This evening, I sent my dear friend a picture of me flipping off a baseball player's water color portrait in the exercise room at the Holiday Inn Express in Raleigh, NC. I have no idea who the player is, and I mean no particular offense to him or his chosen profession. The pic was for my friend who hates baseball, and equally for me who has grown to dislike the game with authority. She laughed, mission accomplished.
With that in mind, I was reminded of a recent purchase.
One of the scourges of my short life is finding a baseball cap that works for me. I have been blessed with very few that I actually like, and the minute I get one that works, I lose it, leave it or wear it the hell out. Hence, the search is evergreen and continues year after bloody year.
I was at Target a few weeks ago, looking to replace a few items I lost in the (almost famous) chicken fire. Of course I stopped and looked at hats. Basically, unless I wanted to advertise Corona or Ford, it was No Bueno on the cool kid side of the French Walmart.
After stopping and looking at children's books (yeah, that's me), I noticed a Pittsburgh Fan Athletic Wear section close to the limited selection of automobile accessories. Of course they had hats. Of course I tried them on.
After much debate, I opted for the option I normally would never do. I bought the Pirates Hat. Why? It was an impulse and the best on the rack. I am not very fond of the mustard yellow the Pens have adopted, and most of the Steelers gear is marketed toward Affliction wanna-be city hicks.
Still, I questioned the purchase immediately. After a V8 head slap, I reminded myself of some half assed life advice someone had told me many years ago.
Back in the day, on Peach Street, across from Fred Biletnikoff Field, in the heart of Erie, PA, lived a local pot dealer named Sam. A 14 year old Nago (along with his click of Hessian ruffians) would walk this route each and every day to get between cribs. He lived around the corner from Shane, and just a few block from Roger.
I remember being in Sam's apartment on a few occasions, of course we were scoring weed. I guess he saw enough of us to let us be cool with him. He may have been a friend of Roger's brother, I don't remember, honestly, it doesn't really matter.
Sam used to walk around town in a "Just Say No" ball cap. No one seemed to bat an eye at this. At 14, my posse' understood irony on a basic level, so one afternoon, one of us asked him while passing on the street:
"Sam, what's with the hat, dude?"
Sam didn't bat an eye with his response: "It don't pay to advertise."
Drawing a conclusion on the pirates cap? I do live in Pittsburgh, and when in Rome, bathe in public bath houses.
That's it for tonight, kids. Love each other equally, and do things unexpected.
Nago.
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