its cute little spokesman dropping sandwiches on the heads of beachgoers (even that bald weightlifter guy) with some sadness.  For those people who nit-pick:  "Hoagieman" was driving a lunchmeat van this year.  I suppose the balloon was eaten by seagulls.  Or knocked out of the sky by a seriously hacked-off weightlifter.
  On July 31st, we begin the slow, but inexorable process that will have us back to school, sharing the road with fleets of schoolbuses, raking leaves, passing out crappy candy to trick-or-treaters (you nuts?  I'm keeping the Snickers for myself), and craving Shorti hoagies (even the sucky toasted roadkill and cheese ones) while snowflakes swirl about our heads.
  Like young Ken shoveling roast beef down his throat while Grampa falls asleep with his hand in his pants, old Ken starts cranking about a summer which seems to be going as fast as Charlie Sheen through a poppy field.
  Thankfully, I still have a couple days to go get me a Wawa hoagie.
  Then, I'll have to go see what's in the fridge.

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