Who Wrote the Book of Love?

Hey! I’ve got a great idea—let’s get out of this Sonoma County damp cold fog and go to Tucson and play some golf and catch some rays in the desert! It sounded good—but so far we have had cold rain and even snow. Yesterday felt like a Country Western song—hunkered down in Bakersfield in the trailer park waitin’ for the roads to clear to get out over the pass. Called up the pizza man and had ourselves some beer. Picked oranges off the trees and let the dogs run in the mud. No matter how we called it, we were still eatin’ crud. Or words to that effect.

Tonight we’re in the overflow camping area outside of Lake Havasu City. It’s called dry camping but the rain is still banging on the RV. No internet. There has to be a blog story in here somewhere—I’ll let you know when I find it.

Prepare to enter free-fall blogging:  beginning RV trip, photos of weather and desert, and recounting the beginning of a Boomers group.

Meanwhile, back in SeniorLand the organization of Baby Boomers continues. While it has felt much like moving back home with the parents when we moved to a 55+ community, I suspect that to the “more seasoned” residents it has felt much too much like the kids moving back in with them! That being said it appears that Boomers have not outgrown  liking to drink, eat munchies and listen to Rock and Roll.

Our first meeting had 84 Boomers show up—I was stunned. I was also glad I'd decided against holding the gathering in our living room. It felt like returning to college after summer vacation—the gang’s all here so let’s get down, be groovey—have a Happening! How nice it was to slip into the lingo of the 60ies and not have to see if you’ve embarrassed your kids by your lapse. When “The Book of Love” came over the sound system there was a discernable pause in the room when it reached that historical stomp—“Oh I wonder, wonder,(booboop bahbooboo boo----STOMP! Who wrote the Book of Love?” It’s been a long time since there’s been someone other than Mr. T to help with that stomp.

Continuing with the stream-of-consciousness ramblings I will just barely mention golf. Enough said. I’m still terrible enough that I can’t take it seriously or agonize over all the bad shots—after all, they’re almost all bad shots. It will sometimes strike me as hilarious that I’m trying to knock a little white ball that I gathered from my backyard into a ridiculously small hole on a patch of closely-mown grass and that this somehow constitutes an accomplishment.

I will not mention being mocked by a golfer I didn’t even know for wearing a pink outfit, pink hat, pink windbreaker and playing with a neon pink golf ball. Some people just don’t appreciate a sense of style, of flair. I suppose I should invest in those awful spandex black pants with stripes down the side and a black stretchy top. Can we say BOR—ING???? I will continue to wear bright colors, push my “crime scene tape” yellow golf cart carrying my shiny blue golf clubs and bag and wear my rosy pink hat with the bling. They should be thankful it’s not tie-dyed.