Born To Dance (1936).

That’s Jimmy Stewart (center) and Buddy Ebsen (right).

They should just… kiss. It would forever improve The Beverly Hillbillies for me.

Years ago when I was trying to put an end to my endless pursuit of college, I used to DJ at a couple of campus stations to take my mind off other things.

I learned early on that every time you turn on the microphone, be ready to talk, sound at least a little interested, get to the point, and don’t drag on with slow “ummm, soooo, ohhhkaayy.”

Some of the other DJ’s would just kill me.

I just watched part of a YouTube that was worse than usual in this way.

When I was a young’un, my parents started riding my ass to play sports, and I was sure they meant severe ones like football.

Coming back from a beach trip, I was told, “you need to pick a sport, or we’re going to pick one for you.” Upon hearing that, I looked at the car-door handle and wondered how much it would hurt to fling myself out onto the highway.

I started to think of “sports” that I might could handle: croquet, slingshot (lol), bowling.

I decided to ignore it, and it went away. I was able to finish out the summer attempting Jell-O desserts from magazine recipes. “If the temperatures are right, maybe I can get this layer of fruit to float in between these layers of Jell-O, then I can put on the whipped cream!”