Non-verbal Encounters with Random People

 

Driving along Independence Street.  A man/boy, perhaps 17, wearing earbuds in both ears and looking neither to his left nor to his right, stepped off the curb and ambled across the street directly in front of my moving vehicle.  I got stopped, of course? and he strolled on totally oblivious and unaware of my presence, I guess.

I drove on nearly to the end of the block, saw a parking space I wanted and started backing into said space.  A grown man, gray bearded, walked along the sidewalk, stepped directly behind my moving vehicle and cut across the vacant parking spot to get to his vehicle which was behind that space.  I stopped, of course? and waited until he cleared my path then proceeded to park-- close to his truck so he would have to back up to get out, of course!

I was presented with the platinum opportunity to off or seriously maim two of my fellow-human beings in the space of  less than one-half-block.  I didn't.

Idiocy reigns.

Happy birthday to my eldest child, Ann Marie,
and to my brother-in-law, Elvin!

People Watching #T

I sit on the courtesy bench at the end of a bank of checkout lanes while BBBH studies the available stock in the supermarket.

People watching.  Young couple, mid-thirties, conducted transaction at courtesy counter.  He is perhaps 5' 5", 130.  Small man, straight nose, strong jaw, nice looking.  He is wearing a navy blue sweatshirt with Superman logo on front.  She is half-head taller than he, somewhere in the 5' 8", 5' 9" range, 180.  Indeed I am already thinking, "He must be Superman," when they are joined near the front exit by two girls, obviously their daughters.  Both, like their mother, are taller than he.  The younger one is probably eleven, the other about fourteen.

He lives with these three ladies.  Yep.   Superman!


Word of the day:  Superman.  If you think he is just the figment of some imagination, you should meet some of the people I have met!

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.

Give Me an "E"!

Annual physical; new (to me) physician. I asked for flu shot; Dr talked me into pneumonia shot, too. Nurse popped flu into left shoulder, akin to being slugged in a school-yard fisticuffs setto. Popped the pneumonia into the right shoulder.  Much like being kicked by a mule.  Shod mule. Yikes.

Mechanic overhauled carburator on the chain saw, brought it home. I went on a dead-wood rampage, cutting dross from the austrees.  Only what I could reach from the ground, of course.  The rest will succumb to the winds over time.

Lawn tractor is going to have to be retired.  Think it beyond salvation.  Well, the lawn season is nearly over; what better time to make the change.  Please!  Someone have a good sale on good equipment.

This.  This post is evidence of the desperation I encounter recently in maintaining the blog.  Never much cared for stream-of-consciousness writing, and here I am engaged in it.  Forgive me, Readers, for I know not what I do.  Seriously, I know not what I do.

(I spelled "carburetor."  Spell check suggested the change you saw above.  I still think it should have an "e."   Eh?  I mean "a."  Not so much.  Okay.  I cared enough to give my very best.  Looked it up, and the "e" is correct, except in the Commonwealth.  So why did. . . ?  Next thing we know, spell check will be suggesting an extra "u" here and there.  Just for color, and stuff.  Never mind.)

Bonus:

Wife says, "The car has a problem.  There's water in the carburetor."
"No way," says Hubs, "and you don't even know what a carburetor is."
"Certainly do; and there is water in the carburetor."
"Alright, already.  I'll check it out.  Where did you leave the car?"
"In the pool."

Yeah, yeah.  It was funnier when cars had carburetors.

Monday Morning

Did you ever just feel like slapping someone?  Then you didn't.  Then you wish you had.  Yet you are really glad you didn't.  Mixed bag.





I have heard it said that one advantage of being old is that you can say anything you want to say. Bushwaa.  If one can't be nice in his old age, what was the use of all those bitten-tongue experiences over all those previous years?

Maybe the reason so many old people are lonely is simply because they are not fit company.

Very rich famous athletes are paid to wear advertising logos.  You pay to wear them?  Are  you crazy?  (Or as someone else once said, "There is nothing wrong with a plain T-shirt.")

Which leads to this:  Perhaps your clothing is the only thing your friends read.

This is what happens when one writes down random unfiltered thoughts.  But it is not all bad.