New Name Needed, Apply Within

Ah, the signs of Spring.
Bar Harbor business propreitors awaken from hibernation to prepare for the tourists. The deer prance about antlerless. The Red Sox begin their annual swoon, months ahead of schedule. And a young man’s thoughts turn to love.
Us old men, however, keep our thoughts right where they always have been. Focused on the imporant things: just a few more minutes of sleep, sound lawn maintenance, a nice solid bowel movement. We rummage through the boxes in the closet and bring out the white pants, the Sperry topsiders, the pink polo shirts. Hell, grab that cocktail shaker and martini glasses while you’re in there, run down to the corner package store for a liter of Beefeater, let’s do this season right. Find a compact disc that’ll help you get your groove on, but nothing too threatening…..White Stripes? No, they look adulterous…..The Hives? No, too Swedish…..aha! “Lionel Richie!” Perfect. Man, I loved this guy in high school. Still have a pristine 45 of “Ballerina Girl,” still shrinkwrapped. Maybe that’s in the box too. Hell, just bring out the whole box.
Now, old man, you’ve got one martini in you, one in your hand, and another in the shaker, Lionel’s “truly! truly in love with you, girl!”, and you’ve got a box full of crap out on the patio. You look like Judge Smails on the first tee at Bushwood, and you’re loving it. It’s fifty degrees and you’re getting ready to pore through seventeen years of acquired mementos, geegaws and trinkets. You might accidentally pour half a martini into the box, but that’s just one more memory to cherish. Go back inside and top off your glass from the shaker, maybe stop by the bathroom for another nice “study period” (second one today!), daydream about mutual fund returns and gas grills with cooking surfaces measured in hectares.
You think you’ve got life by the horns, young people? With your nü-metal and your Oxycontin and your tight pants? It’s Spring, my yard is clean, and I’ve got nice, firm poops. To a 31-year-old homeowner, that’s the holy trifecta.
Would you buy a T-shirt that said “The Holy Trifecta: It’s Spring, my yard is clean, and I’ve got nice, firm poops”? I’m always thinking about marketing.