The One

 

Having an anniversary? Time to eat cake, blow out candles, and look through old pictures and maybe a glass of bubbly.

 

We love anniversaries. We have anniversaries for everything.

 

Birthdays come to mind as the favorite anniversary. Every year we celebrate the day we were born when the date comes around on the calendar. Some even celebrate birthday of people who are not around to blow out the candles anymore.

 

You can celebrate anniversaries of graduation, baptism, winning awards, living through operations, purchasing the first car or home, becoming employed (and or fired) or your first pet. Many celebrate (or moan) deaths but do you remember all your pets and when they died?

 

There are anniversaries that are holidays. These are remembered because you don’t have to go to work. There are religious holidays but the dates are a bit questionable.

 

Relationships are our favorite anniversaries. Prom anniversary, first kiss anniversary, losing your virginity anniversary, first boyfriend/girlfriend anniversary, first break-up anniversary, first proposal anniversary are all memories people should celebrate. The wedding anniversary can be a milestone where vows are renewed. If there is more than one wedding, you might want to have divorce anniversaries too?

 

In the day-by-day of living with another it is good to take a break from the mundane to remind yourself the reason you tolerate the snoring or the clothing on the floor. Flowers, candy, cake are all acceptable gifts, but taking a break to just be together is irresistible and unforgettable.

 

Just say, “You’re the one”

 

 

 

“We've been together since way back when
Sometimes I never want to see you again
But I want you to know, after all these years

You’re still the one I want whisperin’ in my ear

You’re still the one I want to talk to in bed
Still the one that turns my head
We’re still having fun, and you’re still the one

 

I looked at your face every day
But I never saw it ‘til I went away
When winter came, I just wanted to go (Wanted to go)
Deep in the desert, I longed for the snow

 

You’re still the one that makes me laugh
Still the one that’s my better half
We’re still having fun, and you’re still the one

 

You’re still the one that makes me strong
Still the one I want to take along
We’re still having fun, and you’re still the one (Yes, you are)

 

Changing, our love it comes and goes
Even though we grow, it grows too

 

You’re still the one that I love to touch
Still the one and I can’t get enough
We’re still having fun, and you’re still the one

You’re still the one who can scratch my itch
You’re still the one that I wouldn’t switch
We’re still having fun, and you’re still the one

You are still the one that makes me shout
Still the one that I dream about
We’re still having fun, and you're still the one

You’re still the one
Yeah, still the one
We’re still having fun
And you’re still the one?”

Johanna Hall and John Hall

 

Detainment

 

Detainment

Internment

Jail

Prison

Detention is the action of detaining someone or the state of being detained in official custody, especially as a political prisoner.

Jail is a place for the confinement of people accused or convicted of a crime.

Prison is a building in which people are legally held as a punishment for a crime they have committed or while awaiting trial.

Internment is the state of being confined as a prisoner, especially for political or military reasons.

Quarantine is a state, period, or place of isolation in which people or animals that have arrived from elsewhere or been exposed to infectious or contagious disease are placed.

Isolation is a state of confinement.

Concentration camps a place where large numbers of people, especially political prisoners or members of persecuted minorities, are deliberately imprisoned in a relatively small area with inadequate facilities, sometimes to provide forced labor or to await mass execution. The term is most strongly associated with the several hundred camps established by the Nazis in Germany and occupied Europe in 1933–45, among the most infamous being Dachau, Belsen, and Auschwitz.

Whatever you call it, when people migrate into a new area, there is a need for shelter. All these new people need some sort of housing. The city, state, county, country needs to provide it or all these people will be sleeping on the streets.

If these people have money and can afford rent or mortgage, then they assimilate into the community. If these people are penniless, they can be turned back by a wall or force to become someone else’s problem. If these people are accepted, the humanity within us will try to find a place for those in need.

A tent might give shelter from the rain and a blanket might give some warmth but they are hungry. They are thirsty. They need bedding. They need clothing. They need washing. They need childcare. They need education. They need medical attention. They need to be entertained.

And what of tomorrow?

Many of our most productive immigrants became prominent entrepreneurs, innovators and visionaries.

Neighborhoods, suburbs or rural areas defined by a name and location are detainment centers of choice. 

Ghetto is a part of a city, especially a slum area, occupied by a minority group or groups. Ghetto is a place to be put in or restrict to an isolated or segregated area or group.

 

Rassling

 

Just the other day, waiting for my hair to dry, hoping the rain would come and wash down the pollen, between ‘Fresh Air’ and ‘Marketplace’, in a time should be productive but instead browsing the Internet looking for something other than videos of cops, protest, needles and cute kitties, there is my local newspaper promoting a section of videos of WWE WrestleMania 37.

I had a pause.

I’ve never been much of a follower of sports, and I’m not sure I’d call ‘rassling’ a sport, but here is was trying to get the interest of the scrolling eye a bunch of full color videos of the modern ‘rassling’ show.

I remember in high school there was a ‘Roman/Greco’ ‘rassling’ team. I never went to watch some guys who I went to class with roll around on the floor in girl’s bathing suits trying to sit on one another for a pin (that is a win). I thought it was creepy.

I understood the history of the Olympics with naked guys running and jumping but rolling around on each other never seemed ‘manly’ or a sign of courage or strength.

Football was about as masculine a sport that I’d watch. Big guys running around on a field knocking each other down but then they get up and do it all over again. In football they also wear clothes.

Still this is a brutal game of Alpha males proving themselves so they can wear a letter sweater.

There are lots of “sports” involving males competing with other males to win a cup or have the momentary privilege of being the Best! When running wasn’t fast enough, they raced cars. If soccer was too fast or football too weak, then rugby was invented. When cowboys weren’t machismo enough, astronauts rode rockets.

I remember ‘rassling’ came on black and white television on Saturday afternoons. It wasn’t the latest cowboy show but was better than watching tennis, golf or ping-pong.

From what I remember there were two cameras and a large warehouse. A row of bleachers held maybe 50 folks and a boxing ring was in the center.

Now boxing had been (and maybe still is) popular in the 50’s. A platform covered in canvas with corner poles connected with some elastic ropes and that was the stage for the performance. Some official guy in a suit would stand in the center of the ring and have a microphone lowered from the rafters. He would announce the contestants who entered the ring and stood in opposite corners until a bell would ring and they would come together and pound on each other. Sounds like fun?

It seems our species enjoy watching each other pummel themselves. The gladiators put on a show. Our armies have a time trying to wipe out each other. Now our movies are beyond the cowboys who would get shot only to appear the next week in a different outfit to smashing cars and buildings and splashing blood everywhere. No wonder we enjoy our snuff videos on YouTube.

Yet back in the day the contestants would climb up on the mat in bathrobes to hide their tightie whities speedos. When their name was announced, these big hairy guys would rip off their robes or capes and prance around the ring to the cheers of the crowd. Weird striptease.

There was always a ‘good guy’ and a ‘bad guy’ so you always knew who would win. Most of the moves were pushing each other into the ropes and then knocking them down. The point was to lie on top and get a ‘1-2-3’ count to win. Fairly simple and no one died.

 Then auto racing started to become an industry. Instead of a bunch of moonshiners racing in the dirt, the cars got painted and the drivers got uniforms and sponsors promoted and tracks got bigger and faster and television made time for audiences to watch cars drive fast and turn left.

So some smart folks at the ‘rassling’ management decided to follow suite and made two men in bathing suits throwing each other around to the cheer of the throngs to add fireworks, loud music, cameras, play-by-play announcers and made old hairy big guys into slim, handsome idols. ‘Rassling’ went from a sideshow curiosity to a circus.

The heroes were normally white handsome hunks identify a military or police while the ‘enemy’ contestants were Arabs, Russians or whatever culture the crowd would ‘boo’ upon entry. Good versus Evil.

There were the platinum blonde guys. There were huge giant guys. Sometimes they would team up together. Sometimes they fought in a cage. The ones who won could wear big metal incrusted belts as trophies.

Then the girls started to ‘rassle’ and then the contestants started becoming diverse. All the time each participant was becoming a story through magazines, promotions and locker room banter.

I watched my share of this process. It was funny, exciting and ridiculous. Even the stunts appeared to be fantastic were duplicated by dance troupes in music videos.

Yet, the repetition becomes boring.

So here is my local source of journalism attracting attention with a promotion of ‘rassling’. Back in the day, there would be an ad promoting an even in a local area but never a review or critique.

Does this show an attempt for readership or has society become so numb with war, riots, looting, high speed chases, plane crashes (etc.) to be drawn to watching men and women attempt to perform injuring each other for the viewers delight?

Where are the gladiators?

We who are about to die salute you.

What about me?

 

Seems while we wait for our number to be called to get jabbed, the bank is opening up the vault and everyone wants his or her share of the wealth.

No one care how that money got in there but everyone wants some.

Why not?

If they are handing out cash then fill up my wallet.

Is it greed or just your right to a piece of the pie?

The list of priorities of the division of funds to needed upgrades; repair forgotten maintenance, wishful projections and a little something for everyone.

The first notification of getting a FREE check for $1,400 sounded great. Win the lottery and you didn’t have to buy a ticket.

A handout is something given freely or distributed free to those in need.

It can refer to government welfare or a charitable gift, and it may take the form of money, food, or other necessities.

During the Great Depression, many people lived entirely on handouts of one kind or another when they could not afford to buy food. The term became especially popular among hobos, who developed a system of signs and symbols to describe the nature, quantity, and availability of handouts.

The term “handout” is used specifically in sociology and welfare analysis to identify direct payments or provision of goods, and to distinguish them from other forms of welfare support such as low-interest loans, subsidized housing, or medical care. 

However, some people who feel it has a negative connotation, with the implication that a handout is unearned and undeserved. “Give a hand up, not a handout” is a common remark among proponents of workfare or other welfare-to-work systems.

Another dichotomy characterization is “to be lifted up by a rope” vs stepping up onto a “ladder of opportunity”. A well-known saying along this line is “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime”.

The term “government handout” is often applied to welfare systems as well as corporate welfare or pork.

So while the cash is flowing lets fix up the schools. Let us fix up the roads. Let us fix up the plumbing. Let us fix up the wiring. Let us fix up the churches.

No matter how much money they throw at us, we will still be angry and jealous and envious and downright hateful because money cannot buy emotion.

So while they ask for more taxes from the unemployed and pledge to end poverty and inequality you don’t want to give away your weapons.

Get in line with the next one who wants as much as they righteously deserve and plead your case.

Don’t worry if the check bounces.

What’s up @ the Tummy Temple?

 

WARNING! The following has no explicit language or graphic nudity. You have been informed. Read on…

I don’t know how you shop for food, but if you have followed any of these posts, I forage everyday. My cupboards are empty. My frig is empty.

So with the weather being nice and the sun shining and I was awake, I went to the Tummy Temple early.

Wearing the same clothing as the day before and before that, following the same path and seeing the familiar places and a few masked faces I tied up my pony at the usual stop sign and prepared to enter, what used to be a JC Penney where I would buy shirts and suit jackets and even a lawnmower that I couldn’t carry on my bike so I had to ride home and bring back a yard wagon to walk it back home, with the appropriate pandemic attire.

I found a zip cart and did not disinfect it with the potions provided at no charge by the Temple though I’m paying for it with higher prices. I do miss the folks who used to wipe down the carts before you could touch them, but those days are gone.

I shop for the same things everyday. I could probably call and send a list of the Puppywood’s account, but I enjoy wandering the aisles not so much of viewing the boxes and bottles of products but to enjoy the brief vision of humanity.

There is no shopping list but a wander around my items are stocked everyday. The produce is in the produce section. The chips are in the snack aisle. The frozen food is in the glass boxes that are cold.

Normally I can whiz back and forth and plop a bag full of ‘eats’ in my cart in a matter of minutes, but today seemed like the overnight stocking hadn’t been completed.

There is a caste system at the Tummy Temple. The one’s who usually are assigned to interact with the congregation to get their tithing are smiling, friendly and wearing blue aprons. They wear nametags but are difficult to talk to behind the plastic walls.

Then there are those who bring out wooden pallets stacked with boxes of replacement nourishment for the hungry. Some are distributors who unload their trucks and restock but most are company employees dressed in all blue shirt and pants uniforms reloading the shelves and taking up space on the thruway.

These roadblocks are not as common as the parked cart and the patron viewing the contents of the bottle or box and most likely on a phone trying to find someone who can make an intelligent decision on noodles or olive oil, but on this day there seemed to be many more blue coats, some without mask.

I’ve never stocked at a grocery store but have stocked the shelves at a public library. I think it is somewhat the same?

Find a vacant spot and place the item on the shelf.

From what I understand an average $9 an hour is not going to buy a home or maybe even a car payment, but it also does not require a college education.

Yet, we found out when the t-paper was missing off the shelves how essential these stockers are. I give them credit and space to do their work.

So I avoid or silently go around them if the space is free and when they are stacking cans I will come back later. I do the same for an aisle blocked by someone staring at a can of beans as if it is written in Latin.

I also walk the complete footprint of the acreage. Not down every lane for that would be silly but I figure with all my repetitions and detours I walk two-three miles at a reasonable pace. The Tummy Temple is also my gym.

Now there is another blockage I cannot avoid. ClickList!

It seems in this time of isolation and avoidance from others, the alternative is to go online, list your items, log off and then climb into your vehicle and drive to the designated area for your personal shopper to bring your request to your open trunk.

So the blue suits have filled what was an area that was to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee or take a break from hiking into a logistics center. Computer screens fill hand held scanners and one by one carts the size of small cars are wheeled out searching request making note of items not found or alternative items. I personally have not tried this but wonder what the options are?

The only problem is these carts take up half the aisle. When the blue suit is scanning the list or trying to match the brand name chips there is a roadblock.

I have no problem about going around and coming back from the other side or even moving on and returning but there are more and more of these elephants slowing down my grab-&-go shopping habits. This could become a cultural change for me?

I first shopped at the Safeway that was behind the mall but that closed. Then a Hannaford opened in the JCPenney space and I shopped there. Then it changed to a Kroger and expanded to the space next door and I shopped there. I shopped through many transitions and a complete redecoration.

Recently I returned to the Cary Town area due to my bank being closed in the mall and noticed yet another grocery. In the block that used to house a Safeway and an A&P are now five groceries and no bag boys from Ukrops. You have to be from around here to understand that.

So here I am, constipated in the shopping experience because others are scared to enter the temple. Yes, the thought has crossed my mind to have someone else shop for me for chicken noodle soup is chicken noodle soup no matter the advertising.

There is also a campaign of picking up your shopping list and delivering it to your door. I’ve never tipped the check-out cashier at the Tummy Temple; no, let me retract that statement for one time when I was checking out and didn’t have the right coins or forgot my wallet I asked the lady to put everything aside and I’d be back with the proper payment. I climbed on my bike, rode home, found the currency and returned. Not to make a fuss, I got in line and waited noticing my bags were still there. When my time arrived, I paid the charge and gathered my grocery. Then I handed her a $20 bill. She said she couldn’t take it and I insisted for her courtesy. We parted never to be seen again. Did I tell you she was gorgeous?

So if this ClickList is going to become ‘the thing’ just like using plastic instead of paper or education from afar or cold pizza in cardboard boxes, then I’ll try and adapt. If my order can be delivered to my doorstep the way milk and a newspaper used to be then I’ll adjust to being spoiled.

Now if I can find someone who can bring in the daily meal, cook it to my liking and clean up the mess, eating would become a joy.

Maybe this is what nursing homes are for?

Bridges

 

There is talk going around about spending a pile of cash on fixing up the ‘infrastructure’. That is more than patching potholes. Infrastructure is the bones of the country. Them underground pipes that bring up tap water and takes away out poop. Them wires that hang overhead that brings us juice to run the television and computer and refrigerator and hair dryers and anything else we can plug in and tune on. Them airports are still using 1940 radar to figure out where them giant birds are. Them highways and byways and all the lanes and streets that get our soon to be obsolete fossil fuel vehicles from place to place and back again. Them crumbly about to fall down bridges.

Unless you are on one of them eternal spans, you might not notice a bridge. A bridge is nothing more than a road that goes over a ditch or a stream or a river or a lake or another road. The key word here is ‘over’.

I live in a river town. The picture above is the only bridge I’ve ever crossed riding. I used to take classes across the river and would zoom down at one end and crawl up the other twice a day. Even back then, the bridge that was called the ‘Nickel Bridge’ (actuality the Boulevard Bridge but might now be the Arthur Ash Boulevard Bridge or the Quarter Bridge or the Buck and a Half Bridge or a Bitcoin Bridge) because there was a tollbooth where you paid a nickel to cross the bridge. Obviously I never paid a nickel.

The bridge was old then. The 2,030’ span carried State Route 161 across the river. It was constructed in 1925.

When the traffic was heavy (since it was a two lane bridge) I’d walk my bike on the narrow sidewalk, many times jumping over holes looking down on the rocks below.

Did I tell you I have vertigo?

Let me tell you of another bridge. This bridge was built in my lifetime and I’ve have used it everyday.

Where I grew up was a post-WWII suburb. Every house looked alike and all the rest. Four blocks east of my house were the railroad tracks. They were in a ditch in the ground and there was a two-lane bridge over them. My father crossed that bridge everyday going and coming from work downtown on the bus. The same #41 bus would take me downtown on weekends and bring me home the same route. When I went to Jr. High I walked across that bridge twice a day for three years. When I went to college I crossed that bridge for most part of four years.

As a kid, we’d play under that bridge (before homeless people came). We’d venture through the brambles and vines on the hill and throw rocks at the Florida Express train. It was also a wonderful place to get away from the world. It had a wonderful sound of the traffic overhead and the wheels on the tracks below.

Most of my life was spent going west, but I had friends who lived on the ‘other side of the tracks’. It was a boundary.

In the 70’s it was decided to widen the ditch and build a highway on both sides of the railroad tracks. The three bridges in my neighborhood had to be replaced.

By this time I was living on the ‘other side of the tracks’ so it didn’t bother me much. By the late 70’s I moved back to my old neighborhood and enjoyed the new shiny bridge with plenty of room for traffic and me.

For the next twenty something years I walked, rode a bus or bike across that bridge in every kind of weather, day and night.

Every now and then when I cross this bridge, I see cracks and uneven pavement. There are places where water becomes ponds and I am more than ready to get across.

This is just one bridge on one stretch of road in one town.

Hope you make it to the other side of the tracks.