Squirrels Are Really Just Cute Rats

 

A couple of weeks ago I'm sitting in my recliner chair enjoying the early evening and watching some baseball, when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. Right outside the window, on my front porch, is a planter. In that planter I have flowers. Some petunias, a lot of begonias, and some hanging ivy. Right in the middle of all that I see a twitching, bushy tail. There's a squirrel in my planter digging away like Jeb Clampett looking for oil. Sitting on the window ledge looking out and enjoying the show, is Scout. Not a peep out of her. No barking at the squirrel. She's acting more like an accomplice, like she's going to get a cut of the loot. So I open the window and scream at the rodent to get the hell out of there. It doesn't even look up to see who's yelling at it. Just keeps on digging, dirt flying everywhere. I get the water squirt bottle that I use to squirt Scout when she barks too much. I take aim and shoot at the squirrel. I swear the squirrel gave me the finger as it skittered away across the lawn. The nerve of that thing. I put a lot of thought into that planter. Every year I make a big deal out of that planter and it always looks great. It's the centerpiece of my front yard.

That was a few weeks ago. Yesterday morning I'm taking Scout out for her early walk. As we leave the front porch, I look down. There on the second step is one single marigold head laying there like the horse's head in The Godfather. Up on the porch step is the planter that it came from. The day before there was a nice bushy bunch of marigolds in that planter. This morning it is just dirt. Not a bloom, not a stem, not even any marigold roots. Just dirt. WTF? I immediately ruled out theft. If somebody wanted to steal my marigolds, they would have taken the entire planter. No, it has to be that squirrel. That rat bastard got me back for denying whatever it was digging for in the begonias.

Thursday

 

Yesterday was, get things done day. First thing I did, fixed the flat tire on my Model A that I've been putting off since Monday. That was a learning experience since I had completely forgotten how I did it the last time. It's really no different than when I was a kid and had to patch an inner tube on my bicycle, only on a larger scale. My problem was trying to do it while the wheel was still on the car. Nope, you have to take it off. I eventually laid it out in the yard and wrestled with it there. With my knees, a couple of tire irons, and some soapy water, the tire came right off. Getting it back on was even easier. I'll have to remember that.

Second chore of the day, picking up dog food at the Petco store. I love going to the pet supply store because there are dogs there. Dogs I've never met, wagging their tails, sniffing around, and once in a while barking at me. Like the very suspicious brown dog that thought I had come too close to her owner. I told her that she was a good dog.

After the Petco store, I went over to my favorite old timey hardware store on the corner of Devon and Clark Streets. It's one of those places with creaky wooden floors that smells vaguely of rubber, dust, and lumber and all the employees know exactly what I'm looking for. I should go there more often. After leaving the hardware store, while driving down Granville Avenue, I noticed that my eyesight had become disturbingly bad. My first thought was that the sun was too bright in my eyes, so I pulled down the visor. It didn't help, and I started thinking that maybe the day I won't even be able to drive on a bright sunny day had come. So I kept going, two more blocks of squinting and very slow driving. At some point I looked down for a second and noticed my glasses laying on the console between the seats. But I was wearing glasses, what the hell? I was wearing my reading glasses. I hate this old man crap.

There's Something Askew in the USA

 

Yesterday was a very strange day. I was supposed to drive my 1929 Ford in the Skokie, Illinois, Fourth of July parade. The day before, I had gone over the car. Checked the oil, topped off the radiator, and went around to every tire to make sure they were inflated to the correct pressure. Everything was right. So at ten fifteen in the morning of the Fourth, I started the car and pulled out of the garage. Something was wrong. I had a flat tire. Really, I had just checked the tires the night before. So I quickly jacked up the car and swapped out the flat, still making it to the site of the parade on time. There were three Ford Model T's, and three Ford Model A's all prepped and ready. That included mine with the two little USA flags attached to the front bumper. Everything was so well organized. They had folks riding around on golf carts handing out water and popsicles. Not real Popsicles, but those ones you freeze in long plastic tubes. Still, they were cold and sweet. I got to chit chat with the other guys who had brought their old Fords, and learned that my car really isn't so bad. Not that I think it is, but some of the restored cars do make mine look old. Like maybe ninety three years old. Anyway, we were all getting ready for the start of the parade when one of the parade marshals walked up and asked if we had heard the announcement.

"The parade has been cancelled. There's an active shooter incident at the Highland Park parade and the police have shut our parade down."

I mentioned that Highland Park is at least ten miles away, but the parade was done.

Just about the same time I found that I had a flat tire, a crazy person who should have never been allowed near a gun, took a semi automatic rifle and murdered six people in another parade just a few miles away. I admit, I have become numb to the constant murder of my fellow humans in this country. Every day in Chicago there are murders. But this random act, this thing that only peripherally affected me, hit a nerve. I seriously worried a week ago when I did the Pride parade in my old car, that some hateful human would wreak havoc on us. It didn't happen. So I felt much better this week doing the Skokie parade. Now I don't. Now I'm not sure I ever want to put myself out there again. Not sure if I ever want to shop at a large mall. Not sure if I will ever step into any location where crowds gather. That is the state of things in the United States of America, where we have power hungry politicians who will sacrifice the citizens so they can collect money from the NRA. A country where unborn fetuses are used as voter bait while the actual living voters are put in harm's way. I'm pissed off. Unfortunately a lot of my fellow citizens are not, and will go ahead and vote again for the fetus hugging, gun hugging politicians of the death cult.

The Parade

 

Over the last week I spent many hours with my 1929 Ford Model A. Polishing, lubricating, oiling, and making sure everything on it was in good shape. I was going to drive that car in the 2022 Chicago Pride Parade. Yesterday I did just that and it was an experience.

Forty nine years ago I drove the lead car, actually a small truck, in the 1973 parade. That parade was nothing like yesterday. It was more like a protest, with large groups of people marching in the parade rather than watching it. Anyway, I really wanted to celebrate what I did forty nine years ago by doing it again.

Yesterday was a parade, a real big time parade. All the television stations were there to cover it, and along the street massive numbers of people cheered and waved. It was kind of weird, like we in the parade were some kind of celebrities. All I had to do was lay on my Ahh Ooogah horn and people went crazy cheering. Maybe it was because we were fifth back from the beginning of the parade. I suppose by the time float number one hundred and ten passed by, the people would be more subdued. All I can say is that I had a good time, and as we were making our way down Broadway the Mayor of Chicago came walking past us. Lori Lightfoot. As I reached out the window of my car to shake her hand she clearly had a look on her face that said, 'I don't want to shake that man's hand.' I did not pull back, but left my hand outstretched. Finally a small smile came across her face, and I got a nice firm handshake from the Mayor.

My arthritic knees are hurting very badly right now, especially my 'clutch' leg. I did three miles of driving at about two miles per hour in a non-sychromesh, stick shift, ninety three year old car. Oh, and about an hour in I had to pee.

Me driving the lead car in 1973.

He's a Standup Doctor

 

Doctor H. Youngman

I went to the knee doctor yesterday. My left knee has been bothering me for nearly a year, and summertime in the yard has made me more aware that it hurts. Over along the fence I planted a bunch of marigolds. Noticing that the marigolds were in competition with the weeds, I decided it was time to rip the evil weeds out by the roots. I moved along the row of marigolds, stooping over and pulling out each intruder. As I stooped, I kept hearing a popping, snapping, and cracking noise punctuated by pain in my knee. Had I been attacked by the Rice Krispies mascots? I assume they're just about knee high. No, it was my left knee welcoming me to life after the age of seventy.

I used to wonder why old people spend so much time at the doctor's office. I don't wonder that anymore. It's because it gives us a reason to leave the house... oh, and because our bodies are falling apart. About nine months ago I went to a knee doctor who prescribed physical therapy. I still do the exercises, but that can only do so much. So I wanted to look at another option, but not with the same doctor. I found a doctor that got good reviews and to my good fortune, was only a block away from my house. I actually walked over there for my appointment.

Let me start out by saying that I like the doctor. What surprised me was how fast he talked. I mean, really fast. Before I could answer a question, he was already on to the next one. I assumed he wasn't even paying attention to me. Anyway, at some point I heard the word 'Cortisone'. He was going to stick a needle in my knee and pump Cortisone in there. Before I knew it, it was done.

"Oops, looks like we've got a gusher here. Must have hit a vein."

I looked down and sure enough there was blood. My blood. A large pad was taped to the point of the blood flowing out of my knee, and the doctor told me to have a seat for five minutes. He'd be right back. Five minutes later he was back and put a Band-Aid on my knee. while he was doing that he started telling jokes.

"What does it mean when you find a horseshoe in Ireland? Some poor horse is going barefoot."

"What do you call a fake Irish stone? A shamrock."

He kept telling me jokes, at least five or six in a row. All of them with an ethnic slant. I looked at the nurse and the aide. I could swear I caught them rolling their eyes. Maybe I was just projecting, but I know they weren't laughing. I was only politely laughing. You know, just a little 'ha, ha' after each joke. Finally the doctor got up and left the room. I looked at the nurse's aide who stayed behind, and joked "I hear he'll be performing here all week."

I swear I saw her roll her eyes.

Beer

 

When I was young, beer would get me drunk. I used to get very drunk on beer. I once ruined the paint on a friends Plymouth Valiant by beer puking out the window as he drove down US 30, west of Clinton, Iowa. He didn't wash the vomit off his car right away and the next day the beer vomit had eaten right through the paint. Beer doesn't get me drunk anymore. Now, at my advanced age, the only thing I get from drinking beer is a familiarity with the nearest bathroom.

My friend, Doug and I met up at a local establishment yesterday for a beer. But of course if you go out for "a beer", you never have just "a beer". I can have just one beer at home, but if I go through all the trouble of pulling the car out of the garage and driving to a bar, I am having more than one beer. Usually I try to have only two, but yesterday I was enjoying the company and I had three. One beer, one pee. Second beer, second pee. When just ten minutes after the second pee, as I was slugging down the third beer, I had to go pee again, I decided it was time to go home. Once again, beer does not get me drunk. Doesn't even give me a buzz. So, I have no idea why I drink it other than I am in a bar and that's what you drink in a bar. Okay, so I drive on home and about three blocks away I have to pee, really have to pee. I pull into the garage, run upstairs, through the kitchen, past an angry Scout who also needs to go out and pee, and straight into the bathroom. Ahhh.... relief. I then take Miss Scout for her walk and envy the fact that she can pee whenever the hell she wants to, on any lawn in the neighborhood. We round the corner at Thorndale and Scout is again, peeing. Behind me I hear somebody calling to me. It's my good neighbor Yahn. "Hey, neighbor, come on over here and have a beer." But I don't want another beer. "Come and have some food too." So Scout and I stop and have a beer and some Vietnamese pork.

I peed just about once per hour last night. I did get out of bed to do it.... and did actually do it in the bathroom.... in the toilet. I'm not that senile.

This Was a Thing, Not That Long Ago

I love history. Not the glossy stories with all the bad stuff removed that we were taught in school, but the real history of the world. My mom lived ninety nine years, her father almost one hundred and two years. Grandpa was born in 1886 so there's a lot of history I can relate to there. When I was a kid our family got two newspapers delivered to our house every day. The Sun-Times in the morning, the Daily News in the evening, and on Sundays Dad bought the Chicago American. It had the best comics. One thing that fascinated me was when a story would be published about a former Confederate or Union soldier dying. When we learned about the Civil War in school, it seemed so long ago. Way, way before our time and our parent's time. How could these people still be around? As much as that drew my interest, it was the thing that wasn't mentioned all that much that I found astounding. There were still people alive, real human beings that lived all around us, that had been born into slavery. People who had no say about their lives from birth to death, enslaved by our fellow countrymen. Those people weren't usually mentioned in those newspapers. On September 23, 1972, a man died of his injuries after being hit by a car. It is commonly believed that he was the last living person in the United States who had been born into slavery, in those same United States. I would have been twenty two years old in that year, but I do not remember seeing anything in the newspaper or on the evening news about that. There was a small obituary in the local Pittsburgh newspaper, but it seems not much else.