CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse

Today’s guest post comes from the netherworld of Danules, rhymes with Hercules, well okay it doesn’t, but you get the idea:

Let me tell you about the time I invested in a race horse. I had some stock money lying around that I wasn’t sure what to do with. The stock market was fluctuating, real estate was in a slump, and this friend of mine said he could bring me in on a once in a lifetime opportunity to buy a race horse descended from the very best bloodlines. It seemed a little risky, but after some careful contemplation over a large bottle of rum, we decided to go for it. He really was a beautiful horse. He even looked fast. We named him CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse. He really had four hooves, not three feet, because generally speaking horses don’t have feet; we just liked the name. It had a certain ring to it. Anyway, we found CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse a great jockey and the best trainer available, and we got him whipped into shape, so to speak. In no time, he was blazing down that practice track like a Ferrari. Eventually the time finally came for his very first race. He came in fourth, which wasn’t too bad. We got a ribbon for that one, but no money. The next few races he came in second or third, but we still had high hopes for his winning one until about the tenth race. CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse always ran a good race, but he just didn’t seem to have what it took to win. He still placed second or third, just missing by a nose. We had some ribbons and trophies, and every now and then CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder horse would get his name in the paper, but he wasn’t generating any revenue. We were starting to get a little worried about our investment. After his fifteenth race, which he lost by a nose of course, my partner and I went out to a bar to help sooth our losses. Normally I’m not a real alcoholic kind of a person, but I guess we both had a few too many that evening. We were sitting at the bar complaining about our predicament, and we just happened to be overheard by a guy in a booth who just happened to be a plastic surgeon, and happened to be even more intoxicated than we were, because he concocted this plan as a joke. But as the river of alcohol continued flowing rather mightily that night, our plan started to become less of a joke and more of a mission inspired by some unquestionable higher power. Anyway, about two in the morning, we led CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse into a freight elevator at the Bowling Green Medical Center, rode him up to the fifth floor, and led him down a long hallway to the Doctor’s office. And to make a long story short, which I guess is a useless gesture at this point, from then on CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse won every single race he ever ran by a nose. Even if the other horses were faster it didn’t matter, because when they got a glimpse of CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse’s eighteen inch nose extension, they veered off the track. After that, the racing commission passed a bill which outlawed any type of cosmetic surgery on race horses, so that CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse wasn’t allowed to race anymore. But my partner and I did manage to sell him to a traveling circus that didn’t have enough money in the budget for an elephant. The bearded lady fell in love with him and vowed to look out for him as long as he lived, so everything worked out okay in the end.

Bad Drivers Beware: Falling Sheep

Arriving back in the US after spending months in the slow moving environment of a small sailboat is always a shock. I recently traded small, peaceful islands for acres of pavement with vehicles flying every which way. Originally I had planned to be in this asphalt jungle for only a short period, but it is looking more and more likely that for now, I’m stuck. Without a car of my own, I’m really stuck. I swore I didn’t want to own another vehicle, but am now looking to purchase a used car. I did my internet research and picked out possible heaps in my area. Then I arranged to borrow a vehicle so I could go look at other vehicles. This involved a trip two hours north to borrow the pick up truck of a truck driver who didn’t need his little truck while he was out driving the big truck.

There was one car I wanted to check out on my way to Grandfather's 91st b-day party, and I started out with plenty of spare time. But everyone else was diddling that morning. When I finally got underway, I immediately got stuck in the first little town's annual hoe-down festival traffic. Of course there was the usual moron in an SUV who decided to go sit in the middle of THE intersection into town. He was headed towards the beast of burden parade, and was effectively blocking everyone who was trying to leave. Did it not occur to him that by not letting anyone out of town, he wasn’t going to get in? Finally, cars squeezed together enough to get this idiot out of the way, so that those of us who wanted to escape the yodeling contest could do so.

Free at last from the sight of parents chasing cotton candy covered children down the sidewalks, I was rolling along nicely through the countryside, until I came across my first farm vehicle. Ordinarily these are passable, but the road was very winding with many blind curves. I am not so much of a gambler as are my fellow drivers. I’m not willing to bet that the odds are in my favor that there isn’t some bozo flying around that blind corner the very second that I make a move to leave the giant pile of metal in my wake. I also know that following two inches from the rear end of this lumbering behemoth is not going to make it go any faster. It will only lead to the possibility of being irrevocably crushed by falling sheep if those rusty metal bars give way. There’s nothing to do but slow down and enjoy the ride. The sheep finally turned off into a field, only to be replaced by a tractor, dragging what looked to be a medieval torture device behind it. Unlike a lot of people who try to push other vehicles off the road and out of the way once they realize that they are going to be late, I practice Zen patience. Feeling a bit peckish, I decided to take advantage of the slow speed to search for berries growing along the side of the road. I found a few sprouting brambles, stopped, and picked myself a snack, which caused me to lose track of the rack. But never fear, there’s now a delivery van in front of me, obviously lost and a slow reader, as it almost stopped at every cross road to closely monitor, photograph and record the names on the street signs. Finally the van either found the correct address, or gave up and just picked one. After it turned off, I resumed a speed just slightly above the speed limit, and carried on unimpeded for a bit, without even the usual hurry-up-or-I’ll-kill you driver trying to park in my trunk. This is one thing I just don’t understand: How is it that the same person who drives 62 mph on a small, secondary road filled with school bus stops and slow moving Amish carriages hidden around each bend, can stand in the yard screaming at people who travel in the same manner through his or her own neighborhood? I have a lot of fun when drivers like this are up my butt because I know that even if I’m late, driving like I’m in the Indy 500 is not going to improve my chances of being on time. When I have one of these impatient imbeciles trying to drive over my car, I slow down. And continue slowing down, until I come to a complete stop in the middle of the road. Usually this confuses people so much that they just sit there for a second, before roaring around me with a screech and a gesture. I resume traveling at my sedate pace, catching up to them at the next traffic light.

Today’s trip was so far blessedly free of driving fiends. But wait, what on earth is that very fuzzy thing up ahead? I suspect that this was the moment when I missed one of my turns, being unable to see anything past that enormous ball of hay crawling along in front of me. By the time I noticed that I was no longer on the correct road, I had to make a long circle back on course. I ended up arriving at the car dealership at the time that I was supposed to be pulling up in front of my family's house, still forty minutes further down the road.

Unless it’s in a marine store full of used boat bits, I generally despise shopping. But I do like car hunting. I am the daughter of a mechanic. That means that I know enough about cars to be dangerous to used car sellers. I keep this knowledge to myself and pretend that I don’t have a clue. I also have a highly developed BS meter. When something untrue flows out of a person’s mouth, I am usually aware of it. I like to play along to see just how much rubbish I can get from one single individual.

When I screeched up in the truck, I parked it between the car I wanted to look at, and the front windows of the car dealership. I leapt out of the truck, and immediately threw myself down on the pavement to have a look under my prospective future ride. All was good except for a fairly substantial oil leak from the pan. I noticed salesman-shod feet coming at me, so quickly picked myself up off the ground and pretended I was looking at the pretty upholstery. Before the guy even had a chance to fire his BS launcher, my first question was "how long has this car been sitting in this particular spot?" That caught him off guard, and he responded with “about four days”, before he even realized that he was telling the truth. Yes, a hefty oil leak indeed. Normally I prefer to drive the car down the road, stop, and do all this checking of systems out of sight of the dealer. That way I know what the car’s obvious problems are, before making the decision whether or not to enter into the dickering stage of the game. But there was no time for a test drive; I was already too late. All I had time to do was to start the car and check its vital signs. By now the salesman had recovered his composure and was telling me that the car had been owned by an older couple. “Aren’t they all?” was my response. Only once have I ever met a used car salesman who hasn’t said “this fine vehicle was owned by a little old man/woman who only drove it to the supermarket and to church on Sunday.” And into telephone poles and onto curbs and over animals large and small and under ladders and can't even remember the home address, let alone that cars ever needed servicing. Spare me.

I bought my last car from the one salesman who said, “I dunno who mighta had it before. We brought it back from the auction two days ago and parked it there. Haven’t had time to service it yet, so I can’t tell you if it’s any good or not. You maybe can try carfax.” I drove that cheap heap for five trouble-free years, covering over 140,000 miles. When I left to go sailing, I gave the vehicle to a friend, who still drives it today. No, I can’t have it back. And yes, I plan to visit that used car dealer tomorrow, in the hopes that history can repeat itself.

In the case of the leaky car I looked at yesterday, my cover has been blown. But when I resume my jalopy hunt tomorrow, I will have nothing else scheduled except to have fun with more car salespeople, and this time I will not let on that I know which end of the car is the front.

Happy Birthday, Grandfather

Four of us were out having lunch on a Sunday afternoon, me, my grandparents and their daughter. The daughter wanted to borrow her parents’ car sometime during the upcoming week. Her car needed to go to the shop for the day, but her husband was going to be out of town all week with the other car. Both grandparents each pulled out their daytimers, put their heads together, and started debating.

Grandfather: “Well, let’s see. I already know Friday is out because I have the library board meeting in the morning, and then we start the new yoga class in the afternoon.”

Grandmother: “Monday morning won’t do. I have three appointments. Is there anything scheduled for the afternoon?”

Grandfather: “The afternoon is booked too. Remember, we’re leading the seniors ‘shop till you drop’ mall trip. We’re going to harass all the teenagers.”

Grandmother: “Oh yes, I forgot to write that in. And I see we have the bowling league in the evening. How does Tuesday look? I can’t read what I’ve written here.”

Grandfather: “We have the ‘Save the Wild Conch of Abaco’ luncheon. I’m giving a speech. And later on we’re going line dancing with two other couples from our aquatic aerobics class.”

Grandmother: “Wednesday is pretty full with the book club, the church officers meeting, and the annual ‘Walk in the Park after Dark’ group, you know, the one where two off duty cops come along fully armed, so no one gets mugged like last year?”

Grandfather: “Oh yes. I love that walk. Let’s see, Thursday morning I drive Mom to the spa. While she does her thing, I’m going to pop over to help decorate the Meals on Wheels lounge for the big party on Friday night. I’m getting an award for all my years of delivering to shut-ins. Hey, look, here’s an opening. We don’t need the car between 3 and 5 on Thursday. You can have it then. Will that do?”

Daughter sighed and said, “Never mind, my car will probably hold together until hubby gets back. Thank you anyway.”

At the time this conversation took place, Grandparents were 87 & 84, respectively. In my 30’s at the time, I was awed that these two senior citizens had a more active schedule in a week than I had in a month. As I sat at the table contemplating what now appeared to be my slothful existence, I was thinking, ‘wow, these people are truly amazing-I’m glad we’re family.’ And, ‘note to self: get a life. A real one.’

Grandmother went on ahead last November, a week shy of her 94th birthday. Not long after, Grandfather was introduced to his first computer. He has discovered the cyberworld. He is grocery shopping by peapod online, ordering needed items to come to his door, doing netflix, emailing, and keeping up with news, happenings, and watching all that is going on in the world. He even jokes about internet dating. A gifted writer with a wonderful sense of humor, he is able to recite poetry or break into old Broadway show tunes apropos to any occasion. We’re waiting for the website or a bit on youtube. He turns 91 today.

Truth in Advertising

In my real life, I don’t own or watch TV. I usually live on a boat, and sail around experiencing life in the raw, true and unedited, instead of watching someone’s fake plastic version.

Recently, however, I have had the joy of commercials. Mind you, I only watch the weather channel in the morning, while eating my cereal and waiting for the tropical update, to see if there are any named storms bearing down on my beloved, who is sailing ‘out there’ somewhere. tag (See previous post) This few minutes every morning is enough for me to see dozens of commercials, which leads me to scream,

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE???!!!”
Now I understand what has gone so horribly awry in modern society.

I actually suspected a long time ago that advertising was at the root of our shallowness and insecurities. I think the quintessential example was the mouthwash commercial that introduced us to a concept that didn’t exist before advertisers thought it up: morning breath. Thanks, mouthwash maker, for teaching us that instead of waking in the morning, sighting our loved one beside us, and greeting that person with a smile, a kiss, a cuddle, and perhaps even more, we were supposed to turn away in shame, leap out of bed and race for a big swig from that blue or green bottle beside the bathroom sink.

Razors for women were invented by advertisers. It started in the early part of the last century, during the flapper phase when dresses for women became sleeveless. As the dresses grew shorter, the razor companies saw an even greater opportunity to sell more products. It’s acceptable for men to look like men, but if a woman looks like a woman, and not like a prepubescent little girl, STONE HER, she must be a witch. Or a lesbian. Okay guys, I can see that the little girl fantasy might get you arrested. The closest thing you can get is a depilated adult female.

Women must have a certain body shape, and their boobs MUST conform. If these mounds don’t fit the image, there are various types of torture devices, commonly known as bras, to try to force these unruly masses into the proper configuration. Failing that, there’s always the silicone option. Have you ever used silicone? It’s oozy, messy, impossible to clean up, and doesn’t hold up well. If I avoid using it on my boat, why the heck would I want to put it in my body?

While it’s a tragedy to die young, it’s a sin to look old. Buy the red sports car, cover that gray, transplant that hair, zap those unsightly wrinkles away, take that pill and dance like a teenager! Take this pill and perform like one too! Great, you too can have a heart attack while reliving your misspent youth.

Hmmmm…Come to think of it, advertisers may be right on that last one. I know I would prefer to go out with a dance and a wiggle, rather than zonked in the recliner in front of the TV watching commercials. Moving on…

We have been conditioned to spend all our time, effort, energy, and money chasing an entirely elusive and subjective concept: Perfection.

If you believe what you see, it’s impressive to consider how much the average person in modern society needs to rush out and purchase to become even marginally acceptable.

Guess what, folks, my boobs are small, free and unfettered, my legs are hairy, no chemicals are plastered on my face, and my hair dries in the fresh air. I drive an aged ford escort, buy clothing from goodwill, and don’t care what the neighbors have/do/look like that I don’t. In fact, I don’t give a #$%* at all what the neighbors think of me. I accept myself, despite advertisers trying to subtly and subliminally point out all my flaws. I like me!

I should be exterminated. If more people started living naturally as I do, think what that would do to products currently sold by the billions. World economies would collapse. Entire industries would disappear. And we would all have more time to spend enjoying each other, which is a lot more important that spending our lives in the bathroom, trying to live up to a standard that does not exist.

Misplaced Love

When I say that, I mean it literally. Just a short time ago I was sailing in the Bahamas on a small sailboat with a wonderful man. But #$%* happens, and I ended up flying back home.

My love and I didn't leave things neat. Yes, in a way I did run away screaming, but not from him. He is a great guy and I am crazy about him. But THAT boat, and the way he kept it, made me nuts. I can't function or think straight without order, despite my best attempts to do so. And there was no way to organize the boat; there was simply too much stuff in too small a space. Adding me and my crap into the pile didn't help at all. That and being weathered in for THREE WEEKS at tiny little Staniel Cay in the Bahamas, while some of my family were in crisis here, led me to bail.

My man and I left it open as to when and where we would reconnect. It is much easier for me to make a plane reservation to travel to the boat, than for the boat to try to get to where I have landed.

It has now been nearly five weeks since hearing one peep from my other half. What am I to think? It’s hard to rejoin a boat when you don’t even know where it is. When you aren’t even sure it’s still afloat. When you’re not even certain that the skipper hasn’t been fatally whacked overboard by some moving part of the boat, or by some part that wasn’t supposed to move, say, the mast as it fell down.

I don’t even know if I’m allowed to worry or if I should be extremely p/o’d. If he’s fine, I’ll kill him.

misplaced love

It's not so Pacific

The day had begun like any other. John got up and went to work. I did some laundry and went to the store. People we knew from the marina approached me and said “Hey, aren’t you leaving for Hawaii in a few days?” “We’re leaving today,” I replied, much to their surprise. I guess no one believed we were actually going to do it. We found it hard to believe ourselves.
It is difficult to describe the feeling as the lines were cast off from the dock later that afternoon. This 2,000 mile passage was known for making or breaking sailing couples. Did we have what it took? Were we truly prepared? We both had faith in our vessel, a Cascade 36, one of the strongest built fiberglass hulls to ever sail the high seas. Our doubts lay within ourselves. We smiled at each other nervously and sailed out of the bay.
The first sign of what the passage would be like came at dusk, when the wind stopped blowing as we sailed into the middle of the shipping lanes. At the same time the stereo blew out. We motored out of the shipping lanes with no Jimmy Buffet music to sooth our nerves. Five days later, we had traveled a grand total of 250 miles. During most of this time, a sea lion drifted with us, circling the boat and talking at us. I think we were being laughed at because he could move faster than we could. Upon his departure, we were visited by over 100 dolphins, jumping and playing around us. It seemed that almost as far as our eyes could see on both sides, behind, and in front of the boat, there were dolphins. It was an incredible sight; one that was so enthralling that neither of us gave fetching the camera a thought until after the show was over. True to the old mariners’ belief, the dolphins brought us good luck. The wind finally began to blow and we caught a barracuda for dinner.
We sighted a whale on the eleventh day, after which the sun made its first appearance. Plotting our course by sextant alone, the sun was more than a luxury. It was a necessary ingredient in successful navigation. Joyfully, we threw off our clothes and grabbed the sextant, creating a new process by which navigation, and all other tasks, should be done in the nude whenever possible. After confirming that we were still in the Pacific Ocean, we kicked back and enjoyed the deep, clear blue of the sea. We watched our fishing line for our daily mahi-mahi. The minute we caught one, we made sushi and enjoyed a heavenly lunch on deck. Later, we had a refreshing saltwater rinse on deck to sooth certain sunburnt parts of our bodies.
John made pizza on the grill for dinner that evening. Usually we devoured it instantly, but this time we only nibbled, watching the sea uneasily. The water looked the same. There were no ominous black clouds on the horizon, and no wind shifts. But there was an almost imperceptible difference that we could feel in the pit of our stomachs. Perhaps, so in tune with our environment, we could feel the change in pressure as the barometer began a steady plunge. “I think we’re going to get hammered”, I said quietly to John. Unfortunately, he didn’t disagree with me. By the time it got dark, there was no question about it. Both wind and sea had risen at an alarming rate. We shortened sail and prepared for the worst.
John had the dawn watch that morning. As I arose, he said, “You don’t want to know what’s out there.” But I could tell without looking by the motion of the boat and the sound of the wind in the rigging. I got up to gaze at 15 foot seas agitated by 30 knots of wind.
We dropped the double reefed main and ran downwind with the working jib alone. We had an early lunch as the boat crawled up one wave and slid down the next. Little did we know this would be our last meal for 24 hours.
On deck, we struggled to drop the working jib and raise the storm jib in the still increasing wind and seas. We towed a drogue astern on a bight of 300 foot line, to ease our speed and to help keep the boat on a downwind course. Our self steering gear could no longer handle the 45 knots of wind and 20 foot seas. All we could do now was run off and wait for the storm to pass.
The wind was screaming through the shrouds as night fell. The boat’s motion was violent, although she was steering herself well under drogue and storm jib, with the helm lashed. Moving about the cabin was difficult and dangerous to the limbs. John crawled into the quarterberth where I was holed up. We lay together listening to the howling wind, pots, pans and dishes banging together, and canned goods rolling back and forth in storage. Suddenly there was a slam-crash, and the boat lurched sideways. Water spilled through the small gap in the hatchboards and smacked us on our heads. We tangled ourselves up together trying to leap out of the bunk at the same time. John turned on the deck lights, pushed open the hatch and took quick stock of conditions outside. “Did we hit something?” I gasped. “No, we just took a wave over the stern, that’s all,” he replied. “THAT’S ALL?!” I’m wet, you’re wet, EVERYTHING is wet. And now we’re going to get giant monster waves breaking over the boat! I hate this crap!” I cried as the boat fell off a wave with a thump. John admitted to not enjoying this party either. Wet and shaken, we climbed back into our cozy little puddle of a bed. We tried not to bruise each other too much as we got tossed around. Sleep was impossible. Too tired to talk, we each thought our own thoughts. Weather such as this tended to make them profound ones. An experience like this could almost make a person religious. Sometimes it rained so hard that the sound of the falling drops could be heard over the shrieking wind and crashing waves. John muttered something about wishing daylight would arrive. I wondered to myself what difference it would make. I actually preferred not to see the watery mountains that leapt around and over us.
To John’s relief, daylight did finally arrive, revealing that everything on the boat was still where it should be, including the two kayaks we had strapped outside the lifelines on either side of the cockpit. To my dismay, I could now see 30 foot waves. The wind was holding at about 50 knots. Feeling week and dizzy, I remembered how long it had been since we had last eaten anything. I was attempting to put some rice into a pot when the next wave slammed over us. I went for a sail across the cabin, landing on the floor next to the pot. John’s laughter interrupted my string of expletives directed at the sea for the wave, the pot for not sticking to the stove, and at the stove for not hanging on to me. “WHAT’S SO FUNNY?” I roared. “If we couldn’t laugh we’d all go insane,” he tossed at me. I picked up myself and the pot, lunged for the stove, and got everything secured before the next wave wreaked its havoc on us. The little bit of food we managed to consume restored our spirits for about five minutes.
Water had been leaking in one port and both dorade vents, even though they were both closed. Each breaking wave forced water in around the hatch boards, which dribbled down the companionway steps. Water was running over the floor with each lurch of the boat. I began poking around, determined to find a dry spot somewhere. I finished my futile inspection and sat down, dejected and disheartened. John had been periodically checking the bilge to make sure we weren’t taking on water below the waterline. He chose this moment to check it again. He pried open the cover and peered in. “Look, no water in the bilge. Isn’t that great?” I let out a groan, crawled back into the wet bunk, lay my head on the wet pillow, and pulled the wet covers over my wet self. Of course, I thought bleakly, why didn’t I think to look in the bilge for a dry spot?
Darkness came upon us once again, but this time there was a difference. The wind had lessened, only slightly, but to us this was a monumental thing. It meant that there was an end to this torture in sight. This was something we had seriously come to doubt in the last 48, horrendous, gut wrenching, exhausting hours, which felt more like weeks.
Around 2 a.m., the wind had died down enough to warrant putting up more sail. With us still exhausted and the boat still heaving in 15-20 foot seas, it took us almost two hours to sort everything out and bumble through the sail change. At one point, John was standing by the mast ready to raise the working jib as soon as I got the halyard attached. Suddenly the boat dropped out from under me, and as I landed with a painful thump upon the windlass, I let out a really bad word. Suddenly the end of the halyard in my hand was going up, up. “Stop, stop!” I screamed. “It’s not attached yet!” “I thought you said ‘up’”, John replied with annoyance. “That’s not what I said.” I attached the halyard to the head of the jib before I became airborn again.
We were sitting dazed in the cockpit after our exertions when something flew out of the darkness and hit me in the side of the face, just as it started to rain. I leapt up with a yell. We looked down to see a flying fish flopping around in the cockpit. John set it free, and we both began to laugh, harder and harder. We sat in the rain and laughed ourselves silly. We had survived our first ocean storm, not to mention the attack of the flying fish. Deciding to forego our normal watches, we fell into bed, where we slept for three blissful hours. The nightmare was over.
The sun came out later that afternoon. The boat looked like a patchwork quilt, with wet towels, bedding, and articles of clothing hanging from every available space. On the foredeck, we bathed in bucketfuls of warming tropical water and took naps in the sun. As John prepared dinner that evening, he said, “You know, it wasn’t really that bad…”

The size of it

I always like to hear the other side’s opinion, and I would like to know who thinks that leaf blowers aren’t on the top ten list of stupid inventions, and why these noisy, polluting, dust-making demons have a purpose. Just what is the point? Okay, so you get yourself a leaf blower and you go out into your driveway and start the blowjob. In short order, dust and debris are flying through the air, carried by the prevailing wind, to land…Where? All over your neighbors’ yard, drive, car, kids, etc? And in short order, don’t these particles simply blow back where they came from in the first place? What, exactly, have you accomplished, other than damaging your hearing and sinuses, as well as throwing a few more bits of carbon into the air? Is it an added bonus that you have managed to royally piss off the next door neighbor by blowing bits of grass and sand all over the fresh paint on the front porch? Jerk.

Maybe leaf blowers are simply an extension of the ‘small’ syndrome. By this I mean trying to make up for lack of stature by having big and/or loud stuff. Lack of stature doesn’t necessarily mean short, or small anatomy, but simply a person’s self image. One of the most blatant examples of the compensating factor is someone who drives a giant truck with mammoth tires. If this truck makes a huge noise as it bounces down the highway, getting everyone to look, or rushing for ear plugs, all the better. Toting around a honkin’ leaf blower probably helps too.

I get very annoyed at that little kid ‘hey look at me’ syndrome, but also feel sorry for those poor souls who can only make themselves feel better by surrounding themselves with mastodonic possessions. I bet they have to spend much more time at work to pay for this towering pile of crap, compared to someone with no ego problem, who can gleefully tool around in a tiny little car. My guess is that the confident person also gets to enjoy a lot more leisure time, having saved all that money not spent trying to shatter the sound barrier, having to buy extension ladders to get into and out of that big truck, and not buying useless crap such as leaf blowers.

Language of the future

Although I don’t want to admit to where I am living, (outstanding warrants), at the moment I’m stopping in a small redneck type town, full of wandering children who have no purpose other than to spray paint the side of my garage and who know only one word, which they use profusely—f**k. I actually heard a young man walking down the street having an entire conversation using only this word, giving it different inflections and making it sound like complete sentences, while his companion walked alongside nodding his head. Impressive. And here I spent all those years in school learning so many different words. Just think of all that time squandered, learning how to spell various words, their meanings, how to pronounce them properly, and how to use them in a complete sentence. I feel so obsolete, so out of date. Who knew we needed just the one word??? What a waste of life’s precious time, time that could have been spent climbing trees and saying f**k.