[Author's note 2016-01-17: in the end, I did not change blog providers. The other options were even worse, blogging has become a regulated activity, almost impossible to conduct in privacy. Nor was there any guarantee that if I switched to another company, Google would not eventually absorb that one as well. I still long for the day when something instantly replaces the now completely pwned Internet as we know it. It was great, fun, and free, while it lasted.]
Here is the Florida Phenomenon again. With a regularity other seniors could only wish for, little old ladies are continually pushing the gas instead of the brake. Ker-pow, right through the front window of the nearest store, be it a McDonalds or a model agency at the strip mall. This granny managed to ram the front of the local auto tag agency. I’ve been tempted myself, you know. All such incidents in Florida are treated as terrorist attacks. Shown here is the tow truck yanking the vehicle off the front steps.
Yes, I registered the scooter. And paid a very Canadian-like “penalty”. This is that $5.00 fine you get for not renewing your tags before your birthday each year. The difficulty I have with that is there is no law that says you have to. There is nothing to say you can’t choose when to renew, or skip a year, or not renew at all. But there is a penalty if you don’t despite the fact you’ve done nothing wrong.
That’s Canada-style. Note that in America, they just want the five bucks. In Canada, vehicle registration is merely one of an on-going series of laws designed to continually check on your whereabouts. In Canada, I would have had to state a reason I didn’t renew on time, prove that I still lived at my last address, and my account would be flagged because I objected. You don’t have to give them the information, but they don’t have to give you your license tag. “The choice is yours.” Hobson would be proud of Canada.
I don’t miss commuting to work. I don’t miss the expense of having to operate a car period, but let me tell you about aggravation today. It took me an hour and thirty-five minutes to get back downtown from American Thrift. Let’s see, that’s on 72nd and Hollywood, so that’s 54 blocks, or around one minute and forty-five seconds per block. I could have walked it faster. Part of the problem is the Amtrak station, which is right next to the intersection. So it triggers the railroad barriers even if it is sitting there for ten minutes unloading baggage. That was the maiden voyage for the red scooter, third time around. It is running great but for how long?
American Thrift is a strange shop. Like a lot of banks, the management is decent and knowledgeable, but it ends there. The wages don’t attract anyone else with any pride in what they do or any redeeming qualities. I was over there in a panic to get this computer working again (success as you see) but no thanks to the staff. The power bar in the computer section was on the blink. Little joke there. The moron maintenance man starts trying a plug in every jack on the strip. I told him they are wired in parallel, that he was going to have to go check the breakers. He was actually thinking only one outlet was broken.
You know my tolerance for time-wasters, so I wound up dragging each computer part up to the front of that long, narrow store and testing them in the single lamp socket behind the jewelry till. Yes, that took an hour of sweaty labor (I had to dress warmly to ride the scooter), but I got what I wanted while that idiot man in the back was still jerking around. I now have enough gear to completely isolate the music computer from the Internet. That’s a descriptive term, there is much more on that computer than music. But anyone looking in from the outside in will just see this computer, which has nothing on it but this blog, which is published anyway. It’s cumbersome, but it works.
Darn rights this tuckered me out. I could barely move by sunset. I’m not built for manual labor. I cancelled my movie plans, I wanted to see “The Best Offer”. It’s rating four stars and I’m appreciative of any movie with a novel theme. This is about a crooked art dealer asked to evaluate an estate. I consider all art dealers a little crooked but that is not the plot. It has to do with the mystery woman who owns the art. Unfortunately, I can’t find the show at any local theaters. Not surprising, as even shows about art require a little culture and finesse to follow.
Back home, John called. She’s cheerful, having confirmed with her lawyer what we’ve all been saying. The other side cannot win because they cannot prove any damages. It could be a situation of let them win, they won’t get anything but big lawyer bills of their own. This is interesting, a fourteen year separation and we pick up exactly where we left off. She did something I never have, she spent a vacation in Las Vegas. I’d have seen the place if the weather in October had been warner. I would like to drive through there to say I’ve been.
ADDENDUM
I see our anti-hero, Jason Derek Brown, is still on the run. How does he do it? I hope he stays free until the world finds out. My fascination is that his continued evasion of the authorities clearly demonstrates that the massive—and expensive—files being kept on the average man have no real effectiveness in tracking criminals. Ergo, those files are not being kept for that purpose or they would have picked up a high-profiler like JD by now, would they not? He has to have daily access to money, food, shelter and some kind of identity. He’s been out there ten years without a trace. So phooey on the claims that all these records are only used to chase bad guys. That's one thing they don't do well at all, it would seem.
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