Go Colts, Finding our Beach House, A Sunday Morning Rap

“The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
— Oscar Wilde

Oh, Lawd, it’s Sunday; how are you? I’m sure you are heading off to church; we’ve got company.  Nate and Sarah stayed the night in the carriage house; we all went to the Colts game last night.  Go Colts; they might be a sneaky pick to win it all this year.   

We are heading up to my parents’ for Christmas today.  My mother is making pork loin; we are taking some sweets, my daughter is making a salad and a side.  Unfortunately, our son and his wife and child can’t join us; they fear the virus. However, she is pregnant with their next baby; maybe we can see the grandbabies next year?

We had a good day yesterday; Nate and Sarah had attended my friend Bill Burr’s show in Indy; we caught Billy Red Toes at Red Rocks, so we stayed home.  They enjoyed the show and then stayed at our home. After that, we all got up and had coffee; we headed to the Dugout around lunchtime.

We came back home, and some Monroe Central Graduates stopped by.  Jay and his younger brother, both military men, and their friend Jason a Delta grad, hung out and sipped some beer pregaming for Colt’s game.  We all UBERed over and found our seats; we were on the 32 rows in the endzone, pretty good seats, thank you, Sarah.

Since our home is located so close to the stadium, we walked home and caught the end of the game in our jammies. Unfortunately, we are not late-night folks, and the idea of arriving home after the game after ten was not tenable. So we sat and watched our team win; I’m a fair-weather fan, but we seem to have a good team most years.

As we sat with 60,000 fans with no masks, I wondered about the power of the virus these days.  We are now at a point where we can choose to live freely or bow to the media narrative that we will die. Of course, you will die, but I doubt it will be a virus that escaped from a lab in China that kills you.

Last night, we all got blue Colt’s Santa hats; they passed them out at the stadium.  Mine is now a dog toy, destroyed beyond recognition; our dog can turn anything into a toy.  She has an unlimited selection of “dog toys between cardboard and socks.”

My Cologuard box came.  I think I’ll fill it tomorrow and send it back to see if I might need to get a colonoscopy. I’ll share once I see how it works; my doctor encouraged me to go this route; if you are over 50, get your box and fill it up!

The last week before Christmas, are you ready?  Did you get all your shopping complete?  I bought a few things; I am waiting on a big box of gifts in early December; hopefully, they will arrive this week; if not, I’ll be passing out January gifts!

It appears that the Build Back Better plan is dead.  Joe Manchin put a nail in the coffin; maybe we dodged a bullet, I would ask who will pay for that, but we know the answer, the future will pay.  If I ran my business like the U.S. Government, I would be put in jail for life; I sense accountability is coming.

I’ve got a busy week this week winding down our work, and then next week, we head south to Florida for a few days to enjoy some time on the beach.  I’m doing my 2022 goals, and I think it might be my best year.  2021 was a banner year coming out of a pandemic, resettling my life, finding my vein; I’m in a good place.

I’ve got a coaching call tomorrow; they are having lunch with a good friend; I’ll get my testosterone shot in the afternoon, and then I’m meeting a friend from Irvington for a beer in the afternoon.  Kevin visited us in Colorado and sent me a note, “are you guys in town?” It’s fun to host our Indy friends west and then hang out when “home.”

We have two homes; we plan to sell our third home. In addition, we have a condo downtown that we will sell in the first quarter of 2022.  It was a good investment that allowed us to launch in Colorado, but now we no longer need the space with our mountain house. Instead, we might use the proceeds to buy a home close to a beach and Air B and B when not there.  Our dream has always been to have a beach house; I think 2022 might be the year we live our next objective.

I think we will get an excellent return from our Indy home this year; we are working with our Air B and B manager to set the price high on the high demand weekends, we will ask $2500 to $5000 a night for our home, most nights it’s only $500.00 a night with a three-night minimum.  It’s close to everything; you can walk to the stadium, the convention center, it’s a good location. 

Nate and Sarah just came in from the carriage house; they are heading to Gaston for their family Christmas.  Cousin makes his return tonight to hang out for a couple of days; our fried GG arrives as well; we will have a house full again; it’s nice to have friends and family stay in our homes.  

I hope these words find you in a good place, a good space, with a good face.  This Sunday morning, I’m a rapper, boring, storing, roaring some beats, treats, and creamed wheat.  A rare feat, but it’s neat.  Don’t cheat; instead, come replete with love, a white dove, and give your good self a nudge.

“The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
— Oscar Wilde