Nothing To Do...All Day To Do It

Every now and then it would slip out when I was a kid...and always at about the same time I was walking all pver my mother's very last nerve during the summer: "There's nothing to do" or a variation on that theme. Without fail, my brother would clap a hand over my mouth at the first syllable, but the whole thing usually managed to leak into my mother's hearing range. At such a time, the awful truth dawned on me, and I always professed that I had misspoken, for there were really oodles of things to do...usually too late. Mom would produce a "job list" six miles long and require us to begin at number one and work until we had completed three summers' worth of tasks. This was made extremely painful for me since Fred usually hit me repeatedly in retaliation every time we were alone. I must say I've grown out of the habit of implying a lack of industry and can find something to do even in the most mundane situations. No matter how inane the activity, I can always find something to occupy my otherwise vacant minutes. I have noticed that this is true of other people as well. To wit:

Folks in New Orleans have undertaken their own "running of the bulls" celebration similar to that of the death-defiers in Pamplona, Spain. There are striking similarities: the runners wear white and adorn themselves with red neckerchiefs. There is the potential for pain involved as well. However, there are some major differences. The bulls in N'Orlins probably got washed away in the Katrina aftermath so their substitutes screaming down the streets of the French Quarter in hot pursuit are members of the women's roller derby league wielding wiffle ball bats. (I wish I were making this up, but I am not). Now THERE'S a worthy substitute for being trampled and gored!
Folks in California have an annual festival there at which hundreds gather on a specified date for the express purpose of mooning the Amtrak train and its passengers. It's orderly and organized and happens once a year though this year a few other body parts were flashed in a confusion with "Girls Gone Wild." This is generally a sedate crowd who finds this pasttime amusing. Then, there are the enterprising folks of America's Dairyland.
Every Sunday from now until they realize the futility of it, fans of Green Bay's retired quarterback are meeting at Lambeau Field at noon to voice their displeasure over the current situation and lobby for a change in direction by the organization. Carrying placards and wearing neclaces of fake cheese and bratwurst (really!), these folks probably come directly from either church or the bar to vent their feelings. Today's meeting was the first of at least two. Go to www.bringbackbrettfavre.com for updates, especially when you are tempted to say something silly like, "What is there to do?"
If you want something to do, I'll GIVE you something to do!