How do they know? That’s an oft-asked question in Florida. How does that lady who takes 15 minutes in the express checkout know you are running late for a doctor’s appointment? How does that fossil driving the brand new Sentra know you are low on gas? These people live to make you late. Well, it is part of Florida living, it is the mystique that makes this place the most Third World in the union. Why am I asking this futile question? I guess because, for reasons unknown, September is the month when things go wrong. I get sensitive to anything that jumps the gun.
I’m sitting indoors with a pot of tea and a book. Another tropical storm is lashing us with rain every half-hour, so I can’t paint. That was the schedule for today. I’ve got another book about soldier boys in Afghanistan, the books all read alike. It's always politics interfering with the gronks who are the only ones who know what is really, really going on. Makes the book 90% boring, if only because you know the loose cannon dude is going to prevail over all. But there are other things that make military authors boring.
For example, they are like guitar players, clinging to the past as if it will ever come back, which is the only way they’ll ever be ready this time around. If I was to write such a book, I would depart from that formula. I would not devote a chapter to the dress ball at the White House. That is precisely the sort of “military” bullshit that should have been canned decades ago. The soldier who cooked that one up must still be laughing. If I was a 3-plus star General, I’d use my power and influence to dynamite those useless affairs. Try, for a moment, to imagine the thinking of someone who attends a champagne dinner in "dress uniform". Sick, isn't it?
I’d further inform the entire lot that the word is “Attention” and not “Ten-hut”. If you want to be a crude unsophisticate, no need to reinforce it with bad English. We already know the combat reporter will be a single, blonde, blue-eyed pacifist in her late 20’s. Never a 40-ish, thick-waisted butchy feminist with tobacco-breath who hasn’t had a date in two decades. And uses her personality for birth control.
All the falling water since midnight allowed me time to me read the local paper today, cover to cover if you’ll excuse the pun. I see Dear Abby has once more advised an older woman to dump the guy she’s in a monogamous relationship with unless he pops the question. What a schmeeb she is, telling others to issue ultimatums. The older gal should be glad she’s got somebody she can live with who pays his half of the bills. But that’s not good enough for the women who never grow out of the teenage “commitment” stage. They don’t know in this “hit it and quit it” world, they are causing their own loneliness.
Abby talks only about the woman’s emotions, like a commitment exists in its own little pod, isolated from all other parts of the relationship. She never opines that men may have learned a thing or two about commitment in this era of divorce courts and community property laws. I’d be a sunk ship today if I had to support even one of the women I’ve, ahem, had a lot to do with. That's also why I tend to date “rich” women. I admit, however, that finding a financially independent woman has not been a successful search for me.
The same paper also lists the items we are not supposed to talk about. That would be such things as TV shows, which makes sense, or physical ailments, which may not make sense. By that, I mean there is a distinction between moaning about aches and pains, and describing what is being done about it. True, I have a bad heart and I’m overweight, but the topic is how I’m coping, as opposed to going on about the ailment itself. And writing about successful dealings is big business. If only some of that business would come this way, I’d really be happy.
Does anyone besides me follow Makerfaire, the invention people? They are coming to Miami in November, I see it was mentioned on the last page of the business section, after the medical seminars and bank ads. Nothing like a wide-minded public who know where their best chances will arise. Since Maker is concerned with robots, I plan to be there. Provided the admission is both free and anonymous. Trust me, never give your ID to anyone at a computer show.
Here’s the car with the “fughedaboudit” plates, all the way from New York. And parked in the neighbor’s driveway up at the robot club meeting last week. Please, if you can, take your eyes off that beautiful red Chinese scooter and read the plate. The newest hipster money-waster is getting vanity plates with the same number as your regular plate.
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