Tag People

Entitlement Program

Michael 2 Comments

We were talking the other day, at what age do you get to say, “Screw it, I’m old, I’m entitled.”

Please keep this in mind.  Neither of us is wild about people who are selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, or anything else that screams, “Me first!”  But we’re ok with our older neighbors taking what is really their due for a lifetime of putting up with the younger crowd.  Even us.

If we were pinned down we think we’d say the magic number is 80.  By the time someone gets to be 80 there isn’t much more you’re going to be able to teach them, show them, expect of them or that they’ll want to be taught, shown, or expect of you other than respect from you. 

Today’s eighty-somethings have seen all the wars anybody can invent.  An 80 year old today saw nuclear tests, nuclear threats, nuclear bombs, nuclear disarmament, and now nuclear rearmament.  They’ve seen Europeans invade other Europeans, Asians invade other Asians, Africans fighting among themselves, and Middle Easterners drop a pair of skyscrapers on 2,700 innocent bystanders.

Today’s eighty-somethings have seen all the inventions we really need.  They went from transportation by foot, by train, by car, by plane.  They’ve seen air travel go from something special for the very few to something else for the very rude.  They’ve seen entertainment go from the stage to the theater to the radio to the television back to the theater and back to the stage.  They’ve seen communication go from telegraphs sent letter by letter, to telephones, to party lines, to private lines, to wireless phones, to cell phones, to texts sent letter by letter. 

Today’s eighty-somethings are politically correct.  Anything they have to say comes from experience, not from experts on television.  If they want to call the President a bleeding heart or a fascist, a do-gooder or a no-gooder, a boom or a bust, they’ve seen them all and know exactly what he is.  They don’t need to, nor should have to mince words.  They don’t have time to be sugar coating anything but their breakfast cereal.

Today’s eighty-somethings have done it all with more class than their elders did because they had to and with more class than their youngers will because they can.  And that’s real class.

No doubt about it.  You find us a couple of eighty year olds and we’ll join them in telling the world, “Screw it, he’s entitled. And so is she.”  It’s an entitlement program we can get behind.  Even us.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Liberty and Justice for All

Michael 1 Comment

They are at it again.  It’s that time.  Easter is around the corner and a Michigan based organization of atheists of all people cannot let a religious holiday go by without a celebration.  Now they seem to think that the Ten Commandments are unfit for American consumption. 

This startling report comes after a child is shot and killed in the name of a neighborhood watch.  After a bonded security guard kills his partner and makes off with $2 million.  After five people were found so gruesomely murdered investigators can’t even figure out how they were killed.   Yes, the last thing we need in this country is a moral compass, a set of rules, directions on how to tell the difference between right and wrong. 

If you haven’t had a chance to read our special post, “We Hold These Truths” (January 13, 2012), please do.  It’s long.  It’s far from politically correct.  It has the words “Church” and “Constitution” in the same paragraph.  We think it makes a world of sense.   

We won’t repeat the discussion on the Constitution and the Bill of Rights that we presented in January.  We do want to repeat that regardless of what some dolts in Michigan say, the authors of the Bill of Rights don’t say anything about building an atheistic society under the guise of an oft-claimed separation of church and state.     

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

If you don’t recognize it, that is the Famous First Amendment.  The whole thing.  Every word of it.  That’s the one in which Congress says it won’t say how you will worship, and that nobody in the government can stop you from worshipping.  It doesn’t say that you are not allowed to worship, not even in public.  It says that Congress will not prohibit the free exercise of religion, not that Congress will prohibit religion. 

If we had a choice we’d tell the atheists to go to hell.  The only reason we don’t is they probably don’t believe in hell either.  Where do you send a dolt to spend all eternity in despair?  Should we send them to the courtrooms to listen to the testimony of those trying to wiggle out of murder charges?  Maybe we should send them to the crime scenes where real dead bodies lie from the hands of those who didn’t understand “thou shalt not kill.”  Or perhaps they should see their life savings disappear to the charlatan “brokers” who amassed fortunes by stealing from retirement plans and savings accounts.  But whatever you do, don’t send them to church to pray for innocent children who die while left behind to fend for themselves.

Sorry, not so funny today.  But there’s nothing funny about some dolts worried that there is a plaque of The Ten Commandments outside a school.  They should be more worried if people ever stop teaching The Ten Commandments to the children. 

To heck with it.  Hey!  Any atheists out there who are so stuck on this separation of church and state thing that you can’t see how good you have it here, why don’t you just go to hell.  You’ll find your way easily enough.  The signs are all around you.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Dirty Words

Michael Leave a comment

A while ago former First Lady Barbara Bush said at a conference, “I hate that people think compromise is a dirty word.”  And as we looked at recent politics and campaigns, she is on to something.  Nobody compromises anything.  There are times when you really don’t want to compromise, perhaps with your virtue, but most of what this country has and has become, has been through compromise.  Even the Declaration of Independence had words added, removed, and changed as a result of compromise.    

It got us to thinking, what are the other new dirty words out there?

Speed limit:  Everywhere we go people are speeding.  You can piggy back onto this word “conservation.”  It wasn’t long ago we talked about gas going to $4 a gallon but nobody really doing anything about it. (Paper or Plastic, Feb. 23, 2012, from Life’s Questions)  No need to.  We aren’t spending real money and our cars are very efficient.  Um, no, they aren’t.  Not at 70 miles per hour.  When we talked about how people were outraged about gas prices thirty years ago we didn’t mention that one of the strategies to conserve gas was the national 55mph speed limit.  It probably wouldn’t go over very big today.

Thank you:  We’ve posted quite a few times about how nobody says thank you.  (Most recently, Terms of Appreciation, Jan. 23, 2012 from Etiquette) They say just about everything else – there you go, have a good one, ya’ll come back now (we just made that one up).  Probably nobody says “thank you” because it’s a dirty word and they don’t want to get fired for swearing at the customers.

Conservative:  We were at an event recently and one of the local papers had a booth erected.  It was the more conservative of the two major papers.  While we, and others were there, a man walked by with his wife and child (probably his child but we didn’t confirm that with the wife; probably his wife but we didn’t confirm that either) and shouted “Too F——- Conservative” and kept on going.  But as we think of this, maybe “conservative” isn’t the bad word.  Perhaps it’s “liberal.” We’re pretty sure if something like that happened at the other major paper’s booth (had there been one), there would have been shouting and punching with those defending the honor of the paper like one would if a young lady were the object of obscenities. 

Parenting:  Go through your local paper’s archives for the past six months.  How many stories can you find about children still being left in cars while parents shop, eat, drink, or gamble?  How many stories can you find about a child hurt or killed when left alone with a fireplace, matches, large dog, big television perched precariously on small stand, or drug crazed boyfriend?  Read the story carefully.  Somebody will speculate that the time alone was brief, that the child was secure in a seat, or that the dog was trained or the boyfriend contrite.  Nobody will say the parents were selfish, clueless, reckless, bad decision makers, or all of the above.

Gluten:  We don’t know how many people even know what gluten is but we know everybody says it’s bad for you.  Gluten is the irritant in one of the most painful medical conditions people suffering from autoimmune diseases can face.  There are very few treatment options and less successful ones.  For a whole generation to decide they have a predisposition to this mocks the poor true victims and makes it even harder for them to be accepted with such a debilitating disease.  So if you think you have some horrible disease magically treated by not eating bread, don’t eat the bread.  And then keep your suffering to yourself.  That way we can hear and help those who truly suffer from Celiac Disease.

Date:  Sometimes it seems the only people we know who are dating are us.  Nobody goes on dates any more.  As the parents of 20-somethings we get to hear of going out but in packs.  Packs of young adults are going to bars and coffee shops, to bowling alleys and amusement parks.  Never a couple.  Always a group.  Safety in numbers?  Maybe.  Comfort in groups?  Perhaps.  Scared of dating?  Might be.

So those are our seven words you can’t say on TV.  Hmm, that makes us wonder.  What about those other more famous seven words?  They’re probably ok now.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

I went to a home show and all I bought were nacho chips

Michael 1 Comment

We don’t know exactly how big it is, but we know that the home and garden show business across the country is definitely big.  Our town has multiple varieties of the “everything for your home under one roof” extravaganza with more suburban varieties popping up every year in advance of the big one in town.

It’s a spectacle that we’ve been a part of for years.  Every year it seems to get busier with more people crowding the aisles between the wind chimes and the garage door installers.  We’ve gotten lots of stuff over the years from this show of shows. Everything from plants to hot tubs.  From art to hang on our walls to decks to hang on our houses.  We’ve never walked away from a home show empty handed.  Empty walleted, yes.  Empty handed, no.

This year it was almost hard to buy anything.  Although every installer, builder, and artisan has his or her “show special,” it seems that prices at these events are always higher than on the outside.   But there are things you’ll never see on the outside so you don’t really know.

This year we came across the $29 dog brush, a $22 garlic peeler, a $49 hose nozzle, and (our favorite) the essential $100 iron.  It was at the iron display that the pitchman steadfastly refused to reveal the price until the demonstration was over.  It looked like a good deal, and maybe worth a few extra dollars just for the long cord.  When he quoted the “low price of only ninety-nine, ninety-nine” someone (ok, it might have been us – in unison) exclaimed, “That’s a hundred dollars!  For an Iron!” and a couple other observations about it.  “But it’s the last iron you’ll ever buy,” came the seller’s justification.  We compared our iron history.  Between the two of us we’re on our third iron.  It could have been the second except He of We lost his first iron in an appliance custody settlement.  The most expensive of those was $17.

We don’t know why events like this have to inflate prices so much.  Twenty years ago you at least got some entertainment out of it with the classic pitchmen and the cleaners and tools you couldn’t get anywhere else.  On the main stage the local PBS affiliate would have cooking and home improvement demonstrations.  We remember when they would make enough at the cooking demos that everyone in the audience actually got to eat.  Now two hotdogs and a soft drink eat up three quarters of a twenty dollar bill. 

But we’ll still go every year.  Whether we need anything or not we’ll find something or other.  And it’s always an opportunity to re-visit with truly talented artists and craftsmen.  At our last stop we stayed for a while and chatted with an artist whose work graces walls in both of our houses.  He is a very pleasant man who actually makes a living from his paintings.  Someone who has turned his dream into his dream job.  Someone who makes you feel good that you stopped to say hello.

 And a good thing we did or else the only things we would have bought this year would have been three bags of tortilla chips and a newspaper subscription. 

Hey, when it comes to something of other, you can never have too much of it.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

If Only the ER Served Magaritas

Michael 1 Comment

We almost expected to hear Anthony Edwards, aka E. R. Dr. Mark Greene, shout “Clear!” and apply the defibrillator paddles to the piece of meat in front of him, grilling it to the perfect fajita filling.  The hustle and the bustle far exceeded that of most inner city emergency rooms on a Saturday night after the local team won its first (pick your favorite season) championship in over 50 years.

Ok, let’s catch you up so you can enjoy this tale also.  Last weekend we paid a visit to one of our favorite local eateries.  A very small authentic Mexican restaurant with no designs of growing larger.  On a lucky Saturday night we’ll be led to a quiet table for two tucked into a corner as far from the hostess stand as one can get in a room the size of a generous living room.  Here we’re treated to the basic three courses where we relish in the opportunity to be served by trained, professional waitpersons in our favorite quietly comfortable restaurant.  Good food.  Good service.  Good company.  Good time.

Last Saturday we headed to our dining quarry figuring to have a drink in the bar before dinner.  We’ve ventured into the bar, considerably smaller in scale to the rest of the operation just as another couple was called to their table.  We settled into their vacated seats at the far side of the square cornered horseshoe and decided that we were so comfortable, and since we never had there before, we would have dinner right there at the bar.

Eating at the bar is nothing unusual for us.  We do so quite often.  We’re low enough maintenance that the bartenders aren’t unduly burdened by having to play waitperson while already performing in the role of barperson.  Many of the places we’ve come to call home for dinner out have the bar in the middle of the room and thus in the middle of the action.  The ideal seat for people watching.  So with our history of bar dining and a new opportunity in front of us, we embarked on our first such supper at our favorite comfortably quiet restaurant.  Boy were we in for a shock!

“Clear!”  Well, how about “Smith!  Party of 4!  Jones!  Party of 2!”  Every 15 minutes or so the hostess, a little bitty thing, stood in the doorway of the smallish space and bellowed out a prospective diner like a conductor crying the stops of the local commuter train with a voice that would fill all outdoors.  “Behind you! Cold ice!” the bar back routinely called out with as much frequency as the people search.  And the people kept on coming.

They packed themselves in like they were filing into the afternoon rush hour subway.  Parties of 2, 4, 8.  Eyes slightly glazed after a long day of shopping? housework? painting?  We don’t know what the Saturday afternoon activities but whatever they were those activities led to a need for an adult beverage.  And soon.  Drinks were called for from the second row behind the stools. 

“Ford! Party of 6!”  “Margarita! No Salt!”  “Lincoln! Party of 4!”  “Dos Equis! Draft! Make it two!”  At one time we counted 38 people in the little room.  The fire marshal generously rated the space for occupancy by 50 people.  The designer squeezed 14 stools around the counter.  There wasn’t a time that the other 36 hadn’t conveyed their desperate need to soothe the fever that responded only to the medicine served in a chilled glass.   Ice when it wasn’t being poured into the holder 20 pounds at a time was transferred into quart sized mason jars then filled with tequila and the other makings for their specialty margarita and attached to the industrial blender that sounded like a second cousin to a turboprop airplane.  When at last their names were call, parties would leave for the dining room, clutching their chilled glasses like the secret remedy from the healer of the high desert. 

Standees took their vacated seats, new patients crowded in from the outer room.  “Nachos with queso!”  “Frozen or on the rocks!” “Heinz! Party of 6!” “More chips please!” “Rocks! No Salt!”  “More Ice!” “French! Party of 2!”

All around the conversations bubbled to the top, mixed with the televisions (two, about 20 feet apart, on different channels) and stirred into the bustling chatter of the staff, creating a confused sound track.  “Temperatures will be higher than…the upstairs really need to be…ordered last week and now they say…it’s the third meeting between them…when I said…do you want another…chilly night before…rebounding and that has to get better than… dark blue with gray trim.” 

One of our regular waiters spotted us from the service area waiting for his orders.  “Trying something new?” he shouted across the room.  “You know us, we have to try it all!” we answered.  Our attention divided between the bartenders going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars and the patrons going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars.  The bar persons whirling into high gear, resembling the blades spinning in the drink mixer.  The bar crowd shifting into lower gears as the cactus juice mellowed them in preparation for dinner.  Eventually.

And so they came, dazed, confused, smarting from spring cleaning, comatose from too much Saturday television, sore and achy, looking for healing in the emergency rooms of bars.  And a margarita.  Rocks.  No salt.  No glass.  Just a mason jar and one really big straw.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Till Death Do Us Part

Michael Leave a comment

She of We asked He of We if he saw the story about the feuding children who were posting competing obituaries.  Oddly enough, He of We who seems invariably to come across only the most bizarre news while trying to find the local weather, sports scores, or lottery numbers, hadn’t.  Since he can’t let much get by him he went in search and found not only that which She of We had referenced, but several other articles decrying bad behavior in the world of remembrances.  Let’s catch you up on what we found.

That which started it all started in of all places, Florida.  The Sunshine State wasn’t sporting very bright people when a seemingly doting son decided he was going to vent his resentments with his siblings in mom’s printed 15 Minutes.  His paid tribute billed himself as the loving son and the other two children as the daughter who betrayed her and the son who broke her heart.  Such a close family.  Word is that the daughter wrote a second obituary but that one seems to be unavailable for viewing to the Internet world.  There was one article that said it contained basically the same information as that of the first without the colorful descriptions of the siblings.  And mom’s age was different.  Maybe they weren’t so close.

It got us to thinking about the etiquette behind obituaries.  We’ve written about workplace etiquette (Fire Them All), shopping etiquette (Clean Up on Aisle Ten), restaurant etiquette (Terms of Appreciation, You want fries with that?), even parking lot etiquette (Parking Wars).  We didn’t think we’d have to ever discuss death etiquette.  Apparently we do.  Not only have we now seen how people can’t keep their pettinesses out of the paper, we’re also aware of viewings, wakes, and services which have been interrupted by arguments, fights, and visits by the police who weren’t there visiting the deceased.

Clearly the best way to approach this issue is proactively.  We plan to write our own obituaries.  And while we’re at it, plan the rest of the party as well.  Who knows us better?   We’ve all read obituaries that just aren’t quite right.  Is the surviving son in Sonoma Sam or Sid?  Didn’t daughter Debbie divorce Dick the dolt?  Since when did he belong to the Loyal Order of the Goose?  It’s understandable.  Obituaries get written in times of extreme stress and grief.  And apparently nobody is checking them too closely for content.  We’ll get the details right.

Some other details about our last hurrah need to be worked out also.  It’s not that we want to celebrate death but we both are of a faith that looks forward to an afterlife with our God and those who have already gone.  You guys left behind have to learn to suck it up and wait your turn.  So no mournful music, no dreary dress, no dull visitations.  We prefer lots of light, pictures, upbeat music, and something spiffy to wear.  We don’t want to look like we’re going to a funeral at our funerals.   We think perhaps a bright blouse, tropical print shirt, and maybe a straw hat at a jaunty angle is a good tone to set for the rest of the crowd.   

Speaking of tone, no organ music at the funeral home.  There are stacks of jazz CDs in both of our cars.  Pick out a couple of handfuls and hustle them over to the mortuary.  If they can’t figure out how to work a CD, find someone under the age of 30.  He or she will be able to download them all onto an MP3 player to make it go on through 2 or 3 visitation sessions without having to change it.  At the church we’d like to hear some upbeat scripture readings.  David chatted about topics plenty more upbeat than “the valley of the shadow of death.”  Fast forward a couple of psalms to “remember your love and kindness…not my sins from when I was younger” for something more chipper and probably a little more accurate where we’re concerned.

Now, getting us around on that last day.  Do we really have to use a hearse?  Dull, dull, dull.  There’s a perfectly good red convertible in He of We’s garage.  Prop up Whichever of We in the passenger seat and let’s go out for a spin.  That just leaves the closing music.  Everybody has passed on by, said “see you later,” and now we need some final travelling music.  She of We thought perhaps, “And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain” sung by nobody other than Frank.  It is a terrific send-off for her with the living a full life, tasting it all, and doing it her way.  He of We is leaning more toward keeping the party going and is calling on Irving Berlin to pave the way with Alexander’s Ragtime Band.  We have to wait until halfway through the chorus but there the lyrics say it all, “Come on along, come on along, let me take you by the hand. Up to the man, up to the man, who’s the leader of the band.”  

We know it’s not a terribly original idea.  People have been making their own final arrangements for some time.  You take away a lot of stress at an already stressful time for stressed out people who aren’t always thinking their best.  We figure we’ll pick the mid-price packages all the way around preserving as much of the inheritance as we can and nobody has to feel guilty about taking the cheap way out.  Between the cool clothes, upbeat music, optimistic readings, and cheery bon voyage, nobody will notice we’re going in little more than a high class pine box.  And if they do, nobody can blame anybody but us.  And frankly, we really won’t care.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

Can you hear me…

Michael Leave a comment

The greatest invention of the nineteenth century might well have been the telephone.  From nothing when the first commercial line was strung in 1877 to 48,000 subscribers some ten years later, the telephone may have had the greatest initial impact on American households alongside the regular provision of electricity. 

Some one hundred years later the telephone really hadn’t changed much.  Commercial wireless handsets were becoming more popular in the home and telephone calls no longer meant being tied to the boxes with the dials or buttons where it hung on walls or perched on tables.  Freedom to walk around the house came with only the restriction not to wander too far from the base unit.  It could have be then that telephones started taking on a more positive role among our families.

The phone had always been more positive than negative.  It allowed us to speak with relatives who lived across town, state, and country.  It allowed us to check on our homework answers.  It allowed us to check on friends not feeling well and family who just added another member to the family.  But there were still specific reasons to use the telephone. 

Although relatively economical to maintain local service, local usually meant very local.  Long distance and metropolitan services could be quite expensive.  And phone calls were still often an intrusion into our lives.  They usually came while we were eating, watching TV, playing a board game with our parents and siblings, or out back tossing baseballs, footballs, falling off sleds or pulling weeds depending on the season.  Other than when we were pulling weeds, most of the time the calls came when we really didn’t want to be interrupted. 

Although it might have been more intrusion than necessity, the advances made in the telephone were remarkable.  The twentieth century saw direct dialing, multiple extensions at a single number rather than multiple households on a single line, picture phone, push buttons, memory dialing, built in answering machines, and the first truly portable communication devices – the mobile phone.  Yes, the greatest invention of the twentieth century might well have been the telephone.

Now another thirty years have gone by and we all have a phone attached to our hips or in special pockets in our purses.  We no longer look at the phone as a service or a utility as much as we look at it as an essential that we’d not leave the house without.  We’ve both done it.  Before we leave the house we do our ritual check – wallet, keys, watch, and phone.

We don’t just talk on our phones, we send messages by voice, text, e-mail, Twitter, and Facebook.  We play games on them and with them.  We watch short clip videos on YouTube and streaming videos of live sporting events.  We flip a switch and some satellite finds us and we get turn by turn directions from them.  We maintain our contacts so seamlessly that if someone asks for a phone number for someone we call or text many times a day, we have to look it up.  We don’t know it because we never “dial” it.  We speak the person’s name into the microphone or tap the person’s picture on the screen to be connected.  We no longer have to clip coupons or write shopping lists.  It’s literally at our fingertips.  We aren’t sure but it seems very much like Star Trek.  But if we aren’t sure it’s ok because we can search for and watch episodes of vintage television on our anything by vintage telephones.

Quite an accomplishment for an instrument that at the turn of the century was still fairly impressive to see and use.  When even as portable a phone as it was, it was really just a portable phone.  And in less than a decade it has become as ubiquitous as flies at a picnic.  And as diverse as being able to be the instrument used to look up insect repellant for back yards.  Even though we’re only a little more than a tenth of the way through, the greatest invention of the twenty-first century might well will be the telephone.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Proper Attire Required

Michael Leave a comment

Around our parts it’s been a mild winter.  Not much snow, some pretty cold nights but always rebounding during the day.  At then, on February 2, Punxsutawney Phil called for 6 more weeks of winter.  “Six more?” people questioned, “We haven’t seen 6 yet.”

Be careful who you tick off.  Since then we’ve had lows in the teens, wind chills on the other side of zero, and snow enough to break out the snow-blower without fear of ridicule form the neighborhood distributor of testosterone.

There’s something about cold weather that we don’t understand.  It seems to encourage some people to dress as inappropriately as one possibly can.  Everybody in a cold weather climate has managed to run across the one mucho-macho sort who feels that cold weather is no reason for him to deviate from his usual wardrobe of shorts and work boots.  But we’re not talking about him.  Truth be told, we’d prefer not to even think about him.  No, there are others out there who have had the logic portion of their brains suffer from an unexpected frost.

Last Friday night we were waiting for a table at a local restaurant.  Regular readers know we don’t wait long for food.  If we’re told it will be anything longer than a 15 minute wait we consider how much we really want to eat from that menu that evening.  So the fact that we were waiting for a table tells you that we weren’t there long.  Yet in the few minutes that we were standing off to the side of the hostess stand we saw a couple come in that bore watching.  For frostbite.  One-half of the two was wearing a sweatshirt.  The other half, just a shirt shirt.  Did we mention that the outdoor temperature displayed on our dash was 26 degrees, that the snow was wet and cold when it fell, and that where there was not salt there was ice when we parked in the same lot they just came in from? 

The next morning after the temperature dropped another 10 degrees and the sky dropped another 2 inches of snow we were driving through the parking lot of one of the nearby shopping centers and had stopped at a crosswalk while a young man walked by wearing an open hoodie.  Six storefronts down at another crosswalk we paused while another man crossed the other way wearing a football jersey while holding hands with a pre-school version of himself who was wearing a leather jacket bearing the same football team’s logo.  Inside the stores we saw as many wind breakers, sweaters, and an occasional scarf over a light jacket as we did hats, gloves, and toasty wool coats.   This all came after we dropped off She of We’s car for service where a young lady sat in the customer’s lounge wearing only a short raincoat.

Perhaps we unnecessarily marvel at the way some people dress.  Yes, it was only 16 degrees but that was outside.  Inside the stores and restaurants and garages the temperatures were in a well-controlled 68 to 72 degree range.  Yes, outside the snow had fallen and some squalls continued to pass through.  But that was outside.  All of the merchants’ roofs were intact, their insides were dry, and not even fake snow covered any displays. 

And it’s not like we walk to many stores any more.  We don’t ride in open carriages or on run in on horseback.  We get to them in our heated cars with our temperature specific climate systems sitting in our heated seats and holding onto our heated steering wheels.  But boy we still feel bad when we see the abandoned car on the side of the road with its flashers blinking on and off, and hope they didn’t have to wait long for help in this weather.

And if they did, we hope they weren’t cold while they waited.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Drive Through Part Two

Michael 3 Comments

January 19, not even a month we noted somewhat shockingly that people are driving through buildings (“Drive Through Service,” January 19, in HUMOR).  It was not quite 3 weeks into the year and we had already heard of local drivers violating stores, banks, restaurants, and various other brick and mortar type stationary objects on the average of once every 3 days.  We implored you to write to building owners to erect safety walls and to petition the US Department of Transportation to promulgate regulations requiring solid object early warning signals in all cars, SUVs, and light trucks.

We don’t think you took us seriously.  Seriously, this is becoming a serious problem.  If 3 weeks into the year the car vs. building rate was one every 3 days, the next 3 weeks has taken an even worse turn (no pun intended).  We’ve heard of 10 more instances of buildings not being able to jump out of the way in time before being attacked by metal, steel, rubber, and presumably licensed drivers.  This round of concrete carnage included a bank, an office building, and the law school offices at one of the local universities. 

So as of today, we are at vehicles 17, calendar 34.  That’s one case of vehicular buildingslaughter every 2.6 days.  That’s increasing from the previous rate of one every 2.7 days.  At this rate we’ll reach the rate of one car/building collision every day by September 28.  (You can check the math but we’re sure that’s right.  He of We was working the calculator.  That’s a sure sign it was checked 47 times for accuracy.)

It is worth noting that this group of poor parkers included a more determined errant driver.   Witnesses at one of the spectacles noted that the vehicle paused at a stop sign, proceeded through the intersection, turned onto the sidewalk, climbed the stairs, and drove into the revolving doors.  Creative.  Most people would have waited until they passed a gas station to look for a public rest room.

These statistics are for our own local metropolitan area.  Although our area is known for some peculiar driving quirks, the steadfast refusal to use sun visors when driving east during shimmering morning rush hours and turning left just before the light turns green are two of them.  Purposely driving into buildings has not been a local drivers’ diversion in the past.  It’s possible we’ve suddenly become the center of brick butchery.  Or it could be a more universal problem.  You should check your local papers to determine if this is becoming a worldwide phenomenon.

Those would be the only choices – local trend or universal bad driving.  On our first post we questioned whether anyone thought it might be because any of those people behind the wheels were also behind their cell phones.  But that couldn’t be.  Almost every state has now passed laws against distracted driving.  Nobody would violate a traffic law like that, would they?  Besides, it’s a silly law, right up there with observing speed limits and wearing seat belts.  What could possibly happen?

We’ll check back with you toward the end of September.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

The Road Untraveled

Michael Leave a comment

“Do you know there’s an alternate security area? Right through those doors, go to the end of the hall.  You’ll walk a little farther but there won’t be any lines and when you go through you’ll come right out at the tram.”  It was the most He of We ever heard a TSA agent speak at one time.  But who would know better how to beat the crush of early morning flyers?  And that was a real smile on his face and he even wished He of We a good day and a safe flight.  What a pleasant, early start to what was going to be a long, apprehensive day.

And it was early.  Sometime not quite yet 4:30.  In the morning.  How many flyers could there be at the main screening area?  Still, he was right there and the agent seemed earnest in getting people to use the alternate site.  So through the doors He of We pushed, down the hall, over the bridge, around the bend (he was indeed walking farther), down another hall, to the head of the line.  And all by himself.  Not bad.

After a quick run through the scanners, pat down, and carry on inspection, he was down the escalator and onto the people mover. Which was packed!  At still not 4:30.  In the morning.  Apparently a lot of people travel this early.  He of We wasn’t usually one of them.  His preferred travel time was anytime between sun up and sun down.  And his usual companion was She of We and she wasn’t one of the early travelers.  He of We would be navigating three airports, one plane change, 3 time zones, and a “commuter jet” alone this day.

Airport One was turning out to be pretty good thanks to the helpful man from the TSA.  He already knew the landing and departing gates for Airport Two and knew they were a 15-20 minute walk apart and he’d be there for 90 minutes so even the dreaded connection should be ok.  But he had to get from here to there on the dreaded “commuter jet.”  A lifetime of travelling and he’d never flown on one of these compacts of the airplane world.  After getting used to the idea that he was in a plane that could not fit his carry-on of half the size of a standard roll-aboard, and that the emergency card advised in the event of an emergency to step out of the emergency exit (what, no inflatable slide?), he settled his 20 inch bottom into the compact 18 inch seat and enjoyed the hospitality of the single flight attendant while she pushed the compact refreshment cart through the compact aisle.

A bit over an hour later they were at Airport 2 and after another hour He of We was listening to the boarding instructions of the gate attendant.  After pre-boarding the first class passengers, the diamond level frequent flying “partners,” the sapphire and emerald members, the lowly platinum and gold people, and the run of the mill priority flyers, the 40 of us who were left got to climb onto the Boeing 737 for another 4 hours of above cloud commuting.  He was quite thrilled to see an empty seat next to him, flight attendants who smiled, and that he remembered to put a set of ear buds in his carry-on which was now nestled under the seat in front of him.  It was going to be a reasonably pleasant 4 hours.

Those hours went fast enough and soon they were above a body of water that led to Hawaii and points west as they circled to get into position for their approach to (at last!) ground transportation.  To make a short story long, having only to wait 10 minutes for said transportation he was soon standing in front of the desk clerk at the hotel saying “of course you can check in early.” And thus it was that after 10 hours since he pulled in the parking lot of Airport 1 He of We was ready to open the door to his room and close the door on the Trip Not From Hell.

It was one of the first that had gone nearly hitch free for many thousands of miles.  While he thought of that he thought of the smiling TSA agent who wished him a good day.  Perhaps wishes do come true.  Naw, it was just a coincidence.  Of course, if She of We appeared on the other side of that door he was ready to change his mind.  

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?