Random Doodles and Stuff

I keep a clipboard with a pad of 8.5 x 11 paper thereon close at hand, for one never knows when something of critical importance may impinge itself on the consciousness.

Of course, if you know me at all you are aware that "close at hand" means just out of sight or out of reach when the occasion for need arises, and thus my forgetter wins again.

The evidence before your eyes demonstrates that the clipboard is not always out of reach.

I shall look at this with you, lest you attempt to bicycle-analyze me.

This sheet has been in use for about a week.  It reminds me of a random  page in my notebook that I might have used during a class session in college, say Psych 254.  But that is neither here nor there.

In the upper left, there are several notes I jotted as I read the local newspaper.  These are the items that put me in a funk a week or so ago.  Remember?  In an attempt to balance the bad news, I jotted the "good news" in the upper right corner.  Note my conclusion: "Good news is no news."

What annoyed me?  The 63/30 notation is in reference to an article that told us that the tax review board had allowed a reduction in property taxes for a Meijer store in a nearby county.  This was allowed based on the "dark store theory," notwithstanding that the facility is in full operation.  Thus, it will be taxed as though it is an empty and disused warehouse.  Worse, the county may have to reimburse millions to the behemoth that owns the store for previous tax payments, not to mention the perpetual loss of half-million dollars a year in the future.

If allowed to stand, the door is open for builders to demand application of "dark store theory" to new construction, averring that a building is obsolete upon completion.   Grrr and growl.

The next item is in reference to a bill which has been introduced in the state legislature which if it becomes law will allow the construction of enclosed hunting preserves.  You know.  Raise in confinement and hand-feed game animals then enclose them in a pen with high fences and allow the "sports" to hunt them with rifles.

When I resided in the West, we went into the mountains to hunt game.  Surrounding the habitat were hundreds of square miles of wide open spaces.  Also, we were hunting because we wanted to eat.  It would not be appropriate for me to express how I really feel about this proposal, the people who made it, and the people who would exploit it.  Nevermind. I'm mad now.

The house at the bottom you have seen.  It is the sketch of the first house my first bride and I occupied.  The "church," the "dog," and other stuff thereabouts represent the scribbles I made as I was taking a break from organizing my tax papers.

The next morning I scribbled a part of Shakespeare's "He who steals trash," (Iago) and I do know the missing lines in the middle.  That may have been a follow-up to the discovery that someone apparently stole my registration papers for the vehicle which are normally tucked behind the visor on the driver's side.  Now why would anyone do that?

And so on and so forth, enough is enough.

If you embiggen the picture, it is quite legible, but not, alas, enlightening.