After midnight, I got the munchies. Too dark for a picture, but congratulations anyway to Pizza Hut, 954-458-8800 (I think, the one just south of the race track entrance on Federal). Having been recently exposed to TV, I opted to try a p’zone. A large crust stuffed with standard pizza ingredients. Lights on, staff milling around, they watch while you bike up. While you take the lock off the bracket and while you secure up your bicycle. And so on, until you walk in the door and at that point they inform you they are closed. Don’t let me interrupt you, guys. We know you’re busy. Pizza Hut, up your p’zone.
This is also what I get for leaving Bay Harbour at such a late time that I don’t stop for supper. I also missed [in that I did not scan] a package of coconut candies with 8 tiny pieces total but listing 16 servings in the package. Yup, each individual candy was [therefore] 2 servings. Could be that “New Age” logic, its meaning lost in antiquity, but available to all free thinkers in paperback.Ruth called from New York (at 8:00 a.m.), she’s got more magazine coverage, which I prefer [to television] because it endures. It seems there is a new web page programmer in the picture, Boris, and I was wrong, he is local. Well, not that wrong, because he is actually a photographer. He knows what he is doing so far and that is good enough for me. The overall system, or I should say systems, by now are set up with complete security so I feel better about things getting farmed out to strangers.
Now on the lookout for t-shirt ideas, I’ve bumped into missing pet posters. I won’t post the picture, but it looks like an iron-on transfer of a missing cat on a body shirt worn by a large dog. Or it may be a warning that the dog is allergic to cats. Either way, it is eye-catching and that means money anywhere in this country.
By 10:00 a.m., there is complete cloud cover so that means cool enough to bike around. See you later. Moments after, I picked up a 1940s mystery novel, and now I can’t put it down. Called “The Phantom Guest”, by Frederick Irving Anderson. A superstitious hotel owner always makes up a few fake patrons because some people don’t like to be the first name on a blank page. Over the years, he attaches a personalities to these names. Two detectives caught in a rainstorm recognize one name and ask him to describe the person. It is so “Hollywood” I must finish it today. (In the end, the murderer leads the police to the hidden corpse after he suspects she may have survived and been to the hotel.) The theory was that nobody would go looking for a woman whose name showed up once a year at a ski resort. The script has holes.
Today’s trivia is unverified. Much of the reason I liked the book just mentioned is the descriptions of 1940 contemporary lifestyles. One could still fall from social grace, or worse, be dropped from the social register, by not frequenting the correct horse races or marrying a partner without a pedigree. Fancier hotels served a pickled walnut. The trivia is the suggestion that it was the motorcar that spawned the chauffeur, that is, having a car driver is not descended from having a coachman. The reason given is that a common scam in those days was to ram a rich person’s car and sue, so the chauffeur was to protect against that operation.
Fred has branched out. His friend moved to California, leaving behind one of these businesses that sends people out to gather statistics. I must commend Quickbooks for creating the fantasy that they can do your accounting for you. In real life, they suck. You are at the mercy of Quickbooks and the reality is that most users just buy it to do their checkbooks and government forms.
My opinion of census takers? Shoot ‘em. If there is money to be made, just be sure you are on the winning side. Otherwise, I label it invasion of privacy. I am a follower of John Locke and I conclude that in every instance in all of history where files were kept on people that information has been abused by the authorities. It is funny how many people think there is nothing wrong with the police using credit card slips to track down a suspect – until it happens to them.
Wait, I have a little more trivia. Where do the words “Tory” and “Whig” arise from? A “Tory” is an Irish bandit and a “Whig” is a Scottish horse thief. Come to think of it, that is exactly how I would categorize all politicians.
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