Friendship, it’s potentially the most imperative virtue in life. Because without some form of reflective exchange with another living animal, it’s nearly impossible to apply meaning to our existence.

In fact, since our great grandfather times a hundred Erg the Nomad wandered the plains foraging for mushrooms and crunchy insects wiggling under Woolley Mammoth dung, knowing that another bone-wielding human had your hairy back has always been what keeps us going. Be it a person or a pet, we need to feel as if there is another organism with eyes that finds our existence worthwhile.

And one true measure of a real friend is a person who makes the attempt to reciprocate the association. Which often determines the varying levels of friendship.

First, you have your pretend friends. These are the ones who are around because you have something to offer. It isn’t based on leveling up as much as it is on climbing the social ladder or making their lives better by what you can provide for them.

There are also remote friends. These are the pals you communicate with once a year or so, just to re-establish that you still have a connection that is important, albeit superseded by current circumstances that require more immediate attention.

And then there’s your tribe. These are the peeps on speed dial with whom you counsel for social activities and relationship opinions. They are in your periphery, sharing meals and outings on grassy plots on sunny days, deeply involved in the events of your development, helping to navigate the course of your journey. They are responsible and dependable, having stood the test of time, supportive and aware of some deep secrets.

But there is another important friendship that belongs in the upper echelon.

This is the friend that generously reciprocates the bounty of green fluffiness out of the kindness of their supernova heart. They comprehend the commonality that is imperatively based upon positive intentions. Even if for only one sesh, this friend is true and should be revered. They are welcome into your space and judgement should never be passed.

Interaction in life is critical.

And a friend with weed is a friend indeed.

Khaki is a baby boomer color. They used to be into safaris. You see, fifty years ago they were the ultimate adventure, which is why these dust-colored outfits are made with waterproof panels and leftover mosquito net that blend with the Serengeti.

Now, I’m not making fun of all boomers, just the one’s filling the gas tank to the Chevy Avalanche and grabbing a stick of jerky on their way to a jungle cruise. With all those pockets and hooks on their cargo pants and shirts, they think capturing that Pulitzer pic for Nat Geo is a sure thing once the golden hour commences.

I know, this is insensitive. It’s just that there’s only one Indiana Jones and he wasn’t even real. Sure, you fashion yourself an adventurer who voyages the seven seas to faraway lands where accidental romances are waiting to be written in your self-published memoir, but the only ones who will read it are your grown children, indirectly forced to choke out the word spellbinding. Meanwhile in the real world, you’re so far from east Africa that your outfit will have to suffice like a child who wears Spiderman pajamas to the grocery store.

Let’s pretend for a second. There you are on an African excursion with your pasty white legs, Cheesecake Factory belly, and a 35 ml camera strapped over the chest while you waddle out of the Hummer just before the lioness pounces for a swift gnashing. Sorry, my guy, but the light brown cotton and mesh couldn’t camouflage the scent of maple syrup and Irish Spring soap to prevent that wild beast from clamping into the back of your hairy neck for a quick fast-food drive through triple bypass burger. Sound familiar?

Don’t get me wrong, safaris are cool. Rasta safaris, that is.

To be great at America’s favorite pastime, you only need to succeed three out of every ten attempts. We’re talking about getting hits in baseball here, not getting lucky between the sheets. However, for you men out there, the numbers are pretty much the same. For every ten times you try, if you get action three out of those, you’re doing better than most of your neighbors. Unless, of course, you live next to a college dormitory.

Or a retirement community.

Sorry for the visual.

One reason why getting laid has been compared to hitting a home run is because it’s not always easy. It takes skill and practice. I mean, if you’re uncomfortable in the batter’s box, getting to first base can feel very intimidating, much less advancing to second and third. And none of it matters unless you get to fourth base. That’s called home plate. Which is coincidental, because fourth base is where babies are made. And those babies end up living at your home, endlessly screeching at an empty plate.

Anyway, to effectively score and win, you need to be physically and mentally adept with good timing. You wanna keep the ball in play because that’s where the action is. If you’re swing is too erratic, you’re not going to find the gap on the field. And You only get three strikes until you’re back in the dugout watching the other players take their shot. Also, it’s good to keep the pace moving because the more the game drags on, the longer it takes to get to that victory.

By the way, did you know that the Major League Baseball Player’s Union recently announced that each team can now carry 14 pitchers? There are 30 teams in the league. That means there are 420 pitchers overall.

Looks like baseball is catching up with the times.