“How about that,” I said to myself, walking into the basement, about any number of things, after the lazybones amble four-times-around Wilshire Park, after the rare visit to the Freddie’s gas pumps way up on Halsey, after the senior (high-dose) flu shot and the come-and-get-it latest Covid booster, both making their appearance in my lanky left arm, simply as a walk-in at my Medicare peeps palace.
And ambling around Wilshire part of a song slides into my head and I YouTube as a stealth detective and it’s “Young Love” by Sonny James, released in 1956, so yesterday when Bruce and Butchie and Royal were urging me to come out and goof around I could so very well have been under the covers, blankets like a cloak of invisibility, with a hidden radio delighting to that very tune.
Little seven-year old me.
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