Grandpa Bob Castrato
So anyway, because I'm cooler than school and you a fool, I went to a relative's nine year old birthday party. We bowled. I say relative because I don't know what to call her; she's the daughter of a son of a grandmother on my mother's side. But anyway. On to my story. My friends, I want to tell you about Bob.
Bob's an interesting character. Bob's the grandfather of the birthday girl on her mother's side. He looked one word, "weak". I'm not sure how old he was, but as a young virile youth, it made me cringe. This was a guy who reminded me of Mr. Rogers, and yet, Mr. Rogers would tell Bob to be more assertive. At least Mr. Rogers wore a red vest, red being the colour of passion. This guy wore a bland, puke-yellow sweater with blue slacks and old dress shoes. He was thinning, bald,and had thin lips He smiled a weak smile, stood with a slight hunch, and his walk was more a slow patter.
I suspect he had a heart problem, or some sort of medical disease. When we left the alley, he took longer to get up the stairs. I believe his wife (Donna) told him, "You're doing well, Bob". He held the door for everyone as they walked out.
Now, there were two bowling lanes. His team with his grand daughter on the left. He sat on the right. Why didn't he sit on the left, because that was where his team was? Because that was where his wife was, he had to be near to her, like a child has to be near his mother. And every time his bowling turn came up, he had to be led by the hand by his grand daughter so that he could bowl for her birthday party. He got a pretty decent score.
Needless to say, my masculinity was dealt something when I saw Bob, like a priest's son discovering Nietzsche. All the time this phrase kept repeating in my head, "A man who is not a man". Time and age castrated him. I suspect he would not go out of this world with a whimper nor a bang, but a sigh. And then he would get up, and start walking, while death held his hand and led him on his way, making time for his slow patter.
Alle würden lang leben, aber keiner wäre alt.
All would live long, but none would be old.
Bob's an interesting character. Bob's the grandfather of the birthday girl on her mother's side. He looked one word, "weak". I'm not sure how old he was, but as a young virile youth, it made me cringe. This was a guy who reminded me of Mr. Rogers, and yet, Mr. Rogers would tell Bob to be more assertive. At least Mr. Rogers wore a red vest, red being the colour of passion. This guy wore a bland, puke-yellow sweater with blue slacks and old dress shoes. He was thinning, bald,and had thin lips He smiled a weak smile, stood with a slight hunch, and his walk was more a slow patter.
I suspect he had a heart problem, or some sort of medical disease. When we left the alley, he took longer to get up the stairs. I believe his wife (Donna) told him, "You're doing well, Bob". He held the door for everyone as they walked out.
Now, there were two bowling lanes. His team with his grand daughter on the left. He sat on the right. Why didn't he sit on the left, because that was where his team was? Because that was where his wife was, he had to be near to her, like a child has to be near his mother. And every time his bowling turn came up, he had to be led by the hand by his grand daughter so that he could bowl for her birthday party. He got a pretty decent score.
Needless to say, my masculinity was dealt something when I saw Bob, like a priest's son discovering Nietzsche. All the time this phrase kept repeating in my head, "A man who is not a man". Time and age castrated him. I suspect he would not go out of this world with a whimper nor a bang, but a sigh. And then he would get up, and start walking, while death held his hand and led him on his way, making time for his slow patter.
Alle würden lang leben, aber keiner wäre alt.
All would live long, but none would be old.
posted by Marshall McMahon at 11:35 PM
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