BASEBALL SIGNS

My eight year old nephew Joel is a second baseman. He wants to pitch.
Yesterday his dad taught him the basics: how to hold the ball for different pitches, how to keep an eye on the runner, and the different signs the catcher flashes when calling pitch selection.
After a couple hours, Joel was flashed a series of signs and told to name each one. Dad held his hand down and showed the forefinger.
"Fast ball!"
Two fingers were flashed.
"Curve ball!"
Dad was pleased. He then pointed his middle finger down, the sign for a brush back to move the batter off the plate.
Joel shook his head.
"What's the sign, son?"
"I don't know."
"We went over it. Now think. What's the sign?"
Joel shrugged his shoulders and stammered, "F#@k you?"

I think Joel's staying at second.

I SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN COPACETIC CITY

I got pulled by the man this morning. Expired plates. My back was out, and I stumbled getting out of the truck when Smokie asked me to get in his car. The trooper wanted to know how much I'd had to drink. It was a few minutes shy of 10:00. I told him I was sober.

"How much did you drink last night?"

For some reason I said 'two beers.' He gave me a stern look, one I'm sure he practices in front of the mirror, and I gave it up.

"Three beers."

"You had something stronger than beer," he says. "Your eyes are bloodshot."

Of course they are. I'm fifty. My eyes are red, my skin is crinkled, my hair's jumping ship, and you could plan a road trip with my face.

He gave me the ticket. A $25.00 fine and $110.00 court costs.

My dad and I booked on down to the DMV. A few years ago, before they modernized the joint, it usually took thirty minutes to get a new registration. They now have a forty-foot long counter, and when you go in you take a number and wait to be called. I was number 82. A few minutes after we sat down they called number 40. Forty feet of counter and three clerks working. Two hours, and a numb butt later, I hear, "82."

I gave the clerk the old registration and told her I didn't get a renewal in the mail. She checked her computer and told me one wasn't sent because I didn't pay my property taxes. Now, getting bad news is one thing, but getting bad news after a two hour wait, well, that's two things.

We traveled across town to the tax office and I paid the tax. I told the clerk that I didn't get a tax bill in the mail. She checked her computer.

"We sent you three notices," she said, with the expressionless nuance perfected by the civil servant. And I don't doubt they did. I've received a lot of mail addressed to other people. I wonder how many of them ended up fined and tagged as a tax delinquent.

I'm back in Copacetic City now, sipping a beer and wondering how long I can stay here.