tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26836354845329472572024-03-15T20:11:31.279-05:00Alan WorldNow with larger print so old people can read itAlanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.comBlogger3023125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-71936249201684463602024-02-28T17:21:00.001-06:002024-02-28T17:21:52.358-06:00Pizza Day<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqEEraYOCuTTfCQ8UqCtbsqxFBz8sz3hpwqODxlutCxfLPqi-DOHGP2CfIE4yo_bfhfplkkDcrh6AsQs1bFYxTHi3SGqVJe7sXTb8IUFQdGQd4irMSc1-a4RBAtRpxB9dA_LPENK_BjzbLxZQCEXl71JYmyavD9CFMAEL1Xc-fe6RFXcQev2X-hyE1Ws9W/s1200/pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqEEraYOCuTTfCQ8UqCtbsqxFBz8sz3hpwqODxlutCxfLPqi-DOHGP2CfIE4yo_bfhfplkkDcrh6AsQs1bFYxTHi3SGqVJe7sXTb8IUFQdGQd4irMSc1-a4RBAtRpxB9dA_LPENK_BjzbLxZQCEXl71JYmyavD9CFMAEL1Xc-fe6RFXcQev2X-hyE1Ws9W/w640-h336/pizza.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Wednesday has become my pizza
day. I usually buy a good quality frozen pizza at the Jewel while doing my
weekly shopping. When I get home, I bake it, and then eat the whole damn thing. I start
out with good intentions. Eat half of it for lunch and then save half for
breakfast the next day. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(You know you've
all had leftover pizza for breakfast at least once. Don't lie.) </i>Seriously,
there are a few very good frozen pizza brands out there. Nick and Vitos, Corner
Pub, and the one I had today. Brew Pub pizza. All thin crust, Chicago, old
school style pizza. I even cut it into squares like I did when I worked for Ray's
Pizza almost sixty years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I was fifteen years old when
my neighbor who owned Ray's offered me a job. One dollar an hour and all the
beef sandwiches and RC Cola I could consume in one shift. I was fifteen, so
that was a lot. A lot of money, RC Cola, and beef. Thinking back I realize what
made the pizza taste so good. Part of my job was mixing the pizza dough. Flour,
eggs, yeast, oil, and water, mixed in a big dough mixer. Before turning on the
big mixer, I would have to pre-mix the ingredients in by hand. When the dough
was finished in the mixing machine, I had to dig it out of the giant mixing
bowl by hand and plop it down in an oil soaked wooden box. There it would sit
to rise for awhile before putting it in the refrigerator. Later I would have to
take the dough and measure out little balls of it to a certain weight, each one
a future pizza. Yes, the pizza from Ray's was very good. Only a couple of
problems. Fifteen year old Alan did all the prep work with no hair net, no
mask, and no latex gloves. That was my sweat, my hair, and my sneezes in that
dough that made it so delicious. One more thing. I loved the well done mozzarella
cheese on top of the pizzas as they came out of the oven. So I would snatch a
big gob off the top of the pizzas and eat it right then and there. Sadly a
few of Ray's customers got pizza with half the cheese missing. Fifteen year old
Alan was a little asshole.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-44936738607985615362024-01-31T05:00:00.007-06:002024-01-31T07:57:46.126-06:00The Can<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OGAkf6ZIkUduLHAEMxP8zNp4ntJ4icYUdpqvi6G6dXI3rdJ5vtF-0tHK4JTxDW7kmbjNCOXiSda7p4blft3fcEHeQ8cO7bxgroGMcsbHTLuV4NguxsJKLEN-R6_du_wrv0RC8kIapQJQ22eRa8-46DfBJxy6mP99wR-GYbWDRWkilrkh3WbJXZXgyt6Y/s1256/s-l1600.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1256" data-original-width="1256" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OGAkf6ZIkUduLHAEMxP8zNp4ntJ4icYUdpqvi6G6dXI3rdJ5vtF-0tHK4JTxDW7kmbjNCOXiSda7p4blft3fcEHeQ8cO7bxgroGMcsbHTLuV4NguxsJKLEN-R6_du_wrv0RC8kIapQJQ22eRa8-46DfBJxy6mP99wR-GYbWDRWkilrkh3WbJXZXgyt6Y/w400-h400/s-l1600.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So three weeks ago it started
snowing around here and we were buried under one and a half inches of wet snow.
Oh the horrors. To add to the misery, for a whole week after that the
temperatures never got warmer than ten degrees above zero. Thank the Lord, or
Tom Skilling, after that the weather changed and we've had nearly two weeks of
temperatures in the mid thirties to upper forties. It's like we're in Florida,
but without the flying cockroaches. Of course that means all the snow has
melted and piles of trash have appeared in my front yard. Yesterday I went out with my orange Home Depot bucket and my
"Grabber Reacher Tool for Seniors" as it is described on Amazon, and picked
up all the trash. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Let's go back to the one and
a half inches of snow and sub freezing temperatures. On the first day of that
terrible time I took in a friend's dog, Eddie. That means I had three dogs
needing to poop and I was not going to take them out for a walk. No way was I
going out in that mess with those dogs. So I would open the back door of the
porch, let the little fur angels run out there, and watch them poop and pee all
over the place. One good thing about Eddie, he always poops in the same spot.
Bad thing about Eddie, his poops are gigantic. But never mind because all the
dog poop would immediately disappear as their turds melted down through the
snow. Unfortunately, snow melts and dog poop will still be there. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I have a six gallon trash can
out by the alley. When I clean up the dog poo in the yard I put it in the can. Yesterday I cleaned up the yard. The six gallon can filled up
fast, which meant I would have to transfer it to the big garbage bin so
the City of Chicago could pick it up today. It was heavy and the bag I had lined
the can with ripped open. Let's just say the shit almost hit the fan. Luckily I
came prepared with a giant black trash bag that captured it and I was
able to get it all in the big bin for the truck to pick up today. This is the reason we tip the garbage men around the holidays.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-7856888851185988842024-01-07T21:47:00.000-06:002024-01-07T21:47:50.717-06:00Comfort<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrnD9rEbg2QTTYevPc11t5EBdwfSMzRzdwcjGaNJB8EII4hEtPKTUWeaBndfeDr0YB9M8D0i_8QxfZFySS3702cIBBYws73fU1TGwVlEOvK9ewxlAB2LtUYOgZWb5x1Tr0ITCmVZ8P5Zv1F86Wl4Fw-YvmmpPP_kDQDybQhYO4Xkr42DQdZpsziDPIhMV/s500/mmm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="500" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrnD9rEbg2QTTYevPc11t5EBdwfSMzRzdwcjGaNJB8EII4hEtPKTUWeaBndfeDr0YB9M8D0i_8QxfZFySS3702cIBBYws73fU1TGwVlEOvK9ewxlAB2LtUYOgZWb5x1Tr0ITCmVZ8P5Zv1F86Wl4Fw-YvmmpPP_kDQDybQhYO4Xkr42DQdZpsziDPIhMV/w400-h254/mmm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I was in a doctor's office
waiting room last week, helping out a friend. While he was in having a
procedure, I took a seat in one of the very comfortable looking chairs
provided. For the first few minutes I was fine. Then I realized the seat
was canted forward, maybe one degree off the level. You see I have a very
sophisticated sense of comfort and I can feel such things. A grain of sand in
my shoe feels like a rock. If I sleep in the same spot in my bed too many
times, I can feel the divot I have created. I have a very good mattress, but I
can feel it. Anyway, sitting in that waiting room became unbearable after
awhile. It reminded me of going to parties when I was young. One in particular,
thrown by one of my crazy friends, came to mind. I had never been to his
apartment before, so how was I to know he had no furniture. He had a
stereo, a cat, and a mattress on the floor. That was it. I didn't stay long.
Besides, like I said he was crazy. He was known for bringing his cat to gay
bars and dancing with it. Also, he spent some time in jail for threatening to
kill a United States Senator. I asked him to never call me again after that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I find that in my older age I
need comfort and won't put up with hard seats, bad shoes, and parties with no
furniture. Yet for nearly one whole year I lived on a farm with a bunch of hippies.
We all slept on what you might call 'roadside' mattresses in one big room, on
the floor. Seriously, I have no idea where those mattresses came from. I slept
like a baby back then. That was over fifty years ago. Now I avoid being on the
floor for any reason. Mostly because of the intense effort it takes to get me
back up on my feet. Besides, that's where the dogs hang out. Lots of hair down
there. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-77096255870507964242023-12-23T14:57:00.000-06:002023-12-23T14:57:04.720-06:00Merry F***king Christmas: Yogurt Edition<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CN1OzE9RzRTTras9puT4VHZl9ksp-0Uio8dscpOi5WScLRxwRMtQH66LzOxSQCKptahRXxq375_Dblw1C1xJNCm2slNOuVyEWvHTl5X-2AUOSc-8Zu1afdwXx5Dd4Hfi4LmZp_LZ420Ww0b0tOEkv0_FRYrRwySgE_quvwL7fQmfWpS4UrObF6_NN3_Y/s4128/Yogurt%20Disaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4128" data-original-width="3096" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CN1OzE9RzRTTras9puT4VHZl9ksp-0Uio8dscpOi5WScLRxwRMtQH66LzOxSQCKptahRXxq375_Dblw1C1xJNCm2slNOuVyEWvHTl5X-2AUOSc-8Zu1afdwXx5Dd4Hfi4LmZp_LZ420Ww0b0tOEkv0_FRYrRwySgE_quvwL7fQmfWpS4UrObF6_NN3_Y/w300-h400/Yogurt%20Disaster.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When I was a kid, my
brothers, sisters, and I loved Christmas. The anticipation, the lights, the nearly
two weeks off from school was special. Life seemed so wonderful in those days
immediately before the big day. However, it was not so great for my dad. We
didn't know he had to pay for all of the stuff that showed up under the
Christmas tree. I never thought about what a bitch it was
to lug that big tree home, set it up, and then drag all the decorations down
from the attic crawl space. So at some point in the days before Christmas
something would set him off. Dad would blow his top and in his thunderous big
man voice, burst into a symphony of profanities. It could be a burned out string of
lights. It could be something that happened in traffic on his way home from
work. It could be me saying just the right thing in front of him. All I knew
was to get the hell out of the way. I'm not much different. I've had my
Christmas disasters that have turned me into a raving maniac. Disasters that
send me screaming every foul, nasty curse word I can muster at the top of my
lungs. One year in Florida it was an open window that allowed the tropical
breezes to topple Mark's beautifully decorated Christmas Tree.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I make my own yogurt. Every
eight days or so, I pour twenty four ounces of milk into the six hundred dollar
Vitamix blender that Mark made me buy for him one Christmas. Then I add my live
yogurt starter and blend it at the very lowest speed for a minute. It takes
about eighteen hours to cook and then you have yogurt at a third the cost of
buying it pre-made. Today was yogurt day. After pouring the milk and the live
yogurt starter into the blender, I turned to throw away the yogurt carton. At
which point some part of my body brushed against the blender and flipped the on/off
switch to on. In a panic I flipped the wrong switch and turned the speed up to
500,000 rpm blasting all the milk and yogurt straight up onto the cabinets, walls,
floor, and me. Immediately the dogs came running in to help clean up the mess.
Just as immediately they ran as I burst into my impression of my dad. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It took about an hour to
clean it all up. I think I got it all, but it's hard to tell. White milk, white
yogurt, white kitchen cabinets and counters. I may have missed some. I'm sure
I'll know if I did in a day or so. That's when the aroma of sour milk will make
it known.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-61344949571265266262023-12-08T09:19:00.001-06:002023-12-08T09:19:54.229-06:00Busy Week<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15iB5dkEXnbDDJP5E6Fvq-T7dW76vV55tg27HML22kT4kH1oQBa0KbFf2ykiNFdObjz2PDaxv7a3WxXxCUDoRCMsE2ePWn-4QK8R6n1YTpt_oE-9c3eOjh2LNgQkFFKgX7O81wDqkPXjhKc6E81x35LFfp7MYLKhza2vZ3xR0wcyAFdGOrr8g9uI07HoN/s586/Daisy%20and%20Cielo%20sleeping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="586" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15iB5dkEXnbDDJP5E6Fvq-T7dW76vV55tg27HML22kT4kH1oQBa0KbFf2ykiNFdObjz2PDaxv7a3WxXxCUDoRCMsE2ePWn-4QK8R6n1YTpt_oE-9c3eOjh2LNgQkFFKgX7O81wDqkPXjhKc6E81x35LFfp7MYLKhza2vZ3xR0wcyAFdGOrr8g9uI07HoN/w640-h328/Daisy%20and%20Cielo%20sleeping.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I've had an odd week that could have been overwhelming. However, if I break it down into
smaller compartments I can deal with it all. I'm babysitting my sister's dog. Two
of my sisters are in the hospital. I got a new housekeeper. I lost Dennis. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">First off, the dogs. My older
sister had surgery this week so I took her dog in while she recuperates. Nothing
funnier than watching me walk three barking, snarling dogs down our street.
Snarling because the two smallest dogs seem to think that every approaching
human is a threat, and every cat or squirrel needs to be chased. Scout, the big
girl of the group, has been an angel about the whole deal. By the way, finding
tiny small dog turds among the fallen leaves of autumn is quite a challenge. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The housekeeper. As for her
cleaning abilities, she's great. Very diligent, which can be a drawback since
she spent four hours cleaning my bathroom and kitchen. I had to stop her at
four hours because I am paying her by the hour. But that bathroom is spotless
and the kitchen shines. I'll have her start in the living room next time she's
scheduled. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Dennis. No, he's not dead.
Literally, I lost him. On Tuesday I dropped him off at his doctor's office for
an appointment. Around three in the afternoon I texted him, "Do you need
me to pick you up?" Crickets, no answer. At five I tried calling him, but
his phone went straight to voicemail. Then for the next three hours I kept
calling every half hour or so, and every time straight to voicemail. I was
getting worried about him. No doctor's office is still seeing patients at eight
in the evening. After checking the bushes in front of the house to see if maybe
he fell into them while coming up the stairs, I decided to call the hospital
emergency room by his doctor's office. "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh yes, Dennis is here in the waiting room. He's been here for four
hours.</i>" So relief and panic all rolled into one. HIPAA rules and his
phone taking me straight to voicemail meant that I had no idea why he was
there. Which is where he stayed for over thirty hours. Finally the next
evening, the dogs started going batshit and I looked out the window. Two men
were helping Dennis up the porch stairs. A taxi driver and a stranger who
helped pick Dennis up after he fell getting out of the taxi.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So, Dennis is fine, the dogs
are fine, and I surely hope my two sisters are/will be fine. Meanwhile the two
smallest dogs have staked out their sleeping positions on my bed, inches from my face. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-78994250578016483152023-11-26T14:21:00.000-06:002023-11-26T14:21:41.757-06:00Zombie Dog<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7HbRH7ZbWbSZYjTeWP5dlt2beI-TqkO64RPRPpdaJ0W_aWuqWBklMqVAmA546_k8iYEW6v6ESCOY8STRmhjBAGnE1ZiY3X0ksH8AkaB1zu5bZlhqS8E6nU-qpR0XX0ItOTOg6mwwtVmexngqYBCh_Lwh7HZSpAjgBJlVdvFddCO3-9dLYAZbLLZ36Cvx/s790/Scout%20with%20Chandler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="790" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7HbRH7ZbWbSZYjTeWP5dlt2beI-TqkO64RPRPpdaJ0W_aWuqWBklMqVAmA546_k8iYEW6v6ESCOY8STRmhjBAGnE1ZiY3X0ksH8AkaB1zu5bZlhqS8E6nU-qpR0XX0ItOTOg6mwwtVmexngqYBCh_Lwh7HZSpAjgBJlVdvFddCO3-9dLYAZbLLZ36Cvx/w640-h286/Scout%20with%20Chandler.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">This morning I Googled,
"<i>How long are dreams</i>?". I dream a lot and sometimes they seem to go
on for a long time. Google says, "Five to twenty minutes." Seems
about right. My craziest dreams used to come after watching episodes of The
Walking Dead earlier in the evening. If you don't know, it's a show about
zombies. To try and stop the bad dreams I would record The Walking Dead and
then watch it during the daytime. That didn't totally clear the dreams, so I stopped
watching it all together. I haven't watched it for a few of years now.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Last night I had what seemed
like an extended dream involving zombies. People I knew were turning into
zombies. Everybody was trying to bite me and turn me into a zombie. Worst of
all, I knew it was a dream and I couldn't wake up. If you ever watched The
Walking Dead, you know the growling sound the zombies make. That was what I
kept hearing in my dream, until I finally woke up. Next to my bed, in the dark,
was Scout. She was doing her "<i>I have to go out and poop</i>" growl while
staring up at me. It's a very low, almost inaudible growl, that is not meant to
scare. Only meant to let me know she has to poop. I can only assume she had
been sitting there for quite a while before I woke up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-91008321731948116852023-11-20T05:00:00.001-06:002023-11-20T05:00:00.148-06:00The Magic Chair<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonlQS9X_mOoQ1JPHoYPU9HltSUxKvK6_j8lQxP8l2TYYVODuy0YNJh3aQrJyq1G7InN6214W1fMNazhpobAjA-YaYl9-oJ5EBvpwNNLoygmCasBpMNDxOT0T5HCXZ7_4XAAGE9V_Ke7bj5iyF8Ga9OcR-d9fl1kRd5LfXpmCrZTObmLjyCckzMj_gbrNd/s703/Magic%20Chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="528" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonlQS9X_mOoQ1JPHoYPU9HltSUxKvK6_j8lQxP8l2TYYVODuy0YNJh3aQrJyq1G7InN6214W1fMNazhpobAjA-YaYl9-oJ5EBvpwNNLoygmCasBpMNDxOT0T5HCXZ7_4XAAGE9V_Ke7bj5iyF8Ga9OcR-d9fl1kRd5LfXpmCrZTObmLjyCckzMj_gbrNd/s320/Magic%20Chair.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When my grandfather was in
his eighties I would often stop over to visit when my delivery job took me
close by. If it was during the baseball season I would find Grandpa asleep in
his recliner chair with the television on very loud, and tuned to the Chicago
Cubs. Not that Grandpa was a big fan of the Cubs. He had the Cubs on because he
was a fan of naps in the middle of the day and the Cubs didn't play night games
back then. No sleeping pill could compete with the Cubs of the 1970s and a can
of Meister Brau Beer. The recliner chair helped too, I believe. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I'm not yet in my eighties,
but I do understand now how all that worked. I've owned a string of recliner
chairs over the last forty years. Some were cheap and some were expensive, often
they were uncomfortable. Then there were those giant fluffy things that seemed
to want to swallow you. Whatever, I like to recline when I watch television.
When my last one broke down, I went to the La-Z-Boy store and spent a lot of
money on a new recliner chair. It is like nothing I have ever experienced
before. I've had it for a year and a half now and it still feels like new. I
sit in that thing when my back hurts, and the hurt subsides. What I didn't
expect was what it would do for my napping. I sleep better in that chair than I
do in bed. The problem is that it puts me to sleep when I don't even want to
sleep. I will turn on a program, see the first few minutes, and then I find
myself opening my eyes to a completely different show. I won't even remember
closing my eyes. It's like magic, kind of like time travel. If it weren't for
DVR's I would miss a lot of shows. Also, if it weren't for the two dogs that
live with me I'd<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>probably never wake up.
They don't put up with this ignoring them shit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOOuzgW2zTEOSKdHMNt145hJsfJCgDy9P9GxptGcq6j1VdNwctktupnSSrzCGLnvcnOTLlFpUhgbJ_BhK8852S_7VNHq2NICf-O6CQBp8ukT_qd_8nzm0Gw7aXpcq2JRO0tIBnfoIdy2DbovtisTrucj-JMy1e5fMTd-NUXmrLqGcKEqyby0xqdBm2TLq/s718/Scout%20and%20Daisy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="718" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOOuzgW2zTEOSKdHMNt145hJsfJCgDy9P9GxptGcq6j1VdNwctktupnSSrzCGLnvcnOTLlFpUhgbJ_BhK8852S_7VNHq2NICf-O6CQBp8ukT_qd_8nzm0Gw7aXpcq2JRO0tIBnfoIdy2DbovtisTrucj-JMy1e5fMTd-NUXmrLqGcKEqyby0xqdBm2TLq/s320/Scout%20and%20Daisy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-6427399711941718602023-11-10T13:20:00.000-06:002023-11-10T13:20:34.911-06:00The Real Reason For the Time Change<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngxYnWFw5sHT3RWmmT9NDTIZTjxHEaiNBSk2-i0DPYZs8DkVJlIwiFyQzZ1iFwRvxs9AqTbAYn31TgO57BubLfqillsMAJuOkwGYh5t5dzgrqvdEpvDdzXWnXSqx9foJpOhZKOnylaHwuBDtP3rcR1GhvfD9lVaTfYXrImgk5KpNLn3OaVkuDEtWOFnq5/s495/bedroom%20before%20after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="495" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngxYnWFw5sHT3RWmmT9NDTIZTjxHEaiNBSk2-i0DPYZs8DkVJlIwiFyQzZ1iFwRvxs9AqTbAYn31TgO57BubLfqillsMAJuOkwGYh5t5dzgrqvdEpvDdzXWnXSqx9foJpOhZKOnylaHwuBDtP3rcR1GhvfD9lVaTfYXrImgk5KpNLn3OaVkuDEtWOFnq5/w640-h196/bedroom%20before%20after.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Day one of government
enforced sleep deprivation. At 4:00am on that morning, ten pounds of Daisy dog walked
across my mid-section and leaped to the floor of the bedroom landing next to
the other dog, Scout, sleeping on the rug. Scout then took up the cause, letting out the soft whining that she uses to wake me
up. Welcome to the world of the deep state, big brother, the conspiracy to ruin
my life. Time to fuck with time again. I'm not sure if it's a Republican conspiracy
or Democrat conspiracy to ruin an entire week for me. Probably just those
embedded, secret government bureaucrats trying to keep Americans from thinking
clearly. Yes, wake up sheeples. Haven't you noticed that it comes right before the November elections so you
vote in a fog?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">By 2:30pm on Sunday it was
already getting dark and the dogs started to remind me that they will need to
be fed at any minute now. Normal dinner time for the dogs is 4:30pm, with a
nice walk afterwards. Now, six days later, nothing has changed. I am still
awakened in the dark, early hours of the morning by a very insistent little fur
ball. Around 2:30 in the afternoon they both stand in front of my recliner
chair, staring at me, expecting to be fed and walked. Meanwhile, I am
constantly looking at clocks all day because I have no idea what time it is
either.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">All this is because some evil
beings, hidden deep within the halls of the government, want to screw with us
and the elections. You think I'm kidding? Just watch. They'll do it again next
year right before the Presidential elections. Then we'll all go to the polls and
vote for the wrong candidates, while those really in charge sit back and
giggle. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-65925554570895047062023-10-30T05:00:00.005-05:002023-10-30T05:00:00.140-05:00Daisy<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgVhqvI2MOzER6CjRTeI1A0rsOijeS9Z9BYWHhCelw-4l3T7gKLGJpV1PFklyp7jGRlohO7kYt3WdV893aCWBOelDZxQTDPyx8wm2TSih3VdAV36jLflDmIbjLNmvxDIF2Y319sD_lH53tXwdlS7SxNvkasb9MqnjUjKgzSq8CTwexYNPMx_9SJGuTrwn/s540/Daisy%2001-29-2023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="528" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgVhqvI2MOzER6CjRTeI1A0rsOijeS9Z9BYWHhCelw-4l3T7gKLGJpV1PFklyp7jGRlohO7kYt3WdV893aCWBOelDZxQTDPyx8wm2TSih3VdAV36jLflDmIbjLNmvxDIF2Y319sD_lH53tXwdlS7SxNvkasb9MqnjUjKgzSq8CTwexYNPMx_9SJGuTrwn/w391-h400/Daisy%2001-29-2023.jpg" width="391" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Grrrrrrr......</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">This is Daisy, my third
foster dog so far this year. She gets along really well with Scout, seems to
like me very much, and she has killed two rats so far in the back yard. I plan
to keep this one. No dog is perfect. Daisy has her flaws. The previous owner
had Daisy's DNA done and she is 49% Yorkshire Terrier, 49% Pomeranian, and 2%
Chihuahua. Yorkies are energetic and feisty. Chihuahuas are energetic, feisty,
and bold. Pomeranians are energetic, and like to spin in circles. What all those
breeds have in common is "energetic". Daisy is energetic, and she
spins in circles. In fact sometimes it's like living with a tiny, furry, crack head.
Ever since she got her first kill in the back yard it has become her favorite
place. She runs the entire perimeter of the yard along the fences checking for
rats, thus pointing out to me all the places rats enter and exit my yard. Not
too many are visiting anymore since Daisy took over. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Next week we have to go
through the stupid ritual of changing the time again. I am not looking forward
to that. Mostly because my dogs are very attuned to the schedule I keep. Up at
5:30am. Eat dinner at 5:00pm. At around 9:00pm I turn off the television and
lights in the living room, and move to the back of the house. If I don't do
that Scout will stand in front of my chair and stare at me, letting out an occasional little bark. Daisy has now joined her in that routine. I've been trying to get
them used to later times so that they'll be acclimated by next week when the
clocks get turned back. I don't want to be getting up at 4:30am and have Scout
telling me to turn off the television at 8:00pm. Seriously, if I don't get up
out of bed at the right time, Daisy just keeps walking on me until I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-2936394547478491142023-10-23T05:00:00.003-05:002023-10-23T05:00:00.144-05:00Nobody Died<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-p7ZjMZy3afpblA0AFR7cRbPYl3104kO0bvyqyutjbMNqgxw8h0ovYMqJhuAMw7aF3ZO369ihmfsSALB388fdqBUuMQYK513hNRW6c5mGVBFI9aoa0AJSa-BAqkKZ4yDmaTOdfjca4zDTfrYCF7jWDlBUYfag00FrNIoCgeDXLCNuLkNgQ0GW-S_lwgM/s689/DaveAlanfootball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="546" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-p7ZjMZy3afpblA0AFR7cRbPYl3104kO0bvyqyutjbMNqgxw8h0ovYMqJhuAMw7aF3ZO369ihmfsSALB388fdqBUuMQYK513hNRW6c5mGVBFI9aoa0AJSa-BAqkKZ4yDmaTOdfjca4zDTfrYCF7jWDlBUYfag00FrNIoCgeDXLCNuLkNgQ0GW-S_lwgM/w318-h400/DaveAlanfootball.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Me when I could still run... kind of.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Last Wednesday I was walking
Scout and Daisy around the block as we do twice every day. Down at Thorndale
Avenue there is a long stretch of grass between the street and the sidewalk
that they love to take their time investigating. I assume many dogs leave
messages in that grass for each other. That day I heard what I thought were
firecrackers going off over by the high school, which is half a block from that
street. It was not firecrackers, but three volleys of automatic gunfire. Within
seconds high school kids were running towards me, and right past me. One kid
across the street in a leg cast with a crutch, dropped the crutch and took off
running too. Meanwhile, my two dogs ignored it all and kept on smelling the grass,
picking up all the gossip of the day. I used to have a black lab named Molly
who would start shaking if she heard the barely audible pop of a firecracker
two miles away. Not Scout and Daisy, they acted like the hadn't heard
anything. I can't run anymore. So all this time I'm looking for a place to drag
the dogs and hide. There were no cars parked nearby that I could hide behind
and behind me was a long stretch of brick wall. So I just stood there waiting.
I did tighten up my grip on the dog leashes just in case I went down. Now before
anybody makes disparaging comments about Chicago and shootings, remember this
can happen anywhere. Guns are everywhere because the NRA and politicians have
made sure that they armed all the crazy people in our country. Murder is not
new, guns are not new. My grandfather was murdered with a gun in Chicago,
eighty one years ago. It is the easy access and the increased lethal capacity
that the NRA, the Supreme Court, and politicians have unleashed upon us that is
different.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Anyway, we all pooped right
after that. Scout and Daisy in the grass, me in my pants.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-17315502527649182912023-10-12T05:00:00.003-05:002023-10-12T05:00:00.150-05:00The New Neighbors<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvIh8UrGtSkTX6NbG69aYjJU0EYxBTHqR8vwgZeUeGJF4huFB3dciBrkQNaDIIra5zZkFee-Mgq7NqS-d4UO6aL6ndMC2Yzik2Rp15mnyt0KKkkawUMQH-FKnULHr5Bnstf2v7Qfhj6fX4K8hctc8XZ3yl_Ns59AHS6UmmW2QHd7cbOI1eXWgUfjbiJpA-/s1204/20231010_101326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="1204" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvIh8UrGtSkTX6NbG69aYjJU0EYxBTHqR8vwgZeUeGJF4huFB3dciBrkQNaDIIra5zZkFee-Mgq7NqS-d4UO6aL6ndMC2Yzik2Rp15mnyt0KKkkawUMQH-FKnULHr5Bnstf2v7Qfhj6fX4K8hctc8XZ3yl_Ns59AHS6UmmW2QHd7cbOI1eXWgUfjbiJpA-/w640-h374/20231010_101326.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dennis from upstairs, calls
me Gladys Kravitz. Only because I'm on the first floor and I can see everything
from my living room windows. Five big windows that let me see what's going on
from one end of the street to the other. Last week I noticed a beat up Jeep
Cherokee parked across the street from my house. Not only was it beat up, but
there always seemed to be trash scattered around it. I mentioned it to Dennis.
He suggested that maybe somebody is living in it. Sure enough, that very day I
saw a woman with a baby stroller going through the trash in the alley. Later I
saw that same stroller sitting behind the Jeep. So I kept an eye on it and I
then saw that there was a man too. Me being the good Gladys Kravitz, I decided
that I would go talk to them. Assuming that they were probably from another
country, probably from South or Central America, I brushed up on a few Spanish
words that I knew before going over there. It went like this.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The man was standing behind
the Jeep working on his bicycle. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Hello."<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">He responded. "Hello."
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Are you sleeping in the car?"</span></i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> I pointed to the Jeep.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Yes"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Okay, that's fine. Did you know this is permit
parking? If you park north of the alley you won't get a ticket."<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Okay."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"If you get too many tickets they'll tow your car
away."</span></i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Not that the city of
Chicago really enforces the permit parking around here. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Okay."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Just one more thing. Try not to leave trash on
the street or the parkway. It attracts rats."<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Okay."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I didn't have to use any of
my Spanglish. The next day, and the next day, the Jeep did not move. Also,
there was still trash showing up around it. I had hoped the guy would have
understood that I was only trying to help. Then I thought about it. He only
said three words to me. "Hello", "Yes", and
"Okay." Kind of like me speaking Spanish. "Sí", "Dónde",
and "Baño".<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-35476218578994959352023-10-05T05:00:00.008-05:002023-10-05T05:00:00.170-05:00Fondue You<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQD59nrRqkVFElQ1zwHOziK6DpohBaUJ-ZO5PCuUcpHT-s3WWWqmyltOnO75kl4IyNnXRpBuNiPhFTef6wSe_9kOmMtF7qv0UD6yRmdESpUs3qCRiOQ1tiqEpoZQRJpsGHhXQ6l5YzQiKkSLVYzzcZwqQF_LDyaxdNalGPBMHOjY-RQEieEKUfuwbdyxxz/s1006/rat%20poisen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="1006" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQD59nrRqkVFElQ1zwHOziK6DpohBaUJ-ZO5PCuUcpHT-s3WWWqmyltOnO75kl4IyNnXRpBuNiPhFTef6wSe_9kOmMtF7qv0UD6yRmdESpUs3qCRiOQ1tiqEpoZQRJpsGHhXQ6l5YzQiKkSLVYzzcZwqQF_LDyaxdNalGPBMHOjY-RQEieEKUfuwbdyxxz/w640-h480/rat%20poisen.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Delicious cheese wrapped Diphacinone balls for my guests</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-size: 14pt;">A somewhat well known
restaurant across the alley from my house permanently closed at the end of
July. It was a fondue restaurant, so I never tried it. I've never been a fan of
fondue. When I go out to eat, it is so somebody else will cook my food. I'm not
going to pay a restaurant for the privilege of cooking my own food. Next door
to the restaurant was an empty storefront office. Just about the time the
fondue place closed, somebody took a lease on the empty office and converted it
to a children's pre-school/daycare. Of course they had to gut the interior and
make it nice for the little children.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So right across the alley
there has been much upheaval and now I have a rat problem. I assume the rats
were living in the office building and dining next door at the restaurant's
garbage bins. I can see a rat trail come into my yard from that direction and
clearly see where they trampled down my wild flower garden to dig burrows under
my back porch. I put one of my security cameras under the porch just to get an
idea of what was going on. It was much worse than I even imagined. Overnight
there was a steady parade of rats. Small rats, medium sized rats, and one
giant, supersized rat. The giant rat is at least six inches tall at the
shoulders and ten inches long not counting the tail. I ran to the hardware
store and bought all sort of rat traps. Sticky boards, snap traps, and poison.
I baited the sticky boards and laid them across the rat trail. The rats just
turned them over and used them as little bridges. I used peanut butter on the snap
trap. The first night the rats ate the peanut butter without triggering the
trap. The second night, they broke it. Nothing was caught. I then went on line
and bought an electric trap that guaranteed sixty dead rats in no time by electrocution.
On my security camera I could see the rats just walk on by my thirty four
dollar rat trap. A couple of them even walked right up to the camera and posed
in front of it. I also called the City of Chicago. They came out and put poison
in the burrows. It was all gone within hours and the burrows were even larger.
My last try in the war on rats involves little marble sized balls of poison.
The package says the rats will die within five days after eating it. If they eat it. They won't
even look at the stuff. So a few days ago I took the little marble sized balls
and wrapped them in Kraft singles 'cheese'. The cheese balls were a hit with the rats. They
devoured that stuff. For three nights in a row I have served them up and the
rats have had a nice cheese and wine party under my porch. I'll give the poison
another couple of days, but I better start smelling dead rat soon because my
next option will be, sell the house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-31025180222948743622023-09-21T05:00:00.001-05:002023-09-21T05:00:00.137-05:00Sometimes I Drive Too Fast<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZpuUp8ECt_V81pLAqeGZQ6baliXMT1jcHL-1QEt-fnuuXc6s-a8HQ171ucpOo5Wf5n2aDLAUBADsbZWj-hGijpSEzWsT_eGjNH7S32_-6JSP7M7qEL6Bz9ktfoHa8FBmU3-djT63kxtljBsPx6pJBmo_0klQV-w-iQsIzb36r4kuct2-7Vh-F90j6ZwR/s1240/speed%20photo_000496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="1240" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZpuUp8ECt_V81pLAqeGZQ6baliXMT1jcHL-1QEt-fnuuXc6s-a8HQ171ucpOo5Wf5n2aDLAUBADsbZWj-hGijpSEzWsT_eGjNH7S32_-6JSP7M7qEL6Bz9ktfoHa8FBmU3-djT63kxtljBsPx6pJBmo_0klQV-w-iQsIzb36r4kuct2-7Vh-F90j6ZwR/w640-h258/speed%20photo_000496.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Richard M Daley is probably
the worst mayor Chicago ever had. He sold off the parking meters for one
billion dollars. Actually a seventy five year lease that will return the
company that got the lease well over five time that much money. Then Daley sold
off the Chicago Skyway, a toll/expressway/bridge that is a shortcut to Indiana.
Once again, a bad deal for Chicago because the people who now control it can
raise the tolls to whatever the hell they want. Daley also sold off the parking
garages under Grant Park downtown. In each of these cases the city would have
made many times more money than the purchase price of the leases if they had
kept control. What cost a quarter to park on the street now costs two and a
half dollars. The toll to Indiana was two dollars. It is now six dollars and
sixty cents. I'm not sure how much it costs to park under Grant Park, but I'll
bet it isn't cheap. Oh, and Daley spent all that money immediately while he was
in office. One more thing, the city is riddled with empty lots. Lots where
houses and businesses used to sit, now empty and not returning any real estate
tax money. Finding a way to improve those neighborhoods apparently just didn't
sit well with the politicians. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I like to drive fast. Not all
the time, it is inappropriate sometimes. But on the expressways, especially the
Dan Ryan, I like to drive fast. Unfortunately, the City of Chicago realized the
they could make a lot of money off of my driving. Before Lori Lightfoot the
previous mayor of Chicago left office, she dropped the grace speed on speed trap cameras so
she could meet her budget. Ever since, I have been a regular contributor to city
funds. This is over and above my property tax, ten and a half percent sales tax, and
parking in front of my favorite bars. Hey, this last ticket was because
the green light was about to turn red, so I sped up to catch the green. Think about all the fuel I saved and
exhaust that wasn't pumped into the air by sitting waiting for the light to
turn green again. I'm very eco-friendly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-86928200393282396872023-09-15T05:00:00.005-05:002023-09-15T05:00:00.143-05:00Daisy, Daisy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSN_kwyiV3xslKe79-ZUEWImiozjnG4AbD3f6mN626zh9t9AM346S56frwM7_X9XG2gRTZKb_QRr1vjC577qGcvp9n34ral2Zg4HB-c7ypQqOrjKA7mTx1JqU6T0c0I-zs-oZw1DOpod51TaGxEM_qRqv83Zi4ustgB1GdsmnEcUvF-PgzhR6-3CCwrzz/s1024/HAL-9000.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="1024" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSN_kwyiV3xslKe79-ZUEWImiozjnG4AbD3f6mN626zh9t9AM346S56frwM7_X9XG2gRTZKb_QRr1vjC577qGcvp9n34ral2Zg4HB-c7ypQqOrjKA7mTx1JqU6T0c0I-zs-oZw1DOpod51TaGxEM_qRqv83Zi4ustgB1GdsmnEcUvF-PgzhR6-3CCwrzz/w400-h156/HAL-9000.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When I hear the name, Daisy,
I think of the HAL 9000 computer in '<i>2001, A Space Odyssey</i>' singing the song.
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. But this is not about HAL 9000 or the
song. It's about a dog. On Saturday a small dog named Daisy should be coming to
stay with me and Scout. Yes, another foster dog. Her present foster mom brought
her by last Saturday to see how she'd get along with Scout. They got along just
fine. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">A lot of people ask me how I
can do that, foster dogs without falling in love with them. I can't. I do fall
in love with them. I look at it like this, Bucky had a very happy time while he
was with me. He became a star in our neighborhood almost immediately, hopping
around on those three legs. We walked twice a day until he couldn't walk
anymore. Yes I was sad when he passed away from the cancer, but I knew all
about that going in. After Bucky there was Cricket. Never a sweeter dog in the
world than that little terrier. A real cuddly love bug who went to a very nice
couple. Once again, I knew going in that Cricket was already adopted and I was
only a short stopover until her new family was ready. She now has the undivided
attention of her new human mom and dad. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So now I'm getting Daisy to
foster. She's small, about one fourth the size of Scout. She's also a bit older
than Scout. Mature is the word. At least she has all four legs and hasn't been
already taken for adoption. So if I fail at being a foster father to her by
adopting her myself, all will be fine. Because I'm half crazy, just like in the
song.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYO4dzz1RfsOrJBntYvhR94R2MA124xTsz2m6foMCwCgiWspulYEE7syjv8nzVT5TPOKVp1W31NxypUnE-W1gG5ejNBvAOCwh38G_4SZ9UFeUF4zCu5MkIWoavrgMiYam9NpKv9r_-lIRyDZEZ-_zGzMp_h6en70rrQhH3JL94Wbz9KE6-IEgdCBc7EnF/s948/Daisy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="948" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYO4dzz1RfsOrJBntYvhR94R2MA124xTsz2m6foMCwCgiWspulYEE7syjv8nzVT5TPOKVp1W31NxypUnE-W1gG5ejNBvAOCwh38G_4SZ9UFeUF4zCu5MkIWoavrgMiYam9NpKv9r_-lIRyDZEZ-_zGzMp_h6en70rrQhH3JL94Wbz9KE6-IEgdCBc7EnF/w400-h170/Daisy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Daisy</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-37445706194611907552023-09-06T05:00:00.004-05:002023-09-06T05:00:00.143-05:00The Heartbreak of AOGS<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDSVE4LNdUbsAig-m5f7Jjs8lXagZr5aNM5SY--qf0yPniMktBHi9XSI87XMyOY1XItgdsABqjIRnGB_EDJZGrHMo-V0do9BQv1DIGqHDir1HVk1iqYCnwnPlVgR1wIzRRgJrezpFQYZD2YAIYut0KcUZgrR6QJNsLdGWiYe12VrMSzpXVRBnxo1MggZG/s540/im-a-grumpy-old-man-grumpy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDSVE4LNdUbsAig-m5f7Jjs8lXagZr5aNM5SY--qf0yPniMktBHi9XSI87XMyOY1XItgdsABqjIRnGB_EDJZGrHMo-V0do9BQv1DIGqHDir1HVk1iqYCnwnPlVgR1wIzRRgJrezpFQYZD2YAIYut0KcUZgrR6QJNsLdGWiYe12VrMSzpXVRBnxo1MggZG/w400-h266/im-a-grumpy-old-man-grumpy.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br />Angry Old Guy/Gal Syndrome. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The other day I was walking
Scout and at the intersection where we cross to take our 'long' walk, a car
whizzed through without stopping. There is a large red octagon made out of
metal at that corner, and it says 'STOP'. Not, slow down. Not, speed right on
through. Not, gently roll through and hope you don't hit somebody. It clearly
says 'STOP'. So I did the right thing and screamed "Asshole" at the
guy as he disappeared down Thorndale Avenue. His windows were all down, so
there is a chance he heard me. However, this being Chicago. This being the
United States. There is a good chance that asshole could be driving around with
anger issues and a loaded gun. Also, I know better. A couple of summers ago the
guy across the street took it upon himself to scream at all the assholes who
sped down our street. At one point he ran after a car and threw something at
it. It didn't work. It only got him into a very dangerous argument with
possibly, a very dangerous asshole. Cars still speed down our street. Just
today a UPS truck flew by the house, at least ten MPH above the limit followed
closely by a woman in a small gray car. I think she was trying to pass him. We
live on a very narrow street.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">There is an old guy around
the corner on Washtenaw Avenue who once yelled at me while I was walking Scout.
He told me that the tree in front of his house died because Scout peed on it.
The tree was old and very tall. Probably forty feet high. I think it just got
tired of listening to that old guy. Scout still pees there. I think she's
leaving her condolences to the tree.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Anger is a very bad emotion.
It doesn't do anybody, any good, ever. People charge into wars because they're
angry. People get killed every day because somebody is angry. So much of what
is bad about human life is caused by anger. I should not have let the car that
ran through the stop sign rile me up. There's not a thing I could do about it.
I have called the police and told them about the cars going through that stop
sign. The cop on the phone at the local precinct was very respectful and
promised to let the proper people know. I'm sure he hung up, took a sip of
coffee, and a bite out of a donut, then answered the next call.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So I now have a new outlook
on things. If I can't actually make a difference, fuck it. Screaming at
speeding cars will never slow them down. The police are very busy with assholes
shooting each other, so I won't bother them with minor details. Oh, and I also
stopped watching MSNBC. They market in anger. Just like Fox News, they market
in rage. I know, MSNBC mostly uses facts while Fox twists facts then tells you
a lie, but they both are doing the same thing. Getting people enraged over
things they cannot control. I can vote, and I do. That is my responsibility.
Hating people, neighbors, politicians, gets me nowhere. I vote and I trust my
vote is counted. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">By the way. On Monday I went
to a cookout at a friend's house. Afterwards, when I returned to my car in the
parking lot to leave, a big pile of steaming human poop was sitting next to my
car. Right next to the driver's side door. I stepped over it, and got in. I
could have got angry, but there was not a thing I could do about it. No matter
how angry it could make me, it would still be there after I drove away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-46335234120024807472023-08-31T05:00:00.003-05:002023-08-31T05:00:00.143-05:00What I Did Over My Summer Vacation<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdW0aDrFBe-Y655IEiSvaaZz5rRMb2TIJ0_oKZ6IYs7n3n8_YembhbQvp8EpKTdAmqVmFbn6TwG0W8igVZf38Cr7D0xEerHeEs-LqJAEPMnVzyRR0R8LmiPj2SavXfXeaGog9rve5z0qMQr9gMT0deu-gDxBLF6XYGzM8S_-7o-W88RUEkB4PWXI3htD9/s800/composite_16933412583378.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="691" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdW0aDrFBe-Y655IEiSvaaZz5rRMb2TIJ0_oKZ6IYs7n3n8_YembhbQvp8EpKTdAmqVmFbn6TwG0W8igVZf38Cr7D0xEerHeEs-LqJAEPMnVzyRR0R8LmiPj2SavXfXeaGog9rve5z0qMQr9gMT0deu-gDxBLF6XYGzM8S_-7o-W88RUEkB4PWXI3htD9/w345-h400/composite_16933412583378.jpg" width="345" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>All those films in the upper photo, are now on one thumb drive</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I'm seventy three years old
and I still get a bit melancholy at this time of year. Summer is over and next
Tuesday I will have to go back to school. Not really, but those feelings still
come back. I did not like school. One thing some teachers did to welcome you
back was to immediately give you an assignment. Write an essay about what you
did over your summer vacation. I suppose that was to drive home the fact that the
good times were over and for the next nine months it would be dreary work, in school
and for homework. Anyway, here is my essay about my summer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">There were three dogs besides
Scout. Bucky, Cricket, and Eddie. Bucky was a three legged dog with cancer who
passed away soon after I started fostering him. I still cry when I look at the
photos of him. Cricket was a sweetheart. Fostering her was pure love. Maybe too
much love. Scout seemed just a bit perturbed that Cricket spent so much time in my
lap and sleeping in my bed. Cricket found a great home with somebody who will
give her that undivided attention she craved. Then there is Eddie. I did not
foster Eddie, Eddie is just a fun old friend who I get to babysit while his
daddies are on vacation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Way back in April I picked up
two boxes of 8mm movies from my uncle. Around one hundred and fifty, three
minute rolls of movie film from around 1960 until 1982. My job was to convert
them to mp4 digital files. I just finished the last one on Sunday. It kept me
busy, and was educational. That's because the movies were full of my cousins,
who I never really knew very well. After all, I was at least thirteen years
older than the oldest of my uncle's children. So while they were having
vacations, first communions, little league games, and birthday parties, I was living
in hippie communes, hanging out in gay bars, and moving around a lot. Now I
feel like I know that part of the family like I never did before. They seemed
to be really great kids. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I also finished another
summer task only yesterday. I repainted the wheels for my 1929 Ford Model A. They
look fantastic, considering I did it my way. No sandblasting of the old paint.
No powder coated paint job for me. I didn't even take the tires off the wheels.
Just two spray cans of 'Roasted Corn' yellow paint from Home Depot, and a
fitted bed sheet to keep the overspray off the tires. Anyway,
like I said, the wheels look fantastic... as long as you're ten feet away. At
least ten feet away. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So that was my summer. Now,
bring on autumn, dead leaves, Halloween, and dark evenings.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftuaqAPOZPv6EeNMahCEqh4STdwACIXGqCayQO3uX7fz8Bwkp1APK4u8UpwcoIdzaSqkOJvp_Hg3myUt8BqcS5A990ge--q32IIZwwsU5hOyL6rw6Au2AXBbOmTANGxDdnQFFGndyBmRgWj-7_Mf7CF50ZqzLOdc12zxQZaLyGreludTVe3rus4N-YkF2/s938/20230804_123421.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="938" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftuaqAPOZPv6EeNMahCEqh4STdwACIXGqCayQO3uX7fz8Bwkp1APK4u8UpwcoIdzaSqkOJvp_Hg3myUt8BqcS5A990ge--q32IIZwwsU5hOyL6rw6Au2AXBbOmTANGxDdnQFFGndyBmRgWj-7_Mf7CF50ZqzLOdc12zxQZaLyGreludTVe3rus4N-YkF2/w400-h300/20230804_123421.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-76298709188294955132023-08-14T05:00:00.002-05:002023-08-14T05:00:00.145-05:00Trees <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjP72sHTqJo0Idyb8TJqCT1OCtdudM_aYGdHtH-dn_27DyztD6fzlY5_aMt7R_uqnIT5pXvOG2R1dhh5HYYD1JDVQSV0nynFugtnBgpXYfG_w42gW4ZFncDxgH1Y3IwDWMT_6NcrFeMcgaDQPX2V6LqaPvAM2wCappbxHdspMaALawd2qSr9lr5fFn-Wvs/s696/composite_16919759033048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="696" data-original-width="487" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjP72sHTqJo0Idyb8TJqCT1OCtdudM_aYGdHtH-dn_27DyztD6fzlY5_aMt7R_uqnIT5pXvOG2R1dhh5HYYD1JDVQSV0nynFugtnBgpXYfG_w42gW4ZFncDxgH1Y3IwDWMT_6NcrFeMcgaDQPX2V6LqaPvAM2wCappbxHdspMaALawd2qSr9lr5fFn-Wvs/w280-h400/composite_16919759033048.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">This is my eighth summer in
this house. When I bought the place there were no trees in the yard. Not in the
back, not in the front. No shrubs, no flowers, just grass and a chain link
fence. The dogs loved the wide open spaces, but I was not brought up that way.
My mom and dad filled our muddy yard in the summer of 1950 with trees and
bushes. Five apple trees, two or three... maybe four elm trees. A dogwood tree,
poplar trees, and rows of lilac bushes. The trees grew as I grew and before
long we were living in a little forested yard. Oh, and the weeping willow tree.
We had one of those too, which was fun to climb but full of bugs. So starting
in 2016, the first summer here in this house, I started to plant trees and
shrubs. Not as many as my mom and dad planted, but enough to already give us
shade in the backyard. Out front, the maple tree is as tall as the building and
the Japanese maple has filled out nicely. The thing is that trees attract
birds. We get a lot of birds hanging around now. So many that Scout doesn't
even chase them anymore. Squirrels yes, but not the birds. As much as I love
the birds and the trees there is only one drawback. That's what the umbrella is
for. It usually catches most of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLwH4z6YD5sIWCLE2mkfDL_zNCBDkAUQm3jt913zXTg8a_W479GAj_YK7__oEWjuAymd5n8L5QPHQeaoZIYLTy8F8vKvZUV_5fdasNhTsjbFy3rslTj6dksYuxtNP9FlrsdEyhg8LXsFL2nfsW5LRvlXKVDkFUtO6k2MPzHn-On8B8fakaeyqTCdFI9DM/s246/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="205" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLwH4z6YD5sIWCLE2mkfDL_zNCBDkAUQm3jt913zXTg8a_W479GAj_YK7__oEWjuAymd5n8L5QPHQeaoZIYLTy8F8vKvZUV_5fdasNhTsjbFy3rslTj6dksYuxtNP9FlrsdEyhg8LXsFL2nfsW5LRvlXKVDkFUtO6k2MPzHn-On8B8fakaeyqTCdFI9DM/w167-h200/download.jpg" width="167" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-42967337010822419282023-07-28T05:00:00.011-05:002023-07-28T07:46:40.301-05:00Dad Always Said, "Pee Before We Leave"<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs3iYn1OSnczaupapRdX3AOKn-y-UHzTlLOh5EYlCsju5tbeJc6oX2QGWDbguP0lEFerJvJJLoxyN3Jbk43WB_ZZjGAwZVfteIZf3vPkwNTT24w9rhBgy1YBLfLzUIye4S_xLEAPP69G0i7EFh2IbG1-O4ubPP3sVPa6aspJ86O1Dbr6PfPO1v14SHiZHD/s876/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="876" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs3iYn1OSnczaupapRdX3AOKn-y-UHzTlLOh5EYlCsju5tbeJc6oX2QGWDbguP0lEFerJvJJLoxyN3Jbk43WB_ZZjGAwZVfteIZf3vPkwNTT24w9rhBgy1YBLfLzUIye4S_xLEAPP69G0i7EFh2IbG1-O4ubPP3sVPa6aspJ86O1Dbr6PfPO1v14SHiZHD/w640-h420/Untitled.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Here in the Chicago area they
have these stores called Menards. When I moved away in 1989 there weren't any.
When I moved back in 2016 they were a big thing. A big thing in more than just them
being everywhere. The actual stores are gigantic. They're about the size of two
football fields side by side. Along the same lines as Home Depot and Lowes, but
more. They sell hardware and lumber, also clothing, food, furniture, and
probably a lot more only I've never been through the entire place. It's like
trying to see the Louvre in one visit. Anyway, I went to Menards on Tuesday
and it brought up two problems that I've always had.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When I walked in the place I
was overwhelmed to the point of forgetting most of what I had wanted to buy.
Just the massiveness of the place put me so in awe that it wiped my brain
clean. Also, I had to pee really bad. I had peed before I left the house
knowing the tendency of my bladder to fill rapidly. I don't know why, but when
I get in the car every bit of liquid in my body starts racing to the bladder.
So I peed at home, peed at Menards, and in a final insult from my bladder, I
had to pee by the time I returned home. All this was within about an hour and
fifteen minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">You might think this is all
caused by old age. I don't think it is. I've always had problems remembering
things, like shopping lists, people's names, what I did yesterday, and I've
always had a weak bladder. In fact I got arrested one night in Henry County,
Illinois for pulling over on a country road and peeing next to the car. I have
no idea what the cop was doing parked in the bushes with his lights off only a
few feet away. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-37916627394078761582023-07-19T05:00:00.006-05:002023-07-19T06:43:36.759-05:00Screw It<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-kItqTvi2PHQJ6gJLHa7Lu7IDoE0zGm-7eO8AN1UQZ2kzs4pdlviFHO0B_cMS6YKDEkOsuDv6vN0eZ0j8HspOBsJ46PbC16cLJf1I73HpzLVQTTfUK0a8UleTO2QPlOa84Da1cja7QnV00hHE4Um7j0aXS6UzvYpVcqbMO_sDTbxw5EsWjGTz-ZZ2LHQy/s1280/714M+Tzjy2L.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="1280" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-kItqTvi2PHQJ6gJLHa7Lu7IDoE0zGm-7eO8AN1UQZ2kzs4pdlviFHO0B_cMS6YKDEkOsuDv6vN0eZ0j8HspOBsJ46PbC16cLJf1I73HpzLVQTTfUK0a8UleTO2QPlOa84Da1cja7QnV00hHE4Um7j0aXS6UzvYpVcqbMO_sDTbxw5EsWjGTz-ZZ2LHQy/w640-h216/714M+Tzjy2L.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Just in case you don't know,
a lag bolt is a large screw-in bolt used for putting two large pieces of wood
together. I need three of them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The other day I drove up to
the big blue hardware store to buy some plants. Sadly, the heavy rains we had
over the past few weeks drowned some of my flowers to the point of killing
them. Because we're months into the growing season, I assumed the big box
hardware stores would have some bargains. They didn't, their plants seemed a
bit over priced. I put three large pots of flowers into my basket anyway because
I'm lazy and didn't want to drive all over looking for cheaper stuff. Also,
while I was there, I went over to the nut and bolt aisle for those three lag
bolts I need. In a little drawer marked 3/8 x 6, I found a jumbled mess of
different sized lag bolts along with a few regular bolts. After digging around
I got the three I needed and headed for the checkout. One more fact you need to
know before I go on. The bolts had no labels on them. No markings, no prices. I
had looked for an employee to see if they had little bags and a pencil like
real hardware stores have, but there wasn't one anywhere near nuts and bolts. I
pushed my cart up to the row of checkout counters. They were all closed. Down
at the end were four self-check counters with two of those closed. I know they
were closed because the only employee near the checkout counters told me,
"Thems closed." I then handed her the three unmarked lag bolts, told
her what the price was on the little drawer, and asked her to ring them up for
me. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, she walked over to one of the regular
old fashioned checkout counters and picked up the phone. Over the store loudspeakers
I heard, "I need an associate from hardware at the checkout." Minutes
later a slow moving old guy showed up. I was still standing over in the
self-check area waiting as the old guy slowly walked back past me holding the
three bolts. As he disappeared off into the bowels of the big blue hardware
store you could hear my voice nearly as loud as the checkout lady's voice was
over the loudspeakers. "Oh, hell no." as I walked out the door,
leaving my cart with the plants behind. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-36466092053789965352023-07-10T05:00:00.001-05:002023-07-10T05:00:00.135-05:00Cricket Has Left the Building<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNF_eOORrTtQ0aRBEFqC6nBuhtQAQPHx-qGDCntPhUnmZyu-q6sekJ4rKiSXFGzlIF-h-p-BS8YLO_io9C5EwX-U4MZ9_QacgyqldnamHCFWnIVG51_ijuuiAG9VnWlwvN8wwt8tx9jxwthmLfIwQetYs0kn56lAfe7CBNh3SXM3_e6WWTR0Kg9eCbd-cU/s761/IMG_3768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="761" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNF_eOORrTtQ0aRBEFqC6nBuhtQAQPHx-qGDCntPhUnmZyu-q6sekJ4rKiSXFGzlIF-h-p-BS8YLO_io9C5EwX-U4MZ9_QacgyqldnamHCFWnIVG51_ijuuiAG9VnWlwvN8wwt8tx9jxwthmLfIwQetYs0kn56lAfe7CBNh3SXM3_e6WWTR0Kg9eCbd-cU/w400-h318/IMG_3768.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Cricket</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When Chandler passed away
over a year ago, it seemed that Scout missed him. Maybe I was just projecting
my feelings of sadness. I don't know because Scout doesn't speak English and
can't tell me how she feels. To address this feeling I contacted the rescue
that gave me Scout. I let the lady who runs the show around here know that I
would be open to adopting another dog. Maybe a dog around Scout's age that she
could bond with. Shell, the lady in charge, told me she would keep an eye out
for the appropriate pup. I heard nothing for months and then I saw a post on
the Cairn Terrier Rescue, Facebook page. Shell was looking for somebody to
transport a dog from downtown Chicago, to St. Charles, Illinois. I volunteered.
That was Bucky, the three legged dog that I had here for two months. Yes, after
Bucky got his leg amputated at the vet in St. Charles, I volunteered to foster
him. Sadly, the cancer that required the amputation finally took Bucky. A few
weeks later I again volunteered to foster a dog. This was Cricket. One of the
sweetest, most affectionate dogs I have ever come across. And she is smart.
Within one week I had taught Cricket to 'come' and 'sit'. She also learned from
Scout that when I say wait at a crosswalk, it is time to stop walking. The
biggest problem with Cricket is that she needs your one hundred percent
attention. She wants to be with you, on you, and to sleep with you. It's all
about Cricket. This, unfortunately, seemed to bother Scout. She wasn't getting
her share of my attention, and as much as I tried to make sure that happened,
Cricket hogged the show. Again, I may have been projecting my feelings onto
Scout. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">On Sunday I took Cricket to
her forever home out in Coal City, Illinois. I knew from the start that she was
already adopted and that after two weeks she would be leaving. Still, it was
difficult. I have taken in strays before and found homes for them, but these
last two, Bucky and Cricket, really got to me. Watching Cricket sitting at the
front door of her new home, staring out at me as I drove away was not easy. It
was for the best. Best for her and best for the elderly couple who adopted her. It was also good for Scout. She now gets to sit on my lap again.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrBg-4O-08gyYJKFT6rPQxF2HnZayOytZw76bUsjb0kg6rfA-jsxKf0N9-BopB9u4VP3okCwVjDEb395Iz3Sjh_XNGj0sR454W5_S9TmvDu-Bv0FEc14xlml4RF8hxqWr67ULFD_GpMq8sXrHQTQqHzsCdCR-xYoj0CUDt2ebAc_8wsW2C-Nt26CMEnjS/s949/20230709_155034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="949" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrBg-4O-08gyYJKFT6rPQxF2HnZayOytZw76bUsjb0kg6rfA-jsxKf0N9-BopB9u4VP3okCwVjDEb395Iz3Sjh_XNGj0sR454W5_S9TmvDu-Bv0FEc14xlml4RF8hxqWr67ULFD_GpMq8sXrHQTQqHzsCdCR-xYoj0CUDt2ebAc_8wsW2C-Nt26CMEnjS/w400-h259/20230709_155034.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Scout the lap dog</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-48451109409840669092023-06-22T05:00:00.002-05:002023-06-22T05:00:00.141-05:00Tommy, it was a gas<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-TdyD-Htqo4z3kVsByynj2sRfhIi-rWgJh3bXHfFbVbRnaK7IJ4PBPHv4ko5s2hKpfHY7L0z_52ShXjrihrvAj05ffMvfuG_oYCsLv12fCtz96MpPA46O_GPKN0bx-hX1wS3IRcq9c2RUVZuD7gUQrwgnzpWSQj3H3UeGVNOi-B2Yb5zDNi3JMkFWfcC/s750/D7vOxlkXkAAkLBV%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="750" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-TdyD-Htqo4z3kVsByynj2sRfhIi-rWgJh3bXHfFbVbRnaK7IJ4PBPHv4ko5s2hKpfHY7L0z_52ShXjrihrvAj05ffMvfuG_oYCsLv12fCtz96MpPA46O_GPKN0bx-hX1wS3IRcq9c2RUVZuD7gUQrwgnzpWSQj3H3UeGVNOi-B2Yb5zDNi3JMkFWfcC/w640-h438/D7vOxlkXkAAkLBV%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In May of 1969, I drove into
the city, to the Uptown neighborhood. I was going to the Kinetic Playground, a
small music venue, to see The Who. I believe it cost me five dollars to get in.
No reserved seating, no seating at all except on the floor. The opening act was
some strange guy named Joe Cocker. I had never heard of him and watching him
for the first time while high on LSD was an experience. Anyway, I was looking
forward to having my ears blown out by Magic Bus, and My Generation. Instead,
The Who played their new album, Tommy from beginning to end. They did do Magic
Bus for an encore, so I wasn't too disappointed. The thing is I had never heard
Tommy before that night. As I stated, I was tripping my ass off and didn't even
realize all those songs made one cohesive story. So, I was high on drugs,
sitting on the floor of the Kinetic Playground, listening to the rock opera
Tommy. I was young and happy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Last Sunday my good friend
Chuck invited me to lunch and a show at the Goodman Theater. The show was
Tommy, an adaptation of the Who's famous album. Lunch was good. I didn't eat
much and didn't drink anything other than a cup of coffee. The show was very
good. For the first time in fifty four years I finally understood the whole
album. Not just that a kid was deaf, dumb, and blind, and was being molested by
Uncle Ernie. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">There was just one problem
with going to lunch and the theater. I'm not young anymore. After I eat, things
happen. I find that I have to pee every thirty minutes and I get gassy. About
five minutes into the show I started feeling the pressure. Not only that, but
at my age sitting in a theater chair is uncomfortable. I need my Lay-Z-Boy
recliner. Twenty minutes in, and I really had to pee but our seats were at the
end of a row jammed up against the wall. So I hung on for the entire first act,
about an hour or more. At intermission I trampled everybody while rushing to
the rest room, and managed to get a good urinal. I proceeded to pee for about
five minutes. When I was done, there was a long line stretching out the door of
the restroom. By the time I walked by the end of that line, I rejoined it and
peed again. Then, just to make things exciting, on my way out of the place I
farted. Didn't need that stewing in my gut for the second act. Which I might
say, was excellent.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-65433579936592239652023-06-16T05:00:00.022-05:002023-06-16T08:25:40.444-05:00G.O.A.T<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1w3uQHzABw_1dMH-RH1_BVpik-_R87y68I1LT3IIpOHc_qbvjoeKtqiEMHgYgvjIGWntzRCY582qf_dI4ulDvHMNWXMZajurA7DpFjVxQokB-Pj58A5LidE5dqWnKZrhU8FcZZou5BjE3VR-COBKmMGxRnyV3_Opu1gphaPiYBWdHa8lnUq9epUlPw/s805/store.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="805" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1w3uQHzABw_1dMH-RH1_BVpik-_R87y68I1LT3IIpOHc_qbvjoeKtqiEMHgYgvjIGWntzRCY582qf_dI4ulDvHMNWXMZajurA7DpFjVxQokB-Pj58A5LidE5dqWnKZrhU8FcZZou5BjE3VR-COBKmMGxRnyV3_Opu1gphaPiYBWdHa8lnUq9epUlPw/w640-h356/store.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When I start my day, there
are three things I need before the 'day' actually begins. Feed and walk the
dog <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(That's one thing, taking care of
Scout).</i> Second, I have coffee. The final thing, and most important for
making a new day, is my shower. Until I get my shower it is still last night.
It is still me laying in bed, unwashed with yesterday all over me. Everything
that comes before or after the shower is extra. Breakfast, my morning poop,
watching the WGN morning news, all just extra good stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Usually, on Wednesday, I go
grocery shopping. I like to go around ten in the morning when the store is not
very crowded. When employees out number customers. It's a good time and the
lady behind the service desk knows me. That's because I usually find a mistake
on my receipt and I immediately scuttle over to see her. It's like a game for
me. Find the mistake, and don't be wrong. If there is a real mistake and she
has to refund some money, I smile. If I'm wrong, and she points out the fine
print on the coupon, she smiles. Anyway, that's not the point of this post. The
point here is that before I went shopping on Wednesday, I took a shower. I used soap, I shaved, and I used deodorant. Yet almost every
single time I go shopping, there<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is some
old fart walking around smelling like a goat. You know he's there before you
even see him. The aroma lingers in the aisle so you know that when you turn the
corner, he'll be there. Smelling like a fucking goat. Gross, Old, AnTique. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-42642984565656823572023-06-12T05:00:00.007-05:002023-06-12T05:00:00.133-05:00Memories, Cobwebs in the Corners of My Mind....<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLdlSoSMjq_X_-MaamssUFaKZF0OmRld_WpDpjJpun4cO5iWKIra3e7T5UkmY7nYCZTdxMkIrWGXqXdWVlDCsEd3PNyUWhvGB1FeyOa9PoQfsepID-qg59zIdB9w9auvXevVeb-pN8Q7P5PCO6YyBA8Qi9uZdqNF_On7Kd31PbnIO2TSxySrkPU2qRg/s1059/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="1059" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLdlSoSMjq_X_-MaamssUFaKZF0OmRld_WpDpjJpun4cO5iWKIra3e7T5UkmY7nYCZTdxMkIrWGXqXdWVlDCsEd3PNyUWhvGB1FeyOa9PoQfsepID-qg59zIdB9w9auvXevVeb-pN8Q7P5PCO6YyBA8Qi9uZdqNF_On7Kd31PbnIO2TSxySrkPU2qRg/w640-h218/Untitled.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I have a terrible memory, always have. I have to
read and re-read things because I often forget what I just read. This goes all
the way back to grade school, where the nuns and other teachers would tell my
parents, "If Alan would only apply himself." Now that I have found
myself on the ugly side of seventy, my memory seems to be getting just a little
worse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Last week I was moving stuff
around on my dining room table <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(I use it
for much more than just dining these days) </i>and I came across a bit of paper
from the Chicago City Clerk's Office. It was about renewing the tax tag for my
1929 Ford. I can purchase one for my 2014 Ford on line, but not for an antique
car according to the city web site. It said that I would have to go in person
to the clerk's office. So that's what I did. I even drove the 1929 Ford to the
office on Gale Street. What I found was a long line and no parking anywhere
near the clerk's office. So I turned around and went home. On Thursday I tried
again, only earlier in the day and I drove the 2014 Ford. This time there was a
parking spot right next to the building and the line of people waiting only
stretched about ten feet out the door. I got in line with the rest of the
cattle and slowly shuffled my way until I was first in line. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Next!" </span></i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Called out a clerk from behind her little window.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I handed her the bit of paper
the city had sent me with all my information on it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"Registration."<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"I'm just renewing the
city tag. You have my registration in your computer."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"You can only buy a new tag with your
registration."<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"It's not a new tag.
It's a renewal. The city sent me that paper."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She looked at the piece of
paper I had handed her, turned it over and said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"This
is last years."<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I took it back from her and
looked at it. It was not from last year, unless I fell asleep for an entire
year and it was now 2024. Which is isn't. The lady behind the little window
walked away for a minute and a different lady returned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">"You can't buy a new city tag without the State
of Illinois registration."<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And that was that. I bottled
up my rage and walked out of there. I was pissed. I was going to send off a stern
letter to the City Clerk. Son of a bitch, this meant I would have to make a
third visit to the clerk's office. Grrr.....<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">On Friday I got mail from the
Chicago City Clerk's Office. Inside was the little metal tag for my 1929 Ford.
I was baffled. Were they trying to apologize for screwing with me? The receipt
with the tag showed that I had paid for it, but they didn't take any money from
me at the clerk's office. Then I started to think. That little piece of paper
with all the information on it. It was torn at the bottom like part of it was
missing. Like maybe a form you would mail in with a check to purchase your new
vehicle tag. Seriously, I forgot that I had mailed in for that. I forgot that I
had written a check for thirty three dollars to the City of Chicago and mailed
it to them. At least I think I did. I don't really remember.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-9254826088730636912023-06-01T05:00:00.001-05:002023-06-01T05:00:00.141-05:00Who's Your Daddy?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKZ2fIsmyrfa99Ct4GepDcDB6WFMIvHxQ9kdaBohJvWuQXe6-ErJ3ayOlJXFg0hxBLU7Nfuj2lepDtQJI_pDnTI6Jxuo9P13gi7hpZdWrGtz28-hInp-o91y9nQWptmmT-L3ojBN8Eyj9mZTzOOIkyUC6TmMyPqkKm9FuGf_HRWaRZLIRnif9b8Krog/s972/MV5BNjk3ZTQ5MzItMzQyMi00NjI4LWE0NmItYWZkNWY5MjdjZTg5XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNDEwOTIxNTc@._V1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="972" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKZ2fIsmyrfa99Ct4GepDcDB6WFMIvHxQ9kdaBohJvWuQXe6-ErJ3ayOlJXFg0hxBLU7Nfuj2lepDtQJI_pDnTI6Jxuo9P13gi7hpZdWrGtz28-hInp-o91y9nQWptmmT-L3ojBN8Eyj9mZTzOOIkyUC6TmMyPqkKm9FuGf_HRWaRZLIRnif9b8Krog/w640-h286/MV5BNjk3ZTQ5MzItMzQyMi00NjI4LWE0NmItYWZkNWY5MjdjZTg5XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNDEwOTIxNTc@._V1_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I'm a terrible foster daddy.
The whole idea of fostering animals from rescue groups and shelters, is to not
get attached. The idea is to give the pet a loving and healthy place to live
until a forever home can be found. I failed on my first official try at
fostering. I have taken in stray and unwanted animals before. Cats that tenants
and neighbors have left behind. I never could find homes for them, so I ended
up with a lot of cats over the course of forty years. Did I mention that I'm
allergic to cats? Then there are the dogs. I've taken in unwanted dogs a few
times, but other than Sasha, our first schnauzer, I did find homes for them.
Including a three legged dog named Tuffy. Can you believe that? I found a home
for Tuffy the three legged dog. My nephew, I gave Tuffy to my nephew. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Back in early February I chauffeured
an adorable little dog out to Batavia, or it may have been West Chicago, I
forget. I did that for Cairn Terrier Rescue, the group that gave me Scout. On
that short ride to the suburbs I fell in love with that little dog. Sadly, he
was going out there to have his leg amputated. His name was Bucky and he had
cancer. This was all explained to me up front. A month later I volunteered to
foster Bucky while he had treatments in Chicago for his cancer. He became the
star of my block. Everybody up and down the street got to know Bucky in a short
while, including my neighbor who has the hair salon on the corner. She would
cook up sweet potatoes for Bucky and trim the hair around his eyes while human
patrons of the salon sat and watched. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Bucky and I connected immediately.
He also won over Scout. He took over her bed. She didn't care. He ate next to
her, drank out of the same bowl, she didn't care. Like I said, I was a bad
foster father to Bucky. I fell in love with that little guy and became his good
daddy instead, until the end. That was yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2683635484532947257.post-1114432075574497102023-05-24T05:00:00.010-05:002023-05-24T05:00:00.141-05:00There is Always That One Guy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv51E3MOI0n05B_lAMDNlcW1GMMmZw0rOrz6lIycsOYgCSGcqF-XJiGUm4QQnjG9M8NbQr8BHOx6WKdvF9wasBylHekkorHMCvxYIpOQnlKNBgyYn6o1G0ftuJsjhzMF5whFsLCBoadNTXdS808k2CMf4Rx2Xe4PSxCtf6JDkEWYbIcxwgCQTKd0oIzQ/s581/0%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="581" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv51E3MOI0n05B_lAMDNlcW1GMMmZw0rOrz6lIycsOYgCSGcqF-XJiGUm4QQnjG9M8NbQr8BHOx6WKdvF9wasBylHekkorHMCvxYIpOQnlKNBgyYn6o1G0ftuJsjhzMF5whFsLCBoadNTXdS808k2CMf4Rx2Xe4PSxCtf6JDkEWYbIcxwgCQTKd0oIzQ/w640-h354/0%20(2).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I sprayed my backyard fence
with a tinted waterproofing yesterday. Not on my side of the fence, but on the
neighbor's side. I tried to be very careful because I didn't want to get any
overspray on her vinyl siding. However, I did get some on the air conditioner
that sits just inches away from the fence. All day long I worried that she
would notice that and complain. She didn't. That property used to be owned by a
guy who never cut his grass, so I used to cut it for him. Not because I'm such
a nice guy, but because his unruly lawn made my house look like crap. The new
owner has a service that cuts the lawn, so that's not a problem anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Every morning and evening,
when I walk the dogs, I pass by another neighbor's house. One of those little
Chicago bungalows that line so many of our streets. This place is owned by an
older guy (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My age</i>) who appears to be
in bad shape. I was talking to him the other day and noticed that one of his feet
looked like a big wrapped ham. I figured that probably was why he never cut his
grass. It was about two feet high at that point. So I told him that I was going
to mow my lawn the next day and would he mind if I also ran my mower over his
front yard. Once again, not because I'm such a nice guy, but because I was
tired of my dogs wandering through that jungle and coming out covered in dandelion
fuzz and other things. Yesterday I cut his lawn. Only the front yard, the part
I can see. While I was chugging away, back and forth with my mower, his next
door neighbor motioned to me. I figured he was going to ask how much I charge
or something like that. I turned off the mower and he says to me in one of
those crabby old fart voices, "Why are you doing that so early in the
morning? You're waking everybody up." I smiled and started the mower back up. It was nine in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786705388056397346noreply@blogger.com0