|
|
July 16
I admit, I'm old enough to remember manual pencil sharpeners, cars that, when the hood is opened, allowed you to still see the ground, telephones with round dials (I'm still hassling "dialing a number" on a phone with buttons, but that's my problem.), televisions without remotes and 45s (records, not the gun).
So, reading an article on parents who are going against the current teaching, and showing their children long division. I have to admit I read the story because I couldn't figure out, for the life of me, what the parents were doing wrong. I finally reached the paragraph that explained.
Apparently, the current teaching theory says that kids are taught the comcepts. As someone said in the story, ": "Would you want to go to a doctor who's learned about the concepts but never done the surgery? Would you want your doctor to say I had the right IDEA when I removed your appendix, though I took out the wrong one?"
OK, I'm willing to defend teachers and methodology. However, another paragraph explained what the children are being taught:
". . .multiply 88 by 5, we'll do it with pen and paper, multiplying 8 by 5 and carrying over the 4, etc.
But a child today might reason that 5 is half of 10, and 88 times 10 is 880, so 88 times 5 is half of
that, 440 . . ."
I had enough trouble with long division - instead I still do - but I don't know that I would have been nearly as close if the above method was taught. I think I understand the idea, but, even without any children, I believe in the fundamentals.
Of course, it would have been better if there were more than a single example in the story, but I guess editors have their priorities.
No matter what, 2 plus 2 equals 4. I guess it doesn't really matter how you get there as long as you do, but I still have questions.
Calculators in the classroom. Math programs on the computer. I think I like the idea that people once were expected to think for themselves. I guess we've come a long was since then. That is, until the computer crashes. (After all, we are talking about a PC, usually running one of the inevitably popular operating systems by Microsoft. (Did I say popular?) Forgive me, I'm tired.
I have to admit I'm no math wizard. In fact, I don't even balance my checkbook. I just make it a point to never write checks, or make electronic payments, in excess of my last deposit. This means, if all goes well, I have a little next egg at the end of the year.
Life is good. Who needs concepts?
July 15 Went to Cambria last weekend. It was something of an impulse.
I was invited to a production of High School Musical. OK, it would NOT have been my first choice, but I know the costumer. So, I promised I'd be there. Because I never like to put a large number of miles on my car (a 10-year-old Mazda Protege with less than 80,000 miles - every time I take it into the dealership for service, the Service Manager tells me he has at least 10 people who would love to buy my car.)
All right, I'm like everyone else. Trade me a car for car, and I'll love you forever. I want a new car, but I don't want a car note. (See the problem)
So, in keeping with my personal tradition, I rented a car. Actually, made a reservation with Enterprise here in my neighborhood. As with all good things, something always goes wrong. This time I thought I had everything in hand. I selected a reservation time for 2-1/2 hours before I needed to leave. Would you believe they managed to screw that up? Apparently, only a handful - a small handful - of people work on Saturdays. This seems to be especially true on the Saturday I need a car. Needless to say, I had to get a neighbor to take me to the office that promises to "pick you up". This would have worked if I lived in their parking lot. Unfortunately, - no, make that fortunately, I don't.
I arrived at the office only to discover that they were still very very busy. I might add that no one told me I was suppose to put my name on a list for attention. By the time the young woman behind the desk realized her mistake, it was apparent that "I was not happy." Anyway, I finally got her attention. After completing the paperwork, while apologizing, she walked me to the lot behind the office, pick up the car she said was waiting. At the last minute, she offered me an upgrade . . . . A Tahoe. I had to explain that I don't drive trucks. If she paid close attention, she would see that I wanted a car. Next, she was walking me toward a Pontiac when I saw . . . TADA . . . and asked, "Who gets the convertible?"
I was looking at a silver Ford Mustang convertible. "You want it?" "How much is it?" "I'll give it to you for the same price." "Yes, I'd like to have the Ford."
And there I was, driving down the highway, top down, Breathe, by Soul Food, coming from the CD player. Life is good.
Let's hear it for impulse.
The production was great. I publically admitted that I would have never seen that particular production had it not been for a promise to a friend. However, I'm glad I went. Other than the fact the music does make you bounce in your seat, I learned something. If we could figure out how to harness the youthful energy I saw that afternoon, we would have one of the best and cleanest sources of energy in the world. There would be no need to raise energy prices.
All right, now I have a car, a convertible, and a whole day (Sunday) ahead with no real commitments. Whoo-hoo!! I heard the highway calling. At 9:00 A.M. Sunday, I was on the highway, headed north toward Cambria, my favorite place in all of California. (I allow for the state limit because I might eventually find another place that I love as much, but it's really hard to imagine at this moment.)
I had lunch at Robins ( http://www.robinsrestaurant.com/), my favorite restaurant in Cambria. I stopped in to say hello to Terry (or Teri, I keep forgetting to ask) the owner of the Burton Inn. (If you're looking for a quite, but friend place to get away, check out this website: http://www.burtoninn.com/ . Anyway, this is my place for relaxing.
I also visited my favorite winery ( http://www.harmonycellars.com/). They have won so many awards, they rotate them on the wall behind the tasting counter.
Jeez, I just realized this is looking like a product placement paradise. No, that's not my intent. These are just the places that I enjoy.
Anyway, along the way, I took a few photographs. Yes, I'm still learning my cameras.
Nothing really exciting happened, but it was a wonderful weekend. I'm only sorry that (1) it was so short and (2) I had to return the car. OK, I know both of those were true and inevitable, but that doesn't change anything. I always return ready to face new challanges. Well, small new challanges. It seems wrong to ruin a good feeling with reality. Oh, such is the way.
So, now I've had two full days of my own reality and I'm ready for another weekend. Maybe without the rental, but in the long run, that doesn't really matter. Weekeneds are special, even in an older car. (Its old and dirty, but at least its paid for - doesn't get much better than that.)
January 17
Heaven help me, I have a new toy. I bought an Olympus Evolt 500 DSLR.
I had a little digital Canon – and I do mean ‘little’. The thing is about the size of my phone. There was nothing wrong with that camera. In fact, I love some of the photos that I took, but in a time before digital, I had an Olympus OM-1. During that time, I carried that camera everywhere I went – and I went some interesting places.
I was, at one time, stage manager and occasional lighting manage for a modern dance company in Detroit. It was a fascinating time. The dancers were young and unbelievably enthusiastic. And they were all there for the photographing. Because I was always with my camera, they paid no attention to me. Add to that, the fact that the Olympus has the quietest shutter of its day; they rarely knew when I actually took a shot.
I actually used an SLR for the first time while attending a dance conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. A friend of mine had become fascinated with photography, purchased a camera and enrolled in a college course on photography. This had nothing to do with his major, but that’s another story.
Somehow (I really don’t remember how it happened), I traded the use of my car for the period I would be gone for the use of his camera for the same length of time. I returned four days later with nine rolls of film.
I was hooked!
Shortly thereafter, my friend invited me to attend one of his photography classes. Later I discovered that there was an ulterior motive. My friend had taken a photograph of me while I was crocheting. (Remember the part about the quiet shutter?) I knew nothing about it until he showed to finished product in 16x20 glory.
Ok, the problem? Friend presented the photograph of me to his instructor as completion of an assignment. His instructor loved the image. It was somewhat dramatic. I was seated at the end of a couch that had no arms, in front a lamp that was the only illumination in the room. Everything else was black.
As I said, the instructor loved the image but he insisted that he had been printed backwards. That was the reason I was invited to class. I was there to prove that I was left-handed, but did everything just as a right-handed person. The only difference was I used a different hand.
The class was interesting, although I was a little troubled by the images of one of the students. For me, it was hard to sit through class examination of, and comment on, four shots of what seemed to me to be the same bush. Not only did it appear to be the same vegetation, the bush was dead. Or, at the very least, it had dropped its leaves.
There was another student whose muse led him to photograph sleeping derelicts. Thank God the photographs were in black-and-white.
Anyway, two things came out of that visit. After learning that I was (A) a graduate of the university and (B) really interested in photography, the instruction invited me to take his class in the upcoming quarter. I really wanted to take the class, but I couldn’t afford the graduate fees.
After a moment, the instructor the instructor invited me to sit in on the class.
I couldn’t refuse. It wasn't going to cost me a cent.
I was treated as a class member in the next quarter. He even took to the photography lab and introduced me to the attendants with an explanation – the truth. So, from that day forward, everyone who worked in the lab knew me and knew my special circumstances. They even took messages for me because, as I Iearned to develop and print my photographs, I could, and often did, stay in the lab for hours.
To see one of the images I shot appear in the developing solution was always something of an exercise in magic. By the way, never, never, ever take a photograph of a blond, very pale child at high noon. (That’s a story for a later time.)
One day, I had placed one of my photographs on a drying rack in the main room, outside of the darkroom. It was the photograph of the blond, very pale child at high noon that had taken me hours to tease into a photograph. I had returned to the darkroom to work on a photograph of sax player that I had taken at a concert in a local park. The image had to be worked and it was driving me mad. In the midst of questioning why I didn’t choose some other way to beat myself over the head.
At that moment I heard a male voice express an interest in the photograph of the child. When he asked the name of the photographer, both of the attendants began what I like to think of as diversionary tactics. By any name, it worked.
It seems that the voice I heard belonged to another photography instructor. It would have been a little difficult to explain why I was given access to the university photography lab and I wasn’t a student.
For me, it was an exciting time.
Oops, I just looked at the clock. I have got to go to bed and I’ve haven’t got to the new toy. I have to give you the rest of the story later. I’m trying to develop a real schedule.
Pleasant dreams.
January 16
I am old enough to remember the test tube baby and the furor that advance caused in the press. There have been other advances that have been announced with less and less critical press. We were amazed at the medical skill that allowed physicians to reattach various portions of the human anatomy that humans managed to maul, mangle, and amputate. Children who have fingers reattached after playing with the lawn mower, adults who have hands reattached after having somehow managed to get the extremity caught in equipment secretly designed to removed these appendages.
After the pacemaker, we even felt hope at the idea of an artificial heart. By the way, the man who invented the artificial heart also invented the artificial kidney dialysis machine. Come on, that will come in handy the next time you’re on Jeopardy.
We have finally accepted transplants of the lung, heart, kidney, various portions of the eyes and various pieces of skin. Ok, I’m fine with that, but today I read something that really makes me scratch my head.
Physicians are now planning to transplant a womb. Not just a womb, but lacking sufficient living donors, they are planning to transplant a womb from a cadaver.
Let’s look at established cost. For a liver transplant, the approximate cost for the first 3 – 6 months is $6,777.50. After approximately five months, the cost is $3645.50.
Therefore, the cost for a liver transplant is $60,000 to $90,000. And a heart transplant costs $75,000 to $125,000.
Now this leads to the next question. How much is one willing to pay for a womb? (I’m not going to address the question of a used womb. I see no fine definition of the plans, going forward, but I have some questions.
How much is one expected to pay for a used womb”? Do we know whether or not the ‘cadaver’ previously bore a child? If so, is there a price adjustment? Is there a discount based on the number of times it was used? Such as: if the cadaver, before it got dead, bore three children, does that womb cost less than a womb that is virtually new (no children)?
Now only that, the womb, which promises the possibility of pregnancy, can only be used one time. Once the pregnancy is completed – I think that’s called ‘birth’ – the womb is to be removed. Does the patient have to add the cost of removal to the entire procedure?
If the womb doesn’t work, is it possible to have another transplant? We could continue this for many such operations until a child is produced. Here, we are excluding costs.
Ok, let’s say we get passed all of the other questions. What do you say to the child when he/she starts to ask where they came from? A Used Stork?
By the time I finished reading the article, I had another question: If this works, could a man be the next subject for this procedure?
OMG!!! How would you like to explain that one to the little one?
January 15 The other day I engaged in a conversation with a friend about the typical ponderables. You know, things like: the locations of things lost such as socks that disappear from the dryer, favorite pens that disappear from the place you know you put them. He had nerve enough to add the last of the cookies that you are certain you left in the cupboard. (I told him I wasn't at all sure that cookies count.) My personal favorite, however, are reading glasses that just walk away.
I know this from personal experience. I put a pair of reading glasses, in their case, in my purse. By the time I reached my home, the glasses had disappeared. No, I made no stops between locations. They were gone and, even after searching my car, I didn’t find them. I am now in the process of replacing them.
I would have given it no thought whatsoever, until I heard about an earring. A very special earring. I saw the headline Marlene Dietrich's lost earring finally found after 73 years! Truthfully, I gave it little thought. Oh, I guess I was surprised to learn that she enjoyed amusement parks. But that was about it.
Anyway, I started thinking about a series of conversations I have had a co-worker (not that one, another one) who regularly talks to me about String Theory. I can spell it and I have a very general idea of the concepts. My fascination was peaked when he mention that this theory supports at least 11 dimensions. I decided that it was fun to listen to but very difficult to prove.
Now, I think there is proof. Things have begun slipping through from one, or more, of those dimensions. Yes, I know how this sounds, but if there had been only one of these occurrences I don’t think I would have given it any thought, but a day or two later I was reading a two-day old newspaper and discovered that the earring was only the latest items to suddenly reappear.
Still, I chose to give it little thought until today’s news. I just discovered that there has been another instance:
Man gets postcard postmarked in 1949
The card was addressed to Mrs. M.K. Hethington on King Street. A one-cent stamp was on the back, along with a postmark from Hendersonville, N.C., dated June 28, 1949.
This is fascinating for many reasons, not the least of which is that the recipient, a retired police chief, with the same last name, had to research his family history to discover that the original recipient was his great-aunt who died in 1972. He received the card in a plain white envelope with no message or return address.
After that I started thinking. I know, it’s a little dangerous at times, but not this time. At least, I don’t think so.
Anyway, there have been several of these ‘returns’ recently. Among the most reported are:
Man's Wallet Returned After 62 Years – this was lost during WWII.
Ring finds its owner after 27 years in the Gulf of Mexico – this was a graduation ring that her father bought for her when she was 17, in 1978.
Ok, the last one was returned a little early, in the scheme of things, but I wonder if that could have anything to do with the fact that the ring was lost in the water. After all, the other items were lost on land. I admit I don’t really know where the postcard was lost, but because it fits the time cycle, I suspect it wasn’t dropped in the water.
I have decided that it will eventually be possible to test this theory. Four days ago, I read the following:
Lost: One big snake. Really big. The Blalock family on Truman Street behind Thomson First Presbyterian Church is looking for Jake the Snake - a six-foot-long Columbian Red-Tailed boa constrictor that has been the family pet for more than 10 years.
So, if my theory is correct Jake should eventually reappear. Here’s the problem: all of the other examples were inanimate objects. Jake on the other hand, although cold blooded, is still defined as animate. So, when he slips away there is no measure that can be used to determine his return.
There have been other notable localized disappearances of animate. For instance: between 1920 and 1950, the town of Bennington, Vermont has been the site of serveral comletely unexplained disappearances:
On December 1, 1949, a Mr. Tetford vanished from a crowded bus..
On December 1, 1946, an 18-year-old student named Paula Welden vanished while taking a walk.
In mid-October, 1950, 8-year old Paul Jepson disappeared from a farm.
Of course, there is some validation for questions regarding the return of animate objects. After all, Judge Crater disappeared in 1930, and he hasn’t reappeared yet. Nor has Ambrose Bierce, who disappeared in 1913. I admit that this one might not really count because Bierce was on his way to join Pancho Villa. A gravestone was placed in a cemetery in Sierra Mojada in 1914, but there is no body beneath the stone.
I guess we have a number of years to test the theory. It should be interesting to learn what happens with the more learned of our species takes a look at this idea. Of course, Jake may have to get in line behind Judge Crater and Ambrose Bierce.
January 03
I made the mistake of looking at the moon. Once I saw the bright round orb I had an explanation for all of the weirdness on the road today. (Oh, well – sigh)
I drive a 1999 Mazda Protégé with a little over 67,000 miles. Yes, I am the original owner and Yes, I live in California. The explanation is simple: When I travel I rent a car. This saves wear and tear on my car and allows me to get that “New Car Craving” out of my system.
By the way, if you’re looking for a car that will last forever, give a thought to this little car. It gets great gas mileage and I have had no problems. In fact, when I told the man at the dealership that I was undecided as to whether I wanted to put the money into a little body work, he asked me, despite the dings and dents, to let him know if I decided to sell. He said that he knew of at least four people who would be willing to purchase it, As Is.
I don’t know. I rather like living without a car note. This in spite of the fact I love the new Chrysler Sebring hard top convertible. The only downside is the size of the trunk. Of course, little cars can’t be expected to have large trunks. Truthfully, the real downside is that I want a car, but I don’t want a car note. And I have had no luck winning the lottery.
Anyway, for my little jaunt to Cambria, California, after Thanksgiving, I rented a Chrysler Pacifica. Now, remember, I drive a little car. This is the first car I have ever driven that I had to “mount”. (Yes, I have short legs.) But that wasn’t the most embarrassing moment.
First, I have to explain that Cambria is a coastal city on the Central Coast of the state. Therefore, forget whatever general statements you’ve heard about California weather. During my last visit, the night temperatures dropped far enough to warrant a frost warning. OK, the guarantees that the car is going to be a little cool in the morning.
I decided to drive up the coast early on Thursday morning. Right after breakfast, I pack my camera, a bottle of water, a sweater, and I’m ready to go. I go out, open the car and mount the leather seats. I immediately dismounted, locked the door and returned to the Inn.
The two owners were standing in the lobby when I returned. The husband turned to me and said he thought I was off on adventures. I said I was until I encountered the cold leather seats. He gave me a strange look and asked if I knew there were seat warmers in the Pacifica.
“No,” I answered, “I thought I was carrying my own personal seat warmer.”
He was kind enough to walk me to the car and show me the button. I pressed the button, mounted the car, thanked him and drove away.
There is only one problem with seat warmers. It heated my personal seat warmer to a point of discomfort. (Ok, maybe I’m just not accustomed to luxury.)
The car drives like a dream although I don’t like the way it handles in wind gusts. I was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. You know, the once and famous car capital. Forget the cost of gasoline, I miss those serious engines. You know, the ones where, when you press the accelerator, the back end of the car dips down and you are off. The little engines are not so forceful. With four cylinders, when you press the accelerator, all four cylinders have to discuss the request. So, there you sit, wondering whether or not the instruction will be fulfilled. (I don’t like it, but I have learned to live with it.)
Well, I’m looking at the clock. If I don’t get to bed, I’m in real trouble. (The day started with a flat tire and ended with me entering a Verizon to complain about a battery that is not holding a charge. It was purchased about three months ago. On that date, I purchased two items, meaning I had two receipts.
Want to guess which one I had when I entered the Verizon Store?
I’m hoping things will get better – and soon. 
January 02
I’m afraid the ‘holidays’ are not my favorite time of the year. It starts with the beginning – Thanksgiving, actually, it starts the Wednesday before and last until New Years day. So I’m feeling better and, by the middle of this month I’ll be fine.
I have my reasons – good ones I think. I'm one of those people who have a list of bad memories associated with the 'holidays'. As I get older it gets a lot harder to keep up the mask. So, to give myself a chance to take a deep breath before diving into the gaiety, I withdraw for a few days.
I have a wonderful place where I escape to hide the week after Thanksgiving. It work really well because there are no tourists. It’s like almost like having the little village to myself. I’ve done this for four or five years in a row and, until this year, it worked like a dream. I return ready to face the ‘holidays’ and all of the accompanying happiness. I’m not a hypocrite. I share the smiles and the carols but I go home with the knowledge that there are those who enjoy and those who don’t.
In any event the ‘holidays’ are over. I’m ready to start again. At least, until next year. Hopefully, my escape will be a little more successful at that time.
Anyway, I think I’m beginning to feel the return of my humor.
I’ll share my travel adventures as soon as I figure out how to upload a few photographs. 
November 15
I have started to remember some of the rather strange arguments I have experienced. Most of them were with men. 
There is one man, who will remain Nameless, with whom I managed to have two weird arguments. The first, believe it or now, was over whether or not I wanted to live forever. I take the position that living forever is a waste. Well, maybe not a waste, but somehow the idea of watching everyone and everything I love die just doesn’t appeal to me.
He, on the other hand, insisted that living forever was the best learning scenario. OK, that one stopped me. I had to admit, to myself – hardly to him, that learning is one thing. But he made no specifications about his health. The human body is only meant to last so long. Yes, there are those who are lucky enough to extend that period past one hundred years while still living a full life.
There was a man in Los Angeles who had worked the same job for YEARS but decided to retired on his 100 birthday because he had some things he wanted to do. I don’t believe he lived six months past his retirement. So, although this is a recent story, I can remember friends of my father who retired and then, just stopped living.
Nameless was not happy with me. We were into the argument before I realized that it was going nowhere. I couldn’t get him to change the subject. Needless to say, the conversation ended badly.
This is the same man who, when, a few weeks later, instructed not to call me for a month, waited exactly 30 days (it was 31 day month) nearly to the minute. When I heard his voice, I knew there was going to be a problem. I’m still trying to understand the feeling, but it turned out to be correct.
He managed to remain cordial for several weeks. Finally, I guess his psyche couldn’t take “nice” any longer. This time he announced that he was leaving me his record collection. This was no mean promise. Nameless had something in the neighborhood of several thousand classical albums. He then asked, if I died first, who was going to get my collection of books.
Okayyyyyyyyy, this isn’t something to which I had given great thought. After arguing that I didn’t want to live forever, death seemed a logical end. With that in mind, I told him that I hadn’t really given it any thought. For a while he urged me to complete my will.
Complete? I was still reading some of them. Of course I had given no thought to giving them away. Although I have to admit it got me to thinking. And I realized that I had nothing that I wanted to leave to him. Also, I realized I was getting tired of the general trend of the conversation.
Another friend, who loves mysteries, suggested a will might make me worth more dead than alive in the name of Nameless.
Needless to say, I have only a vague idea of the current location of Nameless. Now that I think about it, I think that’s as close as I want to get.
I still have no idea who will get my books. 
November 12
I’ve been thinking about our language and technology. Every generation finds itself with new words and ideas that have to be interjected into daily conversation. Some things disappear quietly. For example, we no longer send children off to school with dip pens. (Here I think I'm excluding the Amish.)
I think my first realization that things were changing came very early in my life. The Detroit neighborhood where I was raised was a prime example of diversity. True, almost all residents were of the same ethnic persuasion, it was nonetheless diverse. Here I’m considering many things that include, among which are factors such as education, economic level, skin shade, and religion. No matter where they fell on an invisible line of value, the primary unit was the family. And children, of all sizes were everywhere. (Although my sister and I were older, my father commented on the number of times he had to enter the house through the back door because the front porch steps were filled will little children who had come by to tell us about their day.
I still remember with fondness watching children learning to navigate their world in tiny steps. Walking to school is part of the ritual even now, although there are not nearly as many friendly faces along the route.
The last time I was in Detroit, I visited my elementary school. Because it offered classes from kindergarten through eighth grade, I managed to avoid the trauma of middle school. (One day I’ll discuss the trauma of high school.)
I was surprised to discover how narrow the halls and how close the drinking fountains are to the floor. For a moment I stood trying to see the school through a child’s eyes. Soon I admitted to myself those days were long gone. Oh, I suppose I already knew that. But standing in the hallway, remembering moving slowly (on orders from teachers) but rushing (the method of travel instinctive to children) to the next class.
While I was standing there, identifying with Gulliver, a man came up to me (an attractive man I might add) and introduced himself as the school principle. When I explained I was a former student on a slow walk down memory lane, he invited me into his office. The man actually wanted to know what the school was like so many years before.
Our conversation adjourned to his office where I saw some remnants of my past. On a shelf behind his desk he had collected, among other thing: a wooden dip pen (with a couple of nibs), a manual pencil sharpener, a box of chalk and an eraser.
It was the dip pen that stirred my memory of the moment that marked the loss of its place. One of the little girls who lived across the street was telling me how happy she was to get out of kindergarten. In the conversation, she asked why there was a hole in her desk. When she gave me a little more information, I was stunned. (Ok, maybe not stunned, but definitely surprised.) She was asking about the hole in the upper right hand corner that, for a previous generation, held the inkwell.
Maybe my awareness started then. Now I see problems with the language trying to shake off old words, concepts, etc.
For instance, remember phonograph records? Remember 78s? 33s? 45s? Remember sleeves? Remember liner notes? We now have CDs in storage cases. And, if you are over the age of 40, you have no prayer of reading the tiny words that are suppose to serve as additional information – in the past, these were the liner notes.
Of course, my co-worker can read those itty bitty letters without his glasses. (I don’t think he finds this as great a trait as I do. But then, I can’t see those itty bitty letters with or without my glasses and I’m not quite ready for a magnifying glass.)
There are other things. The manual pencil sharpener? A few years ago someone conducted an experiment in an elementary school that included a manual pencil sharpener and an old black phone, with a dial. Apparently the children were stumped. I vaguely remember that one child, a little girl, eventually figured out how to use the pencil sharpener, but none of the children would have ever been able to make an emergency call using the phone. After several punched the thing a few times, with no result, they had no idea where to take their experiment.
I still remember the moment I borrowed a pencil from someone and had to adjust when I realized I was holding a PLASTIC?? PENCIL!?! How wrong is that? OK, I still have a thing about tactility. The electronic text reader will never replace the feel of a book in my hand.
Oops!! Distraction Alert!
Thinking about the telephone led me to the discovery that our language is having problems with the technology. My primary example is relative to making a call. Our language still contains the phrase “dial a number”. Try following the example of a dialing a number using a dial phone and you get “punch a number” or “press a number”.
Years ago, there was a contest to rename the "pound sign". The second place winner was the "gridlet", but the winner is my favorite: Octotherp. (I will note that there are a number of varitions on the spelling: octothorn, octalthorp, octothorp, and octatherp as well as octothorpe.
Now, I have to admit I was curious as to the source of this word. I found one of the answers in the Wikipedia: the originators of the word “. . . based the octo portion of the word on the eight points of the symbol and then chose therp just because it sounded Greek and went well with octo.” (http://www.worldwidewords.org/weirdwords/ww-oct1.htm)
Now, I'm the first to admit that not all confusion comes from new technology. There seems to have always been confusion when trying to explain an action to take place on a day certain either in the past or the future. For example the phrase “next Friday” is not always clear. Is this a date five or twelve days from Sunday? I was taught that “next Friday”references very next Friday on the calendar. This is not true for everyone. Don’t you love the language?
I heard one that still has me scratching my head. Since the election, it is acknowledged that Nancy Pelosi is slated to become the first female Speaker of the House. Since that time, there have been several comments regarding the fact that this is the first time a woman has stood in line for the Presidency. However, there seems to be some disagreement about her exact position. I have heard it stated that she is either second or third in line.
I’m not making this up. I thought that the “line” started behind the President. In that case, shouldn’t she be “second” in line?
Anyway, just to remind everyone how far we have not come, the Washington Post followed the story about her first meeting with the President with a lengthy Style column on what she was wearing as well as guessing what each choice might have meant.
Let’s face it, she had to wear something. The reason was propriety. Not until a Democrat commented on the color of the ties worn by the President and the Vice-President was there any mention of the sartorial choices of the men.
Oh well, that’s the world of . . . . Whatever. I think I’ll watch the football game. At the moment New York is leading da Bears 10 to 3.
Hey, just to share yet another useless piece of information: Gulliver’s first name was Lemuel. Hey, who knows, that could be a question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. 
November 11
I’m back.
I’ve been fighting my allergies for a few days. Somehow a clogged head, itchy eyes and blocked hearing is not conducive to creativity. Okay, maybe the hearing part is not an impediment, but in light of the other two, I think I have a fairly good excuse.
I refer to allergies as the California state disease. I have a wonderful, deep, chest roiling cough. On one of those rare times I took the train to work, a woman seated across from me actually stood gathered her belongings—in this case a purse, computer and something that I think was either an umbrella or a sword (couldn’t tell for certain because it was about three feet long in a camo cover) -- muttered something about sick people having no place on public transportation and left to find another seat.
I was tempted to follow her. No, no to scare her. I was just curious to see where she was going to find another seat on a crowded train.
I’m not coughing at the moment, but I am sure there is still some congestion. I just spent about a minute and a half trying to spell curious with a “Q”. English is not very forgiving.
Anyway, I couldn’t avoid the computer. I pay my utility bills online. As I have always thought of myself as “one of the people”, when I see the price of stamps going up again, I feel just a little bit guilty. I was in Costco last weekend standing in line behind a woman with two carts. The first cart, being pushed by a pre-teen female, was filled with little sleeping children.
Did you know, if you fold children like pieces of chicken in a cast iron frying pan, you can actually get four kids in a cart? Ignoring the fact that I would not fit in a cart, if I folded my body into any of those positions, I would never stand again.
Anyway, I think two were twins. The third was only a little larger than a small puppy. The fourth was so unlike the others I found myself wondering if she had borrowed a neighbor’s kid. I’m hopeful that she would have noticed an extra child climbing into the cart for a little nap. Or, at least I was, until I noticed the contents of the second cart. Either she’s feeding a platoon, or she was shopping with only a portion of her family.
Oh, stamps!! That’s right – I have warned that I am easily distracted.
There was a woman walking around the long lines of people waiting to pay and escape, hawking postage stamps. After watching for a while, I decided that telemarketers are not the only ones who need thick skin. She was facing consistent rejection. By the time she was headed toward me I was almost tempted to buy stamps just to help her self esteem. I was stopped by the memory of a sheet of one cent stamps I found in a drawer earlier in the week.
(Someday I’ll have to tell you about that drawer.)
If I need to actually mail something, I’ll just rip off the necessary number of one cent stamps. Of course, the way the price is going up, I don’t know that there would be room for an address on the front of the envelope.
I’m afraid I did nothing for her self esteem. I shook my head before she got to me. So now I’m racked with guilt. Not the sleepless kind, but just a little. The price of stamps is going up because I have joined the group that has forsaken the USPS. Only those who have no such option, or have elected not to use it, are left to buy the stamps and there appears to be fewer of them every day.
I know an elderly woman who is convinced the computer is Satan’s latest entrée into our lives. I have to admit that we have never discussed my employment. Or, if we did, I think I was probably a little evasive. I make my living helping people who find themselves unable to best their computers. She’s a wonderful woman, but I think it best if I skip over some facts.
In any case, I can always tell when I’m feeling better. The world is once again funny. The world is not in the least bit amusing when you can’t breathe.
November 03
OK, I concede that, on your planet, Halloween was on Tuesday. I have no idea what I was thinking. I was sure that I typed the word “Yesterday”. My co-worker was kind enough, while hiding behind a smile, to point out the tiny discrepancy. Come on, I was only off by one day. (Thursday - Tuesday - Thursday - Tuesday. I was close.)
After seeing some of the photographs taken at public Halloween celebrations throughout the country, I’m willing to wager that there is a large number of people who, on Wednesday morning, if they remembered Halloween, had no clue what year it was, let alone, what day. My only problem with that relational is that I had no such excuse. I’m one of those who don’t bother to turn on my porch light. But there is a reason.
I live on a serious hill. Oh, nothing like a mountain, but it is steep. There are very few children who seem willing to take the climb. Of course, now that I think about it, it might not be the children making the decision.
(There is a tiny strain of insanity in a number of children. I'm thinking of the ones who skateboard DOWN my street. There is traffic light at the bottom of the hill. I still haven't had the pleasure of seeing how the
budding Tony Hawk manages to stop his momentum before meeting either an automobile or truck."
Of my opinion of who is really calling the shots (or stops) is colored by a discovery I made on Halloween about six or seven years ago. For reasons that I still can’t explain, I went to the local shopping mall. I found a music store with an electronic keyboard just inside the door. Unable to resist, I sat down and starting playing something that was on the stand. (I think it was something classical.) To this day I’m not sure why one of the store employees didn’t say something. Well, maybe it was Halloween. All bets are off.
Anyway, I was in the midst of something classical when I felt a little hand patting me on y leg. When I stopped playing and looked down, there was a little boy, maybe four years old with a very big smile on his face.
“Did you see my sister?”
At first I thought he was lost. But, as it turned out, he was pushing a stroller containing a tiny child dressed in black and yellow with antennae. Of course, the child was darling, but I made an interesting discovery. Little ones, complete with diaper, have the same shape as a bumble bee. (Of course, the antennae are added by adoring parents.)
I met the adoring parents. Amazing, the mother was shaped like a very large bumble bee. It is entirely possible this was the impetus driving the decision that resulted in the little one being dressed as a bumble bee. (The antennae was an afterthought. I checked. Unless, like My Favorite Martian, who could hide his antennae, Mama appeared to be antennae free)
By the way, the father looked a great deal like Jack Spratt.
November 01 Another driving story. No, not a real complaint this time.
Thursday was Halloween. A holiday that I usually associate with one evening. You know, darkness, moonlight, maybe a few strange sounds. The things that make you willing to believe that things really do “go bump in the night.”
Let’s put aside from the fact that Halloween has come to mark the beginning of the “holiday season” by virtue of the fact that some $6 billion will be spent in an effort to make the day / night worth the effort. This is compared to $2.5 billion spent in '96.
However, despite the amount of money spent and the incredible, very adult parties, it’s not about the adults. I was raised to believe that this was a child’s holiday. From my email messages, I think the kids have been overlooked.
For the past two weeks my email has been filled with messages containing photographs of dogs, in Halloween costumes. (I’m not going to mention the lizard.) I’m afraid my sympathy is with the animals, none of whom appear as excited as the people who put them in those garments. (One of the email messages arrived in my inbox titled “Why Animals Run Away from Home.)
I know that people think their choice of holiday dress for their pet is original but how does one arrive at the conclusion that a bulldog looks best with a cigar in his mouth? And then, to add insult to injury, they take photographs, leaving the poor Canis familiaris absolutely no deniability. And, if that isn’t bad enough, they then send the photographs to everyone they know who then send them to everyone that they know, and on and on and on.
What happened to the idea of spending money on costumes for the kids?
Well, this is where the driving comes in:. . . .
If I avoid the freeway, my drive is along a single street that finally puts me approximately five, maybe six blocks south of my office. The drive takes me through East Los Angeles which is really an interesting place. East Los Angeles is a real neighborhood. People here actually seem to know each other and each other’s children. And, you ask, how do I know if I don’t live there? Well, I came to this conclusion because drivers, who saw children than they knew, or whose costumes they thought were cute, STOPPED to tell the children. That’s right, I did not say, pulled over, I say STOPPED.
This means that, being behind a particularly friend pair, I too had to stop . . . several times. Well, maybe I didn’t really have to stop, but it seemed like a very good idea. .. . So, I stopped. This also means that I was able to see the costumes that attracted the attention of the car in front of me.
There standing on the corner was a child, maybe 10 or 11 years old. As near as I could determine, she (I think it was a female) was dressed as a partially hatched egg. This works if you’ve seen enough cartoons to believe the first think that a chick does is extend its legs, stands up and then bursts through the top of the egg. (Yes, there was something on the child’s head that resembled either a while pie plate or a piece of egg shell.)
By now the light has changed encouraging us to remain STOPPED. I was thinking rude thoughts when I notice a much smaller child hovering behind the partially hatched egg. OK, I’m guessing here, but I think the little one was dressed as a kind of furry hairless Mexican dog.
OMG, not only are they dressing dogs up like kids. They are dressing the kids like dogs.
Well, I did wonder at the tradition. And, after reviewing my email, I hardly think that it’s only in East Los Angeles.
But you know, again, reviewing my email, I find that no one seems to have the nerve to place a cigar in the mouth of a pit bull.
October 29
All right. Another challenging drive to work. Another set of observations.
The painted lines, defining a curve, are seen as mere suggestions. I was rounding a curve and, imagine my surprise, to discover someone already occupying my lane, coming toward me. Somehow it is lost on the average driver that the line painted on the street is meant to insure that two cars will not meet in the same lane. This piece of information seems to be lost on some drivers.
I have noticed this problem in the area near the building where I work. There is one gentleman, I use the term advisedly, who seems to think that managing to navigate the curve is sufficient. The lines that are painted on the street are there for those who lack the nerve to negotiate the curve on their own. Imagine my surprise to find myself rounding the corner only to see a 1989 Chrysler that has apparently already made the same encounter at least once. This is always followed by a surprised expression. If he is taking the entire street, where does he assume others will drive? Or will we just pull over until all those who live by these rules pass?
There is no respect accorded to the average driver -- at least, not by fellow drivers.
Yeah, I’m coming to the realization that traffic is my bane. I mean, I don’t spend sleepless nights obsessing on the last nut who seemed to think the space I leave between the front of my car and the rear of the one in front of me is an invitation to join my lane.
Of course, there are others. Let’s see. . . I’ve begun to notice more and more drivers using the car pool lane as a passing lane. That can be a little unnerving when not expected.
Speaking of unexpected, ever look into your rearview mirror and realize you are traveling quite a bit slower than the vehicle that is rapidly filling the mirror? I’m willing to admit I’m not always certain the other driver will reach this realization before reaching my rear bumper.
And don’t get me started on cell phones – at least not here. I’ll save that for another time.
Normally traffic interruptions are annoying. When I get in my car on a weekday morning, I am focused on reaching my place of work. I’m not bragging. I need the money.
Anyway, on Friday morning I saw the most extraordinary sight. First, location: I am almost at work. I am first in line, just a little short of the right hand turn that will take me from the street into the parking area.
I suddenly notice that everyone has stopped – unlike the drivers in New York, drivers in California stop for sirens. But this was something else entirely. There, on the opposite side of the street, headed south, is a line of black and white police cars for as far as the eye can see. The headlights are blinking (one day someone has to explain how that’s done), and the overheads were flashing. It was eerie in a way. There was only an occasional siren. For the most part, it was completely silent.
Although there was no one in front of me, I must have sat in silence for several minutes. When I finally reached the office, I checked the internet and was reminded that a policeman was killed by a driver while he was processing a routine traffic stop. His memorial was held on Thursday at the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels in downtown Los Angeles.
(Until his death and the resulting stories that contained statistics, I had no idea how dangerous a ‘routine traffic stop’ can be for the police.)
Later, at home, I saw a news broadcast showing the “thousands” of officers who came into the city to honor their fallen. Yes, the file shot inside the cathedral at the end of the ceremony was dramatic. There were “thousands” of officers
As impressed as I was by the number of officers shown in the newscast, I only wish someone had shot footage of the cortège. Somehow I felt the respect, even when I had no idea the reason.
I guess not every traffic experience is distressing. I regret the circumstances; but that one experience was something I’ll always remember.
I hope that the family of the fallen officer received some solace from the presence of those who came to honor the slain.
October 23
I had a revelation today. Somehow my co-worker and I wound up talking about bookstores. Later I realized just how special bookstores really are. I haunt all of them but my favorites are the rapidly disappearing independents. The place where the owner will ask you what you like. With the stumbling information he, or she, gives one or two suggestions. You take his/her advise and purchase one the suggestioned books, in this case a mystery. The next day you call back to ask if there are other books in the series.
In my case, there were three others. Thus, my introduction to the Inspector Lynley series by Elizabeth George. (I have read something like 14 out of 17 or 18.) Of course, now that I think about it, there are other series that I read, but the most fun is looking for those gems that make you read faster, all the while regretting that it will end all the more quickly.
But the time spent in bookstores is special. Particularly in my case. You see, there are times I exhibit the symptoms of a disease I think I inherited from my father. I’m not sure it has a name, but it results in an inability to remember the name of either book or author when entering a bookstore. My father’s illness usually appeared when he was searching for music.
My father was the man standing in front of the salesman singing a melody. Yes, melody, with which he was known to take liberties. It was always in the same key, he didn't stray far, but some of his interpretations were interesting.
You see, he could not remember the lyrics, the title, the performer or the writer. Not exactly “Doo-B-Doo-B-Doo”, but somehow it worked for him. Believe it or not, someone was usually available to understand and lead him to whatever he wanted.
I still remember wishing I had been a fly on the wall when he went searching for “They Call the Wind Maria” or “Ghost Riders in the Sky”. Maybe I should explain: My parents managed to give me voice lessons when it was something more than a luxury. After going to some lessons with me, my father, who discovered he was a tenor, decided to take lessons. (No one was any more amazed than my mother.)
The above was the reason for my father's impulsive purchase of the two songs.
My problem is not with music. On the contrary, I have problems with books that I decide I really, really want. My earliest memory of the manifestation of the problem was the day I walked into a small independent bookstore and asked for the book that starts with a man standing in front of firing squad remembering the day his father introduced him to snow.
I love small independent bookstores. There were three people working there and all three of them recognized my introduction. I walked out of the store carrying a copy of “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel García Márquez,
Of course, I had to wait while they argued among themselves the merits of the various translations – apparently they had at least four. I’m sorry to admit I don’t remember the name of the translator. I only know that I was entranced.
I’ve had many such experiences, but the most recent happened last weekend. I walked into the bookstore, one of the larger ones, (No, not Borders), confident that I could remember the name of the author. By the time I reached the Fiction section, I could only remember a paraphrase of the first sentence.
I am absolutely taken by opening sentences of works of fiction. I know these are crafted to catch you and lure you into the plot.
In this case, I stand in line to speak with someone at the computer. By the time I reached said person, all I could remember was “I’m looking for a book by a Black authoress that starts ‘The reason I’m sitting on a toilet seat in the handicapped stall is that I’m hiding.’”
Ok, it’s not a lot to go one, and the face of the young man staring at me as if I left something important at the front door, was not promising. I was about to leave when a woman two persons behind me in line said, “You’re looking for that Terry McMillan book.”
I walked out with a copy of “The Interruption of Everything”.
By the way, when did the market start demanding a modification in the shape of books? I don’t remember any clamor – oh well, I guess Marketers hear things that others don’t.
Hey, I worked in an oil company with marketers. I still remember the amazed look on the face of one of them when I asked him how many times he had to ask his wife to marry him before she believed he was serious. His wife confirmed that he had to ask three times. She honestly thought the first two times was some kind of joke that she didn’t understand.
But he doesn’t really count. As I remember, he really didn’t like to read. Of course, that was sort of a long time ago.
Well, maybe not all that long.
Now that I think about it, I wonder if my sister had the same illness. I’m sorry that she is no longer here to ask. I’m certain it would have been an interesting answer. Whereas I was originally a music major who morphed into a history major. My sister, on the other hand, was an accounting major.
I wonder what she would have forgotten.
October 20
There's a car chase on television. (I’ll skip all questions about whether or not this is a real news story when compared to North Korea’s atomic tests – Oh, I forgot, Mr. Kim has apologized – seems the news stories imply he did mean to cause such a response. And just where does he get his advice?)
OMG, the station has a ‘car specialist’. Seems the car is old and one of the tires has blown. The talking heads were wondering whether or not this means the car will somehow cease to function. The ‘specialist’ says that old cars, are difficult to drive when there is a problem with one of the tires. (Duh!!)
He never named the model – maybe it would insult one of their advertisers.
Now, I’m beginning to ponder the requirements to become a television car specialist.
According to the chatter, this is a car theft suspect, an example of grand theft auto. (Not nearly as violent as the game of the same name, but an interesting reference, nonetheless.)
He is circling through two cities including U-turns in front of cars stopped at the red light (wouldn’t want to run it, I guess). Hey, as near as I can determine, this is typical California driving. If this is accepted, is it really an infraction?
From what one of talking heads said, this chase has been going on for about 15 minutes.
According the ‘car specialist’ the tire might not be blown. This Mensa candidate stole a car with a tiny spare on the right front. Well, of course he’s going to have problems making turns! He's driving a car with three tires and a donut! Of course he's having problems making turns. (Can you be charged with stupidity?)
Oops! Our thief just ran over a spike strip. Looks like the front tire on the driver’s side is flat. Judging from the visual versus audio, the driver is not listening to the television. he doesn't seem to know that it is an old car and should not be driven in this matter. (Love the guys in the studio.)
Oops!! Turned left and ran into a car. Cops come. Drag him out of the car. (Wasn’t his hands sticking out of the window?) Six cops join in the ‘take down’. (Will the driver be changed by the cop?)
The talking heads seem to be upset at the idea that the chase is over. So much for Breaking News.
OK, now for the questions. This guy has run any number of stop signs, don’t think he actually engaged in a high speed chase – at least not unless the camera is broadcasting in slow motion. So that can’t be a problem. But for all the other infractions, excluding the car theft, how many changes can be levied against the thief? I guess the driver should be happy that he received his 15 minutes of fame.
Does it count that his name is never mentioned?
October 18 So, I’m out on the internet just looking around and found an article in the New York Times about the problems facing some English schools as they remove “bad” food from the lunch menu in favor of “good” food.
First, in an age where one can’t be too thin or too rich, I can’t believe that the powers that be are just noticing that roughly 40% of the youthful population is above the desired weight. One morning these children woke to learn that they had gone from “overweight” or “chubby” to “obese”. Not the best news in the morning, I suspect.
There was a time when people marveled at the fact that the children of immigrants were more than noticeably taller than their parents. Well, this new generation has gone one better: they are taller and wider.
Ah, the power of America.
Anyway, back to the New York Times:
The article started with an interview with a young English 11th grade student headed to school. When asked what he thought of the new menu, he reply was “its rubbish”.
The new menu no longer includes fried foods. Also gone are hamburgers and assorted other “goodies”. The children are now presented by entrees like “entrees like haddock provençal, beef curry and navarin of lamb — as well as baked potatoes for the unadventurous”.
I’m pretty sure I could recognize a baked potato. But I have no idea what the other choices might be. On second thought, I think we could quibble about the recognition of a baked potato.
Our cafeteria here at work actually served Black Bean Soup that contained carrots and string beans. No, I’m not kidding. Please understand that string beans swimming in Black Bean Soup looks like an opening sequence for some horror movie about things that get you when you try to go swimming.
When I “casually” mentioned this to the cafeteria manager, she replied “I’ve never heard of carrots and string beans in Black Bean Soup. I don’t think they should be in there.”
Have you ever felt you confidence deflate?
Sorry, back to subject. I’ve to admit that I have never been to England, but I have many friends who’ve visited and almost all come back with stories about English cuisine.
Ok, some would argue that those two words should not appear in the same sentence. I can’t comment on that, but, after reading the article, I have a new appreciation for what the English youth might be trying to protect.
The above mentioned young man was being interviewed he was on his way to school and apparently enjoying a snack; a “north of England specialty known as a chip butty: a French-fries-and-butter sandwich doused in vinegar”.
Later in the article one of the lunchroom favorites from the previous menu was something called “Turkey Twizzlers” which was described as “minuscule bits of meat processed with many nonmeat products, molded into shapes and deep-fried”.
Yum!
Not!!
I put quotes around the above because I don’t want anyone to think I would have nerve enough to make that up. I only know that the above information is enough to remove Northern England from my list of prospective destinations.
So now the children are being retrained. I find myself wondering what will happen when American schools try the same upgrade of school menus.
With dress sizes shrinking or, in some cases actually disappearing, and more fast food franchises opening every day, there is little chance that the current generation will be turned from fried foods. (Well, maybe there’s hope for the little ones, but not the ones that are big enough to leave campus and eat lunch in the Jack in the Box across the street.)
I’m waiting for a campaign, much like the one that is springing up across the country fighting the proliferation of liquor stores in certain neighborhoods, which will protest the number of fast foods franchises that open close to schools.
Of course, the British thought of that. Now the students cannot leave campus during lunch. Some mothers, so distraught at the idea that their children were expected to consume such “non-English” cuisine, (sorry) that they started bringing lunches to school and passing them through the fence to their little ones.
This seems to have caused a stir and the mothers eventually settled for facing off against the school administration. This now means that the kiddies can go home for lunch.
Mum, being worried that her little darlings were going hungry, has put French fries are back on the menu.
The interviewer in the article asked the young student what he would do if he had no other choice than the school food. He said he would do the same thing his friends do: get as much bread as they can and then “put half an inch of butter on each slice” and call it lunch.
I know my opinion of American children and their eating habits, but at this point, with the appropriate shutter, I determined that English children really do need saving.
October 15
Part of the fun of the internet, for me, is the discovery of a written record of man’s strangeness. I do not use this word lightly. Just this week there was a story about two families in Mexico that got into an argument that escalated into a shootout. When the smoke cleared there were four corpses near the subject of the argument.
The reason for this battle?
Would you believe a pothole?
Yeah, that’s right, a pothole.
It seems that one of the families closed a street in order to repair the pothole. A second family, owners of a transport business, wanted the street to remain open. Eventually, after words and blows, “the two families shot at each other using various caliber guns and a hefty AR-15 rifle”. The photograph that accompanied the story showed the pothole AFTER the repair.
We would hope that others were a little more controlled. However, I found that control can have its downside. There is a case in Spain who “kidnapped” her son four times. In three of the four times her estranged husband paid the “ransom”. Believe it or not, the fourth time, the husband became suspicious and hired a private investigator. Please note that he didn’t get “suspicious” under after he had paid 1.6 million dollars to the kidnappers.
The PI discovered the 15 year old son was also involved.
What’s with these people? The famous (or infamous, depending on your perspective) Darwin Awards gives honor to those who voluntarily remove themselves from the gene pool. There appears to be no award to those who wallow in the shallow end of the pool.
I study these stories for hints as to how these particular people and their actions typify others in their immediate families. I wonder about these things because I have some prime examples in my family. No closer than a cousin perhaps, but even that could be a little too close.
An unnamed cousin from an unidentified side of my family, on a payday, left the plant where he worked via a bus. By some mystery never completely explained, when he arrived at his stop, he had no money. Not wanting to arrive home with empty pockets, he decided to get money any way he could.
In the immediate vicinity of the bus stop he spotted a small neighborhood bar. He entered same, somehow convinced the bartender that he had a gun (whether he did or didn’t is still open to dispute), and walked away with a couple of hundred dollars.
Believe it or not, he actually got away with this particular example of malfeasance.
In this land of post-it justice, that should have been the happy ending. But NO-o-o-o, we’re talking about the shallow end of the gene pool. A few weeks after the above success, again on a payday, the selfsame cousin arrived at his bus stop with a thirst.
That’s right; he stepped into the selfsame bar to douse his dryness. Would you believe he had nerve enough to be surprised when he was identified?
Please note: unlike the existence of a gun, there was never any argument about a disguise. He didn’t have one.
Now, I ask: isn’t that enough for concern? Think about it: I’m related to this person.
So far I’m managed to escape the curse, but . . .
(Cue the scary music)
There’s always tomorrow.
(Cue maniacal laugh)
(Fade to silence)
October 14 After 400+ losses over four years all I can say is:
Go Tigers!
Go Tigers!
It’s my birthday . . .
Won the Pennant
Go Tigers!
I moved away from Detroit more years ago than I want to admit, but I still love the Tigers. Last year, thanks to my co-worker, I did get a chance to see one of their rare wins. But this year, even if I didn’t see them in person, all I can say is:
Go Tigers!!
I’m not nearly the baseball fan that my father was. But that doesn’t matter. He would have loved to see Detroit’s season this year. I learned loyalty from my father who loved both the Tigers and the Lions without reservation. It was from him that I learned certain evenhandedness. If you have faith on your team, it doesn’t matter whether or not they win or lose if your team plays well.
Wait til next year is associated with Chicago, but it could just as well have been attributed to Detroit.
For most fans (certainly not all) on the west coast winning is everything. I guess the first loss can be forgiven; the second loss drives the teams away from the stadium, coliseum, playground, (fill in the name of any playing field); three losses are unforgivable Four losses and its time to find another favorite team.
No matter what, Detroit, like Chicago, loves its teams.
I miss my father, but on days like today I remember something that I learned from him and he doesn’t seem so far away.
Go Tigers!
October 08 I give up! I can no longer ignore the signs! According to the advertising, Christmas is coming.
I managed to ignore the restaurant that placed a notice (a large notice that covered the front door glass) announcing “Holiday Catering”. That appeared in September. I tried to convince myself it referenced some upcoming holiday. This was done by ignoring the little green and red circles that surrounded the word “Holiday”. It was a little more difficult in the big box store that put out decorated imitation trees in the middle of the same month. However, today I had to admit defeat. I saw an ad for one of the TV evangelists offering a small plaster (or maybe plastic) religious statute. The background music for the pitch was definitely a Christmas carol.
Each year the signs appear earlier and earlier. At the risk of insensitive blasphemy, we will soon find ourselves facing Insemination Sales somewhere in April. (I don’t think I’ll share my images of the commercials for this special pricing.)
There is a problem with backing up the Xmas sales into the early fall. We all know that little children are obligated to become almost terminally cute leading up the December 25th. I ask you, is it fair to expect a child to maintain constant cuteness for four months? Most children have trouble maintaining the image during the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I think this is an unfair burden on the children who are still trying to decide what they’re going to wear for Halloween. Now they also have to decide how they will phrase their nags to get just the Christmas gift they want. How can they be expected to successfully pester their parents for more than four weeks? In fact, how can parents be expected to survive this abuse?
Now they have to keep up the barrage for the latest Elmo (which I have to admit I would like to have, but I have no one in my life to nag) or whatever the must-have toy is this year.
Of course, I have to admit I am fascinated by the things labeled as gifts. It would appear that anything that can be shoved into a box and hoisted out of the store can be considered a ‘gift’. After having spent many fun minutes watching people trying to shove 51 inch television into the back of an automobile only a marginally larger than a Miata, I think I stand on firm footing.
From what I can see, anything other than a six can package of soups or a package of pipe cleaners can be considered a ‘gift’. Because I guess I’m removed from the everyday experiences of parents, occasionally I am surprised by their particular pain during this extended holiday season. Recently I saw a commercial for what appeared to be an All Terrain Vehicle by Fisher-Price that seats two children.
Okay a quick logon and I’m looking at a page of approximately 32 choices of child sized vehicles. (http://www.fisher-price.com/us/powerwheels/) According to the chart, these little toys manage to travel between 2 and 5 miles per hour.
Hey!! Isn’t there some problem with a lack of exercise amongst our young?
Ever wonder how children grow up to be high maintenance? This list even includes a Harley-Davidson with “Realistic “Harley-Davidson” sounds”. Great! And to think I have a friend who is trying to decide if she should give a certain child a drum set for his birthday. When she asked me what I thought, I suggested she examine her friendship with the child’s parents. I know – I know, the kid could grow up to become another Buddy Rich.
Humph, I’ll bet his parents weren’t too glad when he showed up with a drum kit.,
Anyway, after all of the Kawasakis and Jeeps, at the bottom of the list, there is a pink Barbie Cadillac Escalade with “Signature Cadillac Escalade styling in an exclusive Barbie design—and it’s loaded with luxury SUV features!”
I’m not sure what “luxury SUV features” really means, but another version of the Cadillac Escalade brags that it comes with “Escalade™ styling with luxury features: real FM radio and digital clock, simulated CD player with 10 cool tunes, battery charge indicator on the dash, chrome wheels and grill and more!”
These are toys?!?!
We have come a long way from the ‘little red wagon’.
NOTE: if you’d like to see the repository where these little girls will see as one of the sources of gifts when they grow up, take a look at http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/sitelets/christmasbook/christmasbook.jhtml?RFX_Res=high
October 05
I have a co-worker who accuses me being a Conspiracy Theorist. I’m not sure I’m as bad as he implies, but I actually find conspiracies to be an immense source of fun. Oh, not the Kennedy assignation or Anthrax attacks. No, I was thinking more in terms of Elvis and the various sightings on golf courses around the world. (I still can’t remember the name Elvis and the golf in the same sentence prior to his demise – which is also food for conspiracy theories.) Or, even the aliens who, according to the tabloids, come to the planet Earth every four years to influence our presidential elections.
Hey, I’m not making this up. The story is on the front page every time. In fact, one year there were photographs of aliens speaking with individual members of Congress. The one thing that I remember about the photographs was the fact that, no matter how tall or short each human being, the alien was always the same height as the human.
That’s how I determined that there was more than one. Of course, now that I think about it, they might be able to vary their height so that the human would feel more comfortable.
But I digress. (I do that a lot.) Back to the topic at hand: I was reading an article in US Today that dealt with a problem of pollution in the waters along the coast in Malibu. Various state agencies charged with keeping the water safe are gathering samples to test to determine the source of the pollution. It is acknowledged that it might well be animal waste.
Ookay, I’m having trouble imaging a herd of coyotes or a flock of birds (droppings have also been suggested), with sufficient intestinal problems to pollute 25 miles of coast line.
If it is determined that the pollution is caused by humans, the agencies in question will “focus on properties with heavier toilet use, such as restaurants and Barbra Streisand’s old estate, which is now owned by the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy. . . .”
I have to admit, my eyes glazed when I got to “Streisand’s old estate”. That had images I don’t really need. Of course, the remainder of the sentence didn’t really help.
Imagination aside, the next step in the investigation is equally as provocative. If the before-mentioned septic systems prove reliable, the next possible source will be those homes in the very expensive and very very private Malibu colony.
It seems that all those upper crust homes have upwards of 2400 upper crust septic tanks. (Not each. I do believe this is a cumulative figure. At least, I hope it is.) If it is determined that the problem is not animal, but human, the investigative agencies are empowered to ask the permission of a judge to take samples from these tanks. They will then try to identify the offending/leaking septic system. Apparently the trace will go in one direction – from the tank to the water. However, for purposes of the CSI plot, I can see Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown entering the house with a search warrant to take DNA samples to see if they can make a match to the DNA of the pollution.
Think about it: Law and Order is not the only show that can “rip from the headlines”.
While I was pondering the above situation, I read an AP story on the internet that also made we wonder.
The headline reads: Woman arrested after disrupting flight.
It seems that a female passenger got into an altercation with a male flight attendant. Everything might have been all right had she not “grabbed his buttocks.” Now, I’m more than willing to admit that I haven’t engaged in a physical altercation in more years that I want to remember, but I can’t remember a time when I found it necessary to grab someone’s buttocks as a part of a winning strategy. Perhaps I’m just naïve but I can’t shake the feeling that there is something missing out of the story. In this case, I wish I could have seen the “altercation”. Particularly inasmuch as the passenger was arrested and charged with disrupting a flight and sexual assault.
I’m still trying to decide which television show should rip this one from the headlines.
|
Tools 
