February 4, 2019

Yesteryear
One year ago today: February 4, 2017, and sure enough.
Five years ago today: February 4, 2013, definition of oxymoron.
Nine years ago today: February 4, 2009, an agreement with Wallace.
Random years ago today: February 4, 1982, reading encyclopedias.

           Now let me tell you about the run over to Goodwill for some work clothes. This is temporary, I'm not planning on staying here more than a few more days. I just need some shirts that I can get messy and take or leave at the end. The annoyance today was people. Celebrities can tell you how irksome it is to go anywhere with people pestering you. The snag here is that I am not a celebrity and don't act like one. Hold on, I'll admit to acting like one, but that's not the point I'm making.

           What I'm concious of that makes me angry is when people start behaving funny when I arrive. I've said it before, if those people happen to be young, sexy, athletic, white babes, then fine. But that hasn't happened to me in forty years. Today, I walk into the Goodwill on Lebanon Pike, up near Donelson Chapel. The sign inside says not to leave your purchases on the counter, so either you carry them with you are get a whole shopping cart for two shirts. I'll just describe how it goes, you can fill in your own blanks.
           The two old ladies at the till sit right up, the scritchy looking lady in the first aisle starts patting her hair, the anemic-looking broad in accessories snaps shut her cell phone and starts watching me. Am I making this up? Am I exaggerating? I take all this in, but I'm heading for a section none of them are anywhere near. Men's shirts. And the last thing they want is me suspecting they are there shopping for a man, and I mean that several ways.

           Anyway, I quickly find two work shirts and go toward another section they don't know exists, the hardcover books. Ut-tut, the aisle to the left is blocked by the scritchy broad and her shopping cart. Turning to the right, I'm trapped by the anemic broad in her shawl, blocking the route. Oh Jesus, I'm thinking, not this shit again. I just came from the home of the most beautiful woman in the world in my eyes and I do not need any situations like this to contend with.
           I offended them by ducking under the shirt rack into the next aisle. I do not care about them, I do not care if they blocked my way intentionally or subconsciously, all I know is I loathe people who do this no matter what the reason. Wait, there's more. At the book rack, I was still carrying my two shirts, so for convenience, I snuggled them into a rack of infant clothes nearby. There was nobody anywhere near where I was standing.

           For about two minutes. Next thing I know, the only two customers in the store suddenly developed an interest in the book section. I was block in again, and both ends were moving steadily closer. Shit! This time the children's racks were too low to escape under. And the books of interest to men are sandwiched between the cookbooks and religious guidance. Next, one of the two ladies at the till decides the book section needs tidying up. I just stopped and put my hands in my jacket pockets and closed my eyes praying this was not happening. And the forth lady at the till is also staring at me.
           In turn, each lady looked where my shirts were hanging and asked questions like what are these doing here, and shouldn't these be in the other rack. They found my damn shirts. I've got to get out of here now. Momentarily, an old man walked in the door and shuffled toward the washrooms. He distracted the women and in that tiny slot, I quickly slipped past the nearest old broad, grabbed my shirts and made a brisk walk for the till. Is it over? Not quite.

           By now I'm scowling and just want the hell out of there. The lady at the till decides this is the moment to chat me up. I'm answering in mono-syllables and pocketing my change. Instead of taking the hint, she tries reverse psychology on me. She hopes the rest of my day is better. She thinks I should smile more. She points out the nice color match of my shirts. She takes her time folding them for me. Argh, argh, argh please just let me out the door in peace.
           Thank goodness I made it to my car and got out of there with my sanity. I have more to say about this in the addendum. This is about the fourth consecutive time I've run this gauntlet since I got to Nashville, and to day was the most intense.

Picture of the day.
SpaceX tests the Raptor.
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           Expect highlights of the car museum over a few days as the best photos emerge. Here is a Volkswagen with an early brand of air conditioner. Yep, that metal tube just hangs out the window and works by the wind rushing into a set of coils. There was nothing said about how well it worked while sitting at a four-minute Ft. Lauderdale red light. Normally, I enjoy shopping but today I did not. Blog rules say I tell you the tale, a story most of you have heard before.

           First you get he saga of leaf-raking. It's an activity that sort of makes me happy. Ladies, a man does not love you who does not voluntarily rake your leaves. All other brands of truel love, by their very nature, carry an elementof distrust. Without the raking of the leaves, you have ultimate future emptiness and destitution. Remember, you heard that gem here. The poets and songwriters may say it flowerier, but the eternal love you seek is in a pile of leaves. What really gets me is how that work flowerier passed the spellchecker.

           Anyway, leaves are more revealing that you think. Have a gander at this photo. Start with the fashions. Isn't that an odd outfit to be cleaning the yard in? Nope, that is Robynette's old dog-walking pullover. But, but, wasn't that from before the turn of the century? Yes, and indeed, it does still fit us both. See the tarp? Even that has a history. The yard has plainly not been raked much at all until I arrived without any work clothes. It's painful, I admit, how quickly I fall into routines around here that show how little was contributed by anybody else. I admit, that's my perspective, but a pile of leaves like that from the tiny front yard show I'm not imaginining a thing. Them leaves have been there for years.

           Here is a scene from the walk on the lake shore last y'day. This piece of driftwood looked like a mini-dinosaur, as in triceratops. What you are looking for is the pattern in the flat rocks that form the shoreline. The lady says the level of the lake varies considerably, so the rocks shown here are regularly underwater. That would make more sense. The rocks look stable, but many of them have a considerable wobble. If they were eroding due to wave action in shallow water, that could account for the shape and movement found there today.

ADDENDUM
           To me, what I say now is no confession. I've felt this way since I was around 8 years old, so chances are it was hardwired into me. Folks, I do not like old ladies. And they get old at around 28. There are exceptions, but they are vanishingly rare. Go ask Taylor. The bottom line is I do not like old ladies. I do not like the way they look, act, dress, talk, live, or walk. I dislike the way they think, I dislike the way they smell, pose, drive, dance, and even the way they eat and drink. It is actually more than dislike in that I feel that I intentionally go out of my way to make sure I do not meet such women and, if I do, that there is nothing about my person or dress such a woman would find attractive.
           I will often telegraph my aversions, as you know, by taking the long way around and behaving like an incompatible sort. However, even acting immature and chatting up women half my age does not deter the old ladies anywhere as much as it used to. I do not find old ladies attractive in any way, I am repelled by them socially, sexually, and 99% to date, academically. I share no hobbies, no goals, and absolutely no desire to get to know any of them intimately or at all. I have lived my life without their company or input and never regretted an iota over it.

           Furthermore, I am happy with things being that way and have no inclination to change. I am not "afraid" of old ladies, that angle is for errant psychology drop-outs. I'm not ardently against old ladies and no doubt the right one could change things, but I have no desire to bring on such change and don't really look forward to any such event. I did nothing to provoke the situation, but these women ruined my shopping experience and I doubt I'll ever go back to that location.
           Imagine that, I don't respond to some old lady cashier at the Goodwill and she assumes I'm the one having the rough time of it. My god, these old ladies smell like foot powder.

Last Laugh