What are we doing next?

Kids can wear a guy’s butt out.
Here I sit, on Dec. 29, wondering what next year will bring, but being satisfied that I don’t know and, indeed, can’t know. Oh, I confess that I often lament, in the throes of one crisis or another in life, that I wish I could time-travel six months into the future to see how I resolved my problems.
But I know that’s impossible, except in movies, such as the “Back to the Future” series or “Peggy Sue Got Married.”



I’m no Johnny B. Goode, and I’m no Michael J. Fox, so I know I could end up like Biff, buried in manure, six months hence.



And I’m no Peggy Sue, so I don’t get the chance to go back and start over.



So what if I can’t time travel like Marty McFlighe or Peggy Sue? That’s the way life is, and like another song says: Some days, you’re the windshield; other times, you’re the bug.
It takes patience, and that’s something kids often don’t have. Witness the fact-based jokes about “are we there yet?”
I’ve been encountering a variation on that theme of late: We’re not even done with one activity, and the grandsons are wondering what we’re doing NEXT.
We can be in the middle of a trip to the park, and one will chirp: “What are we doing NEXT?“
We can be halfway through a movie, and one will whisper in the darkened theater: “Where are we going NEXT?”
We can be barely started on an adventure at the zoo, and one will say, plaintively: “What are we doing NEXT, Papa Mike?”
Usually, my plan is to take a nap to recover from whatever it is we’re doing THEN, because they’ve already worn my butt out.
I guess their inquisitiveness isn’t as bad as mine, wanting to know what conditions will be six months from now, and they’re just asking about six minutes from now.
So, although I’m curious about what 2009 will bring, I know I can’t predict it. This time last year, for instance, I had NO idea that I’d have another grandchild by now.
Well, I guess I have one jump on that scenario: My daughter Annie is with child, and the new arrival is expected July 3 or 4. Although she doesn’t know yet whether the stirring in the womb will turn out to be a girl or a boy, I’m lobbying for a July Fourth arrival date.
I have suggested to her that she and Kevin could name the lad or lassie after one of my favorite holiday movies, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” She spurned the idea, just like YouTube did my attempt to show you Jimmy Cagney singing the movie’s signature song. Well, YouTube didn’t spurn it, but somebody did; something about violating terms of use.
So I’ll have to be patient and forgo this blog’s musical signature motif.
Now, what should I do NEXT? I’ve got to rush and get it in, because I know for sure I won’t be around in the year 2525.



How ’bout those Nebraska boys’ hairdos? WhattheHELL were we THINKIN’?

Happy New Year to you all, whether you’re earthbound or a time traveler.

Oh, speaking of the New Year, I just remembered what I’ll be doing next: Playing in my annual Payne Stewart invitational golf tournament, complete with plus fours, on a course overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, on New Year's Day.
Well, if you MUST ask, I've never WON it. I suppose that makes the golfers among you smug. So be it. But if you live Up North, and you happen to be reading this on New Year's Day, I urge you to look out the window and cast your gase upon the snow and the ice. If it happens to be an uncharacteristically warm day, it'll be dirty, filthy slush.
THAT's why I golf here in Florida every Jan. 1: Because I CAN, even if I can't WIN.
Not that I'm trying for the last word, but nah-nah-nah-nah-naahhhhhhhh-nah.