YOU DID A BAD, BAD THING

Blog number 114                                               Aug 28, 2007

We went to the mail room, Teresa and I.  While she went to wait in line to take care of a package she was sending, I went to our box to get the mail.  When I went to rejoin Teresa, I passed a four year old boy who was waiting with his mother in line.  He looked at me as I passed, and I tapped him on the head with a letter.  I passed him and as I came around the corner to get in line, I saw that he was pouting and whining to his mother while pointing at me.  "Momma, that man..."

He was telling on me! 

I got him turned around before I left - we were friends, but that sure was cute.  That and Teresa's Auschwitz gaffe earlier (see entry below) made it a good day for moi.

PUT YOUR DUKES UP, YOU SISSY

Blog number 113                                               Aug 27, 2007

I watched a boxing match a few months back and one boxer's seconds were slow getting the stool out of the corner.  When the bell rang for the round to start, the referee, the seconds and the boxer were all milling around the boxer's corner when the opponent rushed over and was about to deliver a haymaker, but the referee saw him and made him stop and step away.

Now, that wasn't right!  When the bell rings, you are supposed to protect yourself at all times.  The referee isn't supposed to help you!

The announcers were livid about it, as I was.  They said it was the worst case of incompetent refereeing they ever saw. 

Me too.

WHAT A FUNNY WORLD

Blog number 112                                               Aug 27, 2007

I once worked with a guy who was a produce manager for a grocery chain store.  He used to berate my religion when we had out coffee break.  I was a Catholic convert at the time, he was a Protestant minister with a religious radio program on Sunday mornings.

One day I walked by him leaning against a display of apples, watching the customers.  He stopped me and told me that those ladies were committing eight different sins by picking over the fruit.

Think about that.  "That's a sin.  So's that.  And that.  And that." 

This guy was counting sins instead of thinking of God.  I would think this minister was worshipping not God, but the Devil, since his thoughts were of "the Devil's works," not God's.

And he never suspected. 
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Teresa has a way of stumbling in such a manner as to wind up with several feet in her mouth.  Today she did one that will become a classic.

This morning we were hanging at Starbucks.  I went to get her a drink and when I came back, she was talking to a husband and wife from Germany, both about sixty years old.

I handed her her drink, sat down and started working on my sudoku.  Then I heard Teresa say, "I only know a few words in German.  Ein zwie drei.......Auschwitz."

I grinned and shook my head.  The two Germans looked at each other in stunned silence and then the man said very softly, "Oh, my." 

Hah!

I am very glad that I was so fortunate as to have been there to experience that.  I wouldn't have missed it for the world.  What really put the frosting on that cake was the husband's "oh, my."

I giggle yet.

A FRIEND IN NEED IS A FRIEND IN NEED

Blog number 111                                               Aug 20, 2007

I just finished reading this book about two girls and a boy and their fellow "students," all of whom their primary purpose in life is to be donors. Organ donors, I assume, since it is never spelled out, exactly.  It was written by an Englishman by the name of Kazuo Ishiguro. 

I read another book of his called, "Remains of the Day," which was made into a movie that I fell in love with, thus my wish to read the book.  In this book, the protagonist's sole purpose in life is to be the perfect servant.  And he is.

Mr. Ishiguro seems to be interested mainly in purposes in life.  From what I've read of his so far. 

He has this ability to pull the reader along to see what comes next.  It's like he has a string in his hand that you follow, hand over hand and just before you come to the end of the string, he hands you another.  For instance he'll say something like, "There was the time, maybe a few weeks after the talk by the pond, when Miss Lucy was taking us for English," and when he explains what happened on that walk, we are told interesting hints of things that are going to be told to us later on.

I have been reading a lot of interesting books, and this one got me to thinking of a best friend I once had that always seemed to like the same books I did, and vice versa.  He also told the most interesting stories.  He "collected" interesting friends.  I met him in a math class and I think he "collected" me to help him with his math because that is what happened.

After I finished this book, I wanted someone else to read it and the only person I could think of that would like it as much as I did would be Carl.  That was his name.  Carl.  But I can't do that because I don't speak to him any more.

I used to not talk for months on end.  I loved it because I never had to explain myself or worry about saying something idiotic.  It's a very carefree way of existing.  It wasn't so at first, though.  I used to get so angry.  I finally worked that out - through perseverance, I'm sure.

Teresa hated my silent periods.  Now she hates my talking periods.  What's a husband to do?

After several months of silence, I started talking.  Then I went back to not talking because it was more peaceful.  One night Carl and his wife picked me up and he went through a stop sign.  His wife yelled at him.  Then he almost went through a red light and I realized he was trying to get me to talk.  I wondered what kind of a friend would do that.  This got me to remembering other times when he wasn't being a friend and within just a few moments I realized that he wasn't a friend at all.  He didn't care about me.  I was just someone that entertained him.

But I still miss his stories and talking about books with him.  And he WAS funny.  I like funny.

Post Script: The last time I tried not talking, a woman friend of Teresa's - someone she worked with, was at our house and after she found out that I wasn't talking, she made a point of saying to me, "something something when you've finished your anti social behavior."

What is it about people that think we are there to entertain them?

Bitch.

THE FOOD CHAIN STOPS HERE.

Blog number 110   *******   Aug 19, 2007

Scene: I see a shopping cart in a shaded parking place reserved for the automobiles of shoppers.

Action: I park in the same shade next to the space holding the shopping cart.

Result:  I think of how lazy and/or thoughtless was the person who left the shopping cart there.

Hypothesis of result if I left the shopping cart there instead of taking it to where it belongs: I could more easily back out, since no one would park there, leaving a wide area free of other cars.

Thoughts on this hypothesis: Person who would do this would not be lazy and/or thoughtless, but instead would revert to being selfish and/or unaware of existence of others.

Theory: Action reveals motive, motive reveals character, character reveals personality.

Thoughts to ponder: What does this Blog entry say about the character of the entry writer? ...and... who cares?

THE RIGHT TO BARE ARMS

Blog number 109                                               Aug 16, 2007

Got my first rifle when I was twelve.  Paid $10 for it.  Got it from a private party because no weapons for civilians were being sold at that time.  The War, ya know.  I had to talk the private party into it.  I even told him I would pay $12, but when he finally said yes, I only gave him ten and he didn't object.  Nice guy.  That family had a lot of guns and also several Indian motorcycles.  This was in Graettinger Iowa.

Bullets were rationed.  You could only buy one box at a time, and often the store didn't have any.

When I worked in a grocery store in 1948 - three years after the war ended, things were still rationed.  We used to hide Kool Aide under the counter to save for steady customers.

On the farm I used to take 22 cal. bullets, place them on a rock and hit them with another rock.  Ping!  We also used to take a large bolt, place a nut on one end, just barely tightened onto the nut, snip off the white ends of wooden matches and put them in the nut hole and then put another bolt slightly tightened down onto the matchhead filled nut.  Instant hand grenade.

When I was a senior in high school I bought a home made .22 pistol for $2.  I used to fire it in the basement.

I am pretty sure my parents knew nothing of any of this.

Except about the rationing part.

TOO OLD SMART

Blog number 108                                               Aug 11, 2007

In our upstairs flat of our two-flat home at 2730 D Street in Sacramento, California, USA, the world, we were greatly afflicted with pigeons.  They roosted above the front door and shitith upon the steps, much to our dismay, such as it was.  I yelled at them, I shot at them with a BB gun, I climbed a ladder to precariously place strips of wood studded with pointy nails upon the eaves braces, all to no avail.  To no avail whatsoever.

Living here in Casa Grande, the jewel of the desert, we also were bothered by these disgusting and useless creatures.  I threw rocks, yelled, shouted, cursed.  Nothing. 

One morning I went out and they were up there, cooing away, not a care in the world when it came to me (from watching the excellent film, Ghost Dog) to take off my shirt and wave it over my head.  Viola!  It worked like a charm.  Not only does it affect them immediately, it makes them so wary that whenever I walk out the door, they immediately take off.  If they don't, I take off my shirt and give them a dose of the hateful waving shirt.  They hate that.  I enjoy that they hate that.

I am so happy.

Post Script:  Today, the 19th, waving shirt did not work so I got a long stick and tied a large piece of cloth to it, took it out there, waved it around in a circle above my head and I swear I could sense the fear engendered in the pigeons.  They took off with absolutely no hesitation.

I am still happy with my new situation.  I have the feeling this one is a permanent fix.  After all, Ghost Dog used it constantly to keep his pigeons aloft.

 

WHO WOULDA GUESSED?

Blog number 107                                                August 06, 2007

Bob Dylon's song, "Tamborine Man (Play A Tune for Me) was written after Bob visited New Orleans and watched a funeral procession led by a man playing the tamborine.  So what he is actually singing about is wanting a New Orleans funeral.  I think.

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I was listening to the radio a few days ago when this instrumental started.  It was really the first time I was struck by the professionalism of the band.  None of the instruments was any louder than any of the rest.  The melody flowed like sewing machine oil spilling over a speed bump.  I even commented to Teresa on the smoothness of the music.  Then I recognized the tune.  It was one of K.C. And The Sunshine Bands' songs.

I had written the previous paragraph earlier today after coming back from the coffee house and was sitting here at midnight, waiting to get sleepy, and lo and behold, comes on an hour of "My Music - the 70's Experience" on the telly with "A Taste Of Honey," Leo Sayers, Crystal Gayle, some other familiars, AND... "K.C. AND THE SUNSHINE BAND"! 

They haven't played yet - probably have to wait until about 1:00 a.m.

I'll wait.