AI is here to stay, but the real concern should be Quantum Computers, China is developing a new computer that may be 1000s of times faster than what we are using know. When developed they can hack into ALL accounts and render the economy of the USA helpless.

My name is Wilson, and I’m an old leather baseball glove purchased in 1966 by my owner’s father for his tenth birthday. The joy I brought to that young boy was unimaginable. The gift was presented soon after the Baltimore Orioles beat the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 1966 World Series. Nothing made the boys’ dad more proud when the Orioles beat ‘Da Bums.” I was a tad stiff when I started out, but the constant pounding of a baseball into my pocket loosened me up. My boy would oil me regularly and keep me under his pillow when he slept.

The very next day after I arrived, I was taken to the sandlot to show off to all his baseball buddies. I was truly the center of the universe for the boy. Every day after school, my boy would run home and gather me up with bats and balls and head to the sandlot. I am made from cowhide, and my name, Wilson, is stitched on my wrist. My lacing is hand-sewn with all the appropriate knots. My outer shell is durable and can withstand all types of weather, while my inside is soft and cushioned. I can still feel the perspiration of my boy; his fingers were molded to the exact shape of my insides.

I thought for years my name was “I got it.” When ever a ball was hit to my boy, he would start to run in the outfield, and after a good chase, he would yell, “I got it!” So I called myself. “I got it, Wilson.” Each summer was always anticipated with great pleasure. I played game after game all season long, and even when baseball season was over, I was still playing against the garage. Always ready to play catch with my boy, his dad would join us and teach my boy all the rules of baseball.

We hung out all through high school, and I was always in his Baltimore Oriole duffle bag. We were both back out on the field after school every day, if not playing a game, just playing catch. Oh, how I miss playing catch. That was 1978, when he graduated high school and went off to college, but I didn’t make the trip, and here I sit.

I would be brought out occasionally when he got older, and he played softball with his pals when he came home. Softball is not the same; the ball is too big and heavy. I much prefer a real baseball. As the years passed, I was used less and less. I no longer slept with my boy, and at times I felt I was simply not of use to him. I was regulated to the garage, where I sit on the top shelf behind the Christmas decorations, far out of site. I hope some day I can be used again. I am ready to go in coach. Play me; don’t make me sit and gather dust. As time passes, now, after three years, I wonder my fate. I am old and stiff, probably riddled with arthritis. I wish my boy would oil me again; ah, it felt so good! Alas, my fate, oh, wait, someone is coming. I hear the garage door open. They’re walking towards me; they’re moving the boxes in front of me. Can it be freedom again? No, no, don’t walk away! It was the Christmas decoration they needed. One more holiday spent without my boy. It will soon be 1982, and he should be finished with college. Maybe when he comes home we can play catch agin if this old piece of rawhide will hold together with its tattered, leather lacing.

At last, great joy! My boy is home, and we can play catch! It has been years since he held me. Why isn’t he coming into the garage? Doesn’t he miss me? Oh boy, it’s Wilson. Remember me? Remember, “I got it.” Wait, here he comes. Finally, he is moving the boxes away. He’s coming for me. Please oil me; he’s walking away! He needed more Christmas lights for the tree. He did glance at me, didn’t he? I’ll wait; he will come for me.

Boy, am I getting dusty back here? My boy has been home for a year, and we haven’t played catch. He has forgotten me. I am so lonely; I wish I had a baseball to hold on to. I recall the first day he got me. Where is that magic? You showed me off to your friends; you carried me everywhere. You oiled me and kept me flexible. Now I am dried up and cracking, and that hurts. Whenever I cry, the cracks get worse. I must be used, or I will wither away.

I haven’t seen my boy in three years since he came home from college, not even a softball game with his buddies. I am so lost. Where do I belong? I remember kids talking about a hall of fame where special gloves, bats, and balls go when they are famous. I’m not famous; I never left Maryland. Someday I will be on the field shagging fly balls, feeling the summer sun on me. I miss the sweat from my boy. Here he comes again. I am not getting my hopes up high; I have been disappointed too many times in the past. Slowly, he moves the dozens of boxes of Christmas decorations. I am far in the back, and every year I get pushed further back. I hear him getting closer. “There you are, my old pal Wilson; I’ve been looking for you!” Looking for me, I have waited over ten years for you; this is where you left me. “ Gotta get you oiled and flexible again.” I’m being oiled!!! Horray! Finally, we can play catch. He is putting me in the car; where are we going? “Hey Wilson I have a surprise for you—someone new to play with.” I’m given a second chance to run around the outfield and scoop up ground balls at third base. Boy, oh, boy, baseball! Hurry up, I’m twenty-eight years old; that must be a hundred in glove years.

We entered what appeared to be his new home, much better than my last place. He walks over to a crib with a baby boy dozing. “Son,I want you to meet Wilson.” Slowly, the baby wakes up, and a smile is brought to his face. Oh, how cute. What’s that? You’re putting me in the crib to get to know the baby! This can’t be. He’s putting me in his mouth; he’s chewing my laces! Make him stop, boy, please! Suddenly, the baby throws me out of the crib. What’s that? You didn’t like the way I tast. I’m a genuine, 100% rawhide from a cow; a kid must be a vegan.“ Here, son, sleep with Wilson as I once did. Before you know it, you and I will be playing catch with Wilson. Soon after that, Wilson will be yours.” I have a new home, the boy’s boy! I will play catch, run down fly balls, and stop those nasty one-hoppers in the infield, and most importantly, I get to hear, “I got it.”

https://www.amazon.com/Creek-Dont-Rise-There-Parade/dp/B0CMH48SGR/ref=tmm_

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATd5tuvuUHQ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKu-h5HIjashttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKu-h5HIjas

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mY0FyINdJzI https://www.youtube.com/watch?

Phone rings: “Hello, this is the home of the next president, Jill speaking.”

Hello, Mrs. Vice President, It is George Stephanapoulos. I hope all is well. May I please speak to the president?”

“Joe, the phone is for you; it’s George; he wants to talk about the next debate.”

“Hello, George, how is Martha?” “Pardon me, Mr. President, it’s George Stephanapoulos, not George Washington.” “I’m sorry, George. I just woke from my nap.”

“Mr. President, it’s only 10 a.m.” “Yes, I realize that. My naps are very important.”

“My first question, sir, is: “How do you plan to help the economy?”

“Depends,” “Can you elaborate a bit more?”

“Depends,” “Okay, then, Mr. President, how will you help the immigration problem?”

“Depends,” “is this the way your answers will go during the debate?”

“Depends,” “one final question that the whole country wants to know: boxers or briefs?”

“Depends.”

Joe and Jill went up the Hill, for nearly 50 years

When Joe fell down he gave his crown

To Jill before he drowned

Jill wore the crown without a frown

Joe and Kamala were in tears

Jill stayed on the Hill until it was time

To send sleepy Joe to his early bedtime

Kamala waited and waited for Joe to wake

Jill shook Joe but it was too late

So the two planned another date

Jill and Kamala went up the Hill

And lived for twenty more years

They ruled without any fears

Until one day when when it was still

Donald Trump had his fill

And they all come tumbling down

He who drinks a fifth on the fourth, may not be able to go forth on the fifth.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dG62qH86q8Y

Gov.Ron DeSantis announced a bill to increase Homestead exemption. Currently, you can be assessed on $75,000, that wu=I’ll increase to $125,00. Needs 60% to pass.

Went to the grocery store and my change contained a 1963 Silver Dime, Gus advises investing in silver. I guess I just started, I think its worth $25. Any opinions?

Yo, how ya doing? This is a typical greeting in New York. It really isn’t a question, because no one gives a shit about “how ya doing.” New Yorkese is a language onto itself, “dees and deems.” Once you learn this language, it stays with you forever. Caw-fee is coffee in New York, but a regular caw-fee comes is with cream and sugar. There are so many nuances and when you meet a fellow New Yorker, the lingo and pronunciation return instantly.

I have been saying “Yo” all my life, “Yo Vinny, Yo Tony.” It in essence means “hey,” not hello.

I moved out west, and everyone knew where I was from. It was like having a big sign on your shirt saying, “Yo, I’m from New York.” For twenty-four years, my accent got watered down. One trip back, just one trip, and I spoke like I was auditioning for “Godfather, you can’t lose it!

I was on a social media site recently called “New Yorkers that have moved to Florida.” One of your typical bullshit sites, I seldom post anything, I just read. One time I had to answer the post when the comment was made, “If you say “y’all,’ in Florida, you are not from New York.” That I took offense to, I was offended.

First of all, out of all the New Yorkers living in Florida, I have not one, not a single one, born in New York. If you mail a letter and address it New York, New York, it goes to Manhattan, not Brooklyn, Queens of Upstate New York. I was born on 21st Street and 1st Avenue at Manhattan General Hospital. To a native Manhattanite, Central Park is upstate. When I hear, “I’m from New York,” and I ask where, “Albany,” not New York, New York,.

Yo, how y’all doing? A combo of north and south. Not only do I use y’all, I use it in writing. I have family in New Orleans and Mississippi. The ones born there taught the non-natives what to use in their speech. Not only do I say y’all, I can also explain when to use “all y’all.” Y’all are used to speaking to a small group of people; y’all know what I’m saying.” When speaking to a large crowd, it’s all y’all. “All of you.”

Yo, I hope, “All y’all got it!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LUNNvzxAcCk

Sing and dance like no one is watching,

Text and email like it will be read in court.

Like a scene from “Night of the Living Dead,” they will come into your home and take over. Zombies are everywhere; just when you thought it was safe, the zombies appear. Think about getting a pool; the zombies will take it. Renovation’s a great idea, but the zombies will come.

Zombie mortgage, or at least the term, was coined in 2008 after the crash of banks and the real estate business. What exactly is a zombie mortgage? It is a secondary mortgage when purchasing a house. Jack and Jill can’t afford the 20% payment, so they borrowed from their aunt in Peoria to secure the house. The bank has a 30-year mortgage on the home, and they need good reason to foreclose. The owners are paying the first mortgage, not the second; they have their own arrangement. However, the secondary holders of the mortgage can foreclose whenever they want. Scary, “Night of the Living Dead,” scary.

Usually, it is assumed that the secondary mortgage is forgiven in six to ten years, and the loan lies dormant for years, basically forgotten about. Surprise, that isn’t always the case.

Jack and Jill are getting divorced; Aunt Hazel from Peoria is Jill’s aunt. What could happen if the aunt calls the note in? It’s a really messy divorce; Jack cheated on Jill, and Jill wants revenge. The aunt sends Jack a foreclosure notice. Meanwhile, Jack has to pay and vacate the home.

Jill, being Aunt Hazel’s favorite niece, assumes ownership. This is a real-life scenario.

In the last two years, ten thousand zombie mortgages were called in for payment in New York. This is happening every day during the week.

In the event of a zombie attack, remember that they aren’t that smart but awfully strong. Make barricades against all doors. Don’t open windows and get to high ground; they can’t climb.

The CDC wants you to be prepared. They have a practical handbook available. Your guide to the “apocalypse.” Similar to hurricane preparation.

Stock up on water, wine, and garlic.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0trHQUkUTUU

I accidentally shallowed some Scrabble tiles, and now I’m experiencing constant vowel movement. The next trip to the bathroom could spell disaster.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtmZ4Z-9794

Napa County vs. Sonoma County

Napa County is by far the most famous wine-producing region in the world. Rich in California history and abundantly rich in grapes. One of the first wineries was Charles Krug back in 1861, and they are still making wine. In the 1930s, Krug became one of the original 13 ranchos established for wine production, along with Caymus.

Napa is basically a pit; the Napa Valley runs north and south and is mostly landlocked. Napa and Sonoma share the Los Carneros region, located on San Pablo Bay. There are 789 square miles of land in Napa. The valley gets extremely hot during the summer, making it the ideal location for Cabernet, but not many other varietals.

In the Paris Tasting in May of 1976, or “The Judgement of Paris, the most respected names in Paris were the judges. George Taber, who was a Times magazine correspondent, wrote, “Obviously, the French wines win.” This turned out to be the biggest story about wine and started the globalization of wine. A 1973 Chardonnay from Chateau Montelana in Napa won, and Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars, also from Napa, won for best Cabernet. A bottle of each is in the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. Thanks for bringing Sonoma County into the spotlight.

Sonoma County was originally a grape-growing county, selling grapes to Napa while producing “Dago Reds.” When a Cabernet Sauvignon says Napa Valley, not all the grapes are from Napa. They buy grapes from Sonoma and blend them for various reasons. Sonoma has 1,768 square miles of land—one thousand square miles more. Unlike Napa, Sonoma is not landlocked. The Pacific Ocean on the west and the Mayacamas Mountains to the east divide the two counties. San Pablo Bay to the south and makes Sonoma more diverse, with many growing climates in the county.

The Alexander Valley gets as hot as Napa. The coastal weather has an influence on the grapes. When the weather gets too hot, the grape refuses to work, and they wait for the fog to come across from San Francesco Bay. The Russian River Valley runs through the entire width of Sonoma. Bodega Bay and the Guadalala River also have an effect on grape growing. Pinot Noir thrives in Sonoma County, not just in Los Carnos but in many other places. The fog produces slight moisture to cool the grapes acidity. The Cabernets, Merlot, and other Bordeaux grapes enjoy the weather. Bordeaux has plenty of rain and fog.

All these varietals produce softer fruit, which produces softer, more elegant wines. in Sonoma, which adds more nuances and character. In my opinion, and I am Sonoma County trained, Sonoma County is overall a better county with all the micro-climates for growing grapes.

How to frighten the new generation. Put them in a room with a rotary phone, an analog watch and a television without a remote control and leave the directions in cursive.

How to frighten the old generation, put them in front of a computer, ask them to up-load a picture, down-load a file, create a PDF then share to a social media, while CCing all contacts with the letter z in their names.

My son got so mad when he called me and I didn’t answer. He keep asking, “where are you?” And I said, “I’m here, you just can’t see me.” I identify with, “Transparent, and my pronouns are who and where.”

I remember years ago the commercial,” I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” I always laughed at the commercial. Now, I’m 70 I don’t find this funny anymore.

I never knew any of my grandparents, but I was fortunate enough to know my great-uncle, who was my grandfather’s brother. My grandfather, Alfonso, arrived with his brother Francesco in New York around 1900. The brothers were born in Cava de’ Tirrini, a city in the Campagna region of southern Italy. The brothers didn’t take to American life; one example would be never really learning English.

My grandfather Alfonso died soon after the Depression, and his brother Francesco became my surrogate grandpa. Zio “Cheech,” as we called him along with Grandpa. He lived in Corona, New York, lived to be 86, and died in 1964, when I was ten. My memories are fading with age. However, I do vividly recall his basement in Corona. The walls were decked with the Sunday comics from The Daily News, “Terry and the Pirates, and “Gasoline Alley.” The old guy never understood the text of the comics; he loved the colors, and they were everywhere.

He had a modest garden of tomatoes, herbs, peaches and grape vines. He also made his own wine. One memory I will always remember was his smell; he smoked DiNapli cigars, short smokes we called “Guinea Stinkers,” and he wore the same old, grey sweater.

My parents would visit every Sunday for dinner in Corona. As soon as we arrived, he took me down to the cellar. I was the youngest and clearly his favorite. He showed me the latest edition of Sunday comics, and he always smiled. Then he’d sit me down and pour me some home-made wine. I was eight back then. He would slice a piece of peach and put it in our wine glasses. The wine was so strong in alcohol that it had to be cut with the sweetness of the peach. The “Godfather” scene at the end depicts Cheech in a tee, peach, and gray sweater.

He would serve wine in Flintstone jelly jars. I had a serious crush on Wilma until I was twelve.

What I would give for one more visit down his cellar, drinking wine and smelling those nasty cigars.

I can across a company called “United Wholesale Mortgage.” Has anyone heard of them?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CyS65ltez9M

Two women talking: “How did you meet your husband?” The other woman replies, “When I was working in the pharmacy, he came and asked for condoms, size XXXXXX. I didn’t realize until we were married that he stuttered.”

• This discussion was modified 6 months, 3 weeks ago by  Gustan Cho.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKc3j8GMqGo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UoBnF48RWU

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0hP-LT0TZs