One year ago today: March 23, 2018, prohibition never works.
Five years ago today: March 23, 2014, look upon my duct tape.
Nine years ago today: March 23, 2010, this blog coined “looser”.
Random years ago today: March 23, 2008, seriously, 3 miles?
The pets travel well. How many of you guys have fallen for that one? Show of hands, please. That’s what I thought. So this morning, having determined there are no easily-findable letter post boxes in Hermitage, I drove myself and the pets up to the station on Lebanon Pike. Thinking, here’s an opportunity to put things to the test, I drove on to the Goodwill in Donelson. This makes up my mind to be in a grumpy mood until we return home, at the least. Sure enough, they whine and whimper inside the car like they are so ill-done-by. Riding on memory foam in the air conditioning to the fancy park behind the railway station. Thank goodness they survived an hour to get back inside the station wagon. Poor little tykes.
The Goodwill. Maybe it is Tennessee? I’ve never been there and within minutes I had an old lady following me around. It’s not my aftershave or my haircut, those have long been ruled out. It’s always the shapeless funny-looking ones and so far in this town it’s been every time. If they weren’t over 50s, I suspect they were somehow networking. It seems to me if a person tells themselves often enough that they are allergic to gluten and lactose, they will become so. Well, I think all old ladies smell like foot powder. Avon food powder. Fortunately, I’ve recovered enough to walk three times faster than their maximum shuffle speed. They can’t hound-dog me unless they break into a run, and that, mercifully, has not happened yet.
Momentarily departing from my shopping trip, I walked the dogs behind the store and noted shiny railway tracks. Walking a big onward, I found a rapid transit station. Nobody ever mentioned this to me, so let’s avoid a bunch of snarky comments about how I don’t know any women who ride public transport. I happen to like taking daytime tours in cities that have these things. I see the map shows a station in Hermitage, so check back soon to see what I’ve planned. Back to shopping.
That Goodwill has been severely picked over. All the good DVDs are gone, including the stolen disks with the empty case still in the shelf. I will usually buy books on crafts and small projects. Every last one has been combed out of the section, I found one book on plumbing. I bought it just for something to read. All books on quotations, all repair books and how-to manuals gone. In all fairness, there was one good looking lady in the place, as I headed for the register we made eye-contact. She half-winked at the way I was walking so fast and nodded kind of like she knew exactly what was going on. But I was there for reading material.
Returning the car, I decide to make a run into Lebanon just to say I’ve been there. No GPS, no maps, just follow the road of the same name. The dogs hung out the window for the first ten minutes, slept for the next ten, and entered into begging for a stop mode. This is going to be fun since I usually stop every other hour. And at home, it is four hour between pit stops. I got into some nice looking territory, small rolling foothills. I’m guessing we got to Lebanon but like southern Florida, they don’t have any signs along the roads. The dogs were acting up again, so I did a u-ey through a machinery lot and started back.
I opted for a late coffee at the Billy Goat, it’s approaching noon. And I’m still grumpy. In fact, allow me. The shop had something else I don’t like, and you get to decide why not. First, I want to repeat something I first said probably more than 40 years ago. There is nothing wrong with the way that I treat people. Nothing. It is best described by the same phrase as back then, “selective indifference”. Unless I have some business or there is some ulterior motive, I pay no attention to most people. I’m polite when required, I’ll hold the door sort of thing. But beyond that, I don’t care if most others enter or leave, I don’t care, actually, if they live or die. If they have an emergency, I’ll call 911, but if they have two emergencies, it’s best not to have them around me. I repeat, there is nothing wrong with the way I naturally treat strangers, as in do unto others.
However, I recognize the world I live in has changed to one of individual entitlements and rights. It also means that, definitionally, every last person in this once-great nation belongs to some form of minority. It also means, still with the same definition, every said person feels their rights are inferior to others. I see two broad classes of minority. Those who have no choice, by dint of ability or skin color, type of thing. But I have no sympathy whatsoever for those who opt to belong, in particular those who do so with an eye to pursuing their own agenda. This is why I watch for vested interests in certain situations, and invariably, find them.
Well, I do not like dweeby women. Worst are the ones so dweeby they want equality. Still at the coffee shop, I missed the morning contingent of real estate types, but landed into dweeby broad lunch hour. Thanks to my former career, I know how to expertly ignore such women. No so most men. These women were dressed in outfits more suitable for teens (yoga pants, leggings, tights, whatever), so every guy that clambered in to get his thermos filled instinctively shoots them a glance. He quickly gets past the sexy clothes to see they don’t match the women, and carries on. Except, by now the women have noticed. Because that’s what they set out to do. So if I ignore them, what issue could there possibly be?
Ah, because having said there is nothing wrong with the way I treat strangers, that changes when even one of those strangers is a smooth, together babe. I’ve pointed this out before, many a time. There is a world of difference in the way I treat a gal I find sexually attractive—I fully admit it is a stark contrast. There you have the conflict. Some women, like dweeby ones, think they are just as deserving of such polished, persuasive, provocative, and I dare say skillfully appropriate attention. I have the gift of gab. The place doesn’t serve refills, but I had the bombshell sexpot gal behind the counter making sure my mug was topped off. I knew I had no chance with her, but she had the time of her life with the way I made her feel. No so with the dweebs. End of this tale from the trailer court.
Guangzhou city library.
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More on gifs, that topic is escalating quickly around here. Just weeks ago it was a curiosity, now I’m looking at incorporating sound. In that vein, I found how Movie Maker will import gifs. I stayed home last evening and over enough coffee, I’ve come up with a way I would like to use these together. I like those amateur titles that spell themselves out on screen. This must have taken a lot of splicing with 8mm and is a nightmare to do with consecutive photos in Movie Maker. But, what about making the title with a gif, then importing that. No doubt this is already done, but once again, there is nobody in my demographic to ask so the idea was independently derived. I’m still a novice with gifs.
How important is communication, really? After the pets get supper, I look out the window and Robynette’s car is gone. Wired-in generation or not, it takes twenty minutes to discover by text that the neighbor has a key, and nobody told me. That’s your millennial “improvement”. Text somebody and take their car and if they don’t check their messages, to hell with them, that’s their problem. It’s not your job to allow for changed circumstances. What, you think this is prehistoric 1989 or something?
At that point, for the heck of it I can only suppose, the weather dropped 15°F just to make me more comfortable. Murfreesboro, that was cold. The pets clustered my ankles until I got them bedded down.l let them find a spot and then covered them with whatever I could find. Towels, sweaters, Robynette’s scarf. Like, how’s she ever going to find out? It’s not like the pets stop shedding when I show up.
[Author’s note: I’d heard about gifs with audio, so I followed a few links. Every one I found was bogus. Most involved importing your gif to video or DVD editing software, converting it to AVI with a sound track. Nice, but not a gif. There were a few that claimed to add a real sound track, but they involved uploading your gif to their site and waiting for them to send it back. There’s your proof how stupid and unsuspecting some people can be.
No, don’t point out that the same menace existed when you dropped your negatives at the Kodak booth back when. That was much different. You usually knew the people at the counter, running off copies cost a lot of money, and there was not much expectation of privacy. Much, much different.]
Then, I drop out to a new club I see on the road near the post office. Big sign, nice location, this should be a nice spot. And it is, for heavy metal fans. It was showcase night, so they had three bands and the music was original. I know because they said so. It’s just what are the odds of all three groups writing the same song? Bang-budda-bang-budda-smash-smash-bang. Seriously, the second group were talented. It was a six-piece, unusual in itself. There were no females in any of the bands. And no single females in the audience. I was a the Nash Vegas Club. I got there at 9:30PM and either I was too early or that was a mighty sparse crowd for a Saturday night. Funny, I have not made it downtown yet, my big chance to be here long enough to tour all the sites, check out all the bars and tourist pick-up joints. And I haven’t even planned to go there.
Unless you are a metal fan, I can’t recommend the place. It would remind you that metal is already so old the fans are now older married couples. I left after a few, thinking to drop in at the Karaoke near home. I got there, that’s the place with six pool tables. There was one good-looking gal but her frumpy friend was scaring the guys away. Actually, there was another babe in the place, and that’s the one behind the bar. No doubt, she’s dating the owner. And that ensures there will never be another babe around at the same time.
[Author’s note: you guys out there don’t take me wrong. Women do not hit on me everywhere I go. All that is happening is that I do not look or act like most men and I let every good-looking gal know that I am approachable. It’s a combination that works for me. I’m not saying women hit on me wherever I go, only that on a usual night, I will chat with the three or four best-looking women in the place. For me, this is nothing. So don’t call me names.]
Here’s the scenario. That club is long and narrow, with the Karaoke a good 100 feet away on the far wall. So as not to occupy a prime spot, I grabbed a chair at the window over this end. Turns out it is near the gate the barmaids use. I’d met the lady in mention last week, and she finds it delightful to talk to me, a guy who never mentions sex or hits on her. So in her spare moments, she’s over by my table talking and laughing. This is conspicuous. Within the half-hour the vacant chair opposite my spot becomes major real estate. I ignore all interlopers. I had brought my scribbler with me, and nothing spells get lost like a man working a pencil in a bar on Saturday night. Except when the babe comes over.
I was due to leave when this old guy, probably the only other old guy in the place except myself, not only plunks down, but persists in trying to engage me in conversation. Am I writing algebra or trigonometry? You just know I’m thinking if he was worth talking to he’d be able to tell by looking. Anyway, I decide to leave. I ask the babe what’s with that dude. Oh, she says, he lost his wife two years ago, blah, blah. Like I care. And if I did, I’d be telling strangers in a bar.
ADDENDUM
I was more than bloviating about devising a way to date rock carvings. Most people are unaware that while we can date the rock, there is no effective way to tell when it was carved. A lot of what is taught concerning the Egyptian pyramids, for instance, is bases on conjecture and Herodotus, the single Greek historian whose works have survived. In fact, many of the other’s are known only due to his mention. The bottom line is that the earliest known ancient date that can be confirmed is only around 600 B.C. Thusforth, all the dates associated with the pyramids and such are nothing but speculation. The dates surrounding the building and timing of the pyramids is based mainly on religious accounts and it is, in this blog anyway, entirely up to you if you want to believe any of that
And I have a theory on that. Nobody explains the zig-zag pattern many stones are fitted together. I’ve noticed that occurs only where the terrain is subject to earthquakes. Not just any earthquakes, either. This may be a building technique the ancients discovered empirically. And the structures later built atop them only appear to be proof from tremor--because they inherit it from the platform they are built atop.
My theory would also cover the situation where the tops have tumbled but the basement remains. I further feel there is some pattern to the apparent randomness. I’ve stared at these walls before and there is something there I just can’t quite pin down. I have nothing to back my theory up, but if it ever gets that far, I claim enough of the credit to have it named after me. Fair enough.
