What about the guy in lane #5?

 

It is the Summer Olympics. The ultimate world’s competition event. Fills the news pages and on every screen for billions of eyeballs to watch. Flags wave and cheers from spectators when the athlete comes in first. Or second. Or third. They get medals.

What about the guy in lane #5?

Seems thousands of kids trained and practice for years to obtain a spot on their countries team in efforts to compete against the rest of the world for a chance to win a medal. They are the best-of-the-best to run and jump and swing from metal bars or walk on wood attempting to stand on the podium in the spotlight. Only a split second could separate the 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd place winners. What happens to the 4^th place?

At the end of the day, they count up the medals to reward the country with the most bragging rights…until next time. These kids will grow older and out of shape or lose interest to be replaced by another set of competitors hoping to be #1.

During the Cold War, the sports were nothing more than war games from the Russians against the United States. Supposedly there is more parity throughout the athletes but that lily white runner from Poland doesn’t have a chance in the guy from Kenya. Where are the black riders in the equestrian dressage? Who wants to challenge the Chinese at ping pong?

I won’t purchase any U.S.A. gear or clothing. I won’t take any pride if some kid from Iowa stands atop of the podium. They won’t sell me any cereal. In a couple more weeks, the news will trend to another competition and these kids will have to go back to school or work and practice some more for four more years. No one will remember the bronze winner, much less the guy who came in last.

Maybe viewing the Olympics will get some slugs off the couch to take a walk or for parents to appreciate the energy of their kids wishing some day they could be on television showing off their competition skills with fleeting fame.

The athletic contestants get some gift bags and the memories of having sex on a cardboard bed and eating lots of carbs. Then there are those who trained but didn’t make the cut to even attend the events.

“No Thank You. I’m not hungry”.

 

Maybe it is age? Maybe it is the weather? Whatever it is or isn’t, I’m not hungry. Maybe I’ve eaten everything my taste buds could enjoy to the point; I don’t want them again?

I’ve eaten in some fine restaurants with renowned chefs and enjoyed the cuisine. I’ve eaten at many fast-food joints and greasy slop shops out of paper bags and sugar drinks. I’ve had a wife who studied preparation of meals and purchased all the items needed to prepare a dinner of five-star quality. I even know the basics of searing dead animals on fire and steaming vegetables to perfection, but nothing catches my taste buds anymore.

So, after getting my back tire repaired, I venture off on my usual path to the Tummy Temple as I do every day. Unfortunately, the street repair had dug a ditch and covered with wet gravel that was like quick sand. I dismounted and walked the rest of the way (as I did yesterday). Perhaps uncertainty of balance or not awake yet, I grab a zip cart and enter into the cool room.

The usual blueberries for Gray Jay are retrieved and then I wander as I do, looking for something to stuff in my face.

There is a new $6 salad that looks interesting, but I have leftover fried chicken from yesterday to dispose of. The produce looks fresh, the bread is avoided as is the iced down dead animal. The aisle of sugar drinks has no appeal but I continue to explore.

Tacos? No. Soups? Too hot. Cereal? Requires milk. Noodles? Too filling. Even the ‘Back to School’ supplies look like a return from last year. Shrinkation is all to visual from small bags of chips to soup cans.  

At least after their million dollars refurbish of a new paint job and moving everything about like putting the sushi guys back into the deli grill section, the usual items seem to remain in the same place. One day there are lots of pallets blocking the aisles with no one filling the shelves and the next day they are gone. Seems like the same faces with lack of customer service but I’m not here for personalities.

Onto the frozen food section that has become too familiar since most of what I ‘cook’ is in the microwave. As the glass door windows are dripping in sweat due to the weather. Makes one wonder how ‘fresh’ the boxes of convenience food are?

Rationally knowing that some sort of items called ‘food’ must be consumed every day to fuel the engine that keeps the motion going, but I’m not hungry. No number of oils and sauces can make a plate of ‘food’ appealing and appetizing.

It is not just the Tummy Temple. I wandered down the mall yesterday and got a look at the local fast-food joints. Not only the new taco place or the noodles or the pizza or the sandwich places, the employees looked bored outside as they waited for the lunch hour rush. Not appealing even with all the commercials and signage promising a delicious delight. Show me your menu and plate with sauces or flambe for presentation is everything, but I’ve already seen it or tasted it and now not interested.

I come home with breakfast croissants as a bite size meal and a pint of ice cream for a treat.

What treat are you giving yourself today?

Cars and Trashcans

 

It has been an interesting summer, so far.

It is HOT! (duh). The fans are on. Cold showers are the norm. More naps and less eating and lots of hydration. Plus, lots of rain to make the Commonwealth humid.

Unfortunately, started out the change in season with bodily discomfort. Was it covid? Didn’t take the test, but energy lost, gut problems, can’t sleep and generally feel yucky. Self-medicated with off-the-shelf fixes but it took a month or two to get the body back in order.

Got some steps installed and upgraded my to-do list, but when the heat hit, all motivation stopped. Change a light bulb? I can do that tomorrow.

Stare at the screen and it is all about politics with the election months away and bad weather predictions. Plus, the west seems to be burning up?

Seems like all the neighbors have done all their construction. The neighborhood is quiet again. Only the weekly lawn maintenance companies interrupt the peace. No wild parties or fast driving or even dogs barking. Even the children have gone inside to get out of the heat.

Got new neighbors, but you can’t tell. The only way I know is there are different cars parked. Maybe the old neighbors just bought new cars? I don’t see any of the neighbors climb in their cars, but usually they disappear when they go to work and arrive back in the evening. On holidays, most wander off to a vacation and empties the block. The only other times they move is for street cleaning.

My other way of knowing there are other people living around here are the trashcans. Every Monday the city brings those massive trucks down the alley and hauls aways all our rubbish to some unknown place. The only time I actually see and talk to neighbors is over the trashcans. One can also see what people are spending by their trash.

While summer’s heat does slow the body down, had a few other projects. The water meter was leaking (again). Not a gusher out into the street, but a puddle that wouldn’t stop. A call to the Department of Utilities and recorded the request. Then another call. Then another call. Then another call. Then an email. That got a response, but it still took another month for two trucks and a pile of guys to show up in their yellow vest and hard hats. Don’t know what they did, but the pond dried up and the water bill dropped $100.

After that success, I decided to try going back to the cell phone store to get an explanation of why my bill was so high. Unfortunately, the location was a bit farther than I could pedal, so I asked a friend from a return ride with the promise of a free meal. She had injured herself again, so I asked another automobile driver. He accepted the request so with paper in hand visited a closer Verizon shop with a face-to-face question that I could not get an answer online. A quick conversation, a few clicks of the mouse and my phone bill dropped $60.

Being on a roll, I asked the driver if he would drive me out further to a Guitar Center to see if I could try out this Martin Jr. Bass I’d seen online. I could have it delivered but like dancing partners, I like to hold them first. He obliged and I could wander through the toy store until I found the ‘Martin’ room and on the wall was the treasure I’d searched for. A quick play and I walked out a few $ lighter but with another lady to add to my collection.

Then in one week, a former President vying to return to the White House is shot in the ear, the power blew on a 105° day sitting in the dark with no fan, then ‘the blue screen of death’ shuts down airlines and hospitals, then the President get covid and then steps aside for the Vice President to take the lead. This all following a ship knocking down a bridge and astronauts stranded in space. I’m sure there were tons of other unimportant stuff that happened that I skipped over.

Just to top it off, I get another flat tire.

Another thunder boomer predicted tonight, as if the grass isn’t thick enough, but I have no control over it.

The city did alleviate myself of recycling and the invisible neighbors have disappeared.

A couple more weeks of HOT and politics, with the promise they will both be over soon.

Suspended in Space

 

While sweltering in the southern heat, where no place to go or no other interaction with other humans than this keyboard, hearing all the news of every place in the globe where one group is destroying another group with a daily grind of firing off loud weapons and then counting the bodies then start over again, this story sticks out.

Not the fumbling president or the gold lame felon, but these guys floating in a bubble way up high over us.

When we got bored finding missiles that could be fired at each other with payloads that can destroy cities, we started making satellites that can ping communications back to earth to show us where we are or send us junk mail. If flying to the moon to leave our trash or shooting off songs into the unknown hoping someone will answer and not come down and eat our babies; we decided to build an RV in space for scientist can live and perform experimental studies on how spiders can form webs or how many times that you bounce around in weightlessness before you start slugging your roommates?

Well, the story goes that this latest rocket used to bus astronauts to this space station had a few glitzes. As we all know from previous attempts to blast some folks on the point of a bullet is dangerous and potentially fateful to the passengers.

It seems on this mission, there were a few problems, but they made their destination and were welcomed aboard their new digs for an approximate week. Then mission control found some new problems so the return flight was put on hold.

The space station RV is spinning around the globe at 17,500 mph with a taxi stuck in the parking dock with two more passengers that are like weekend guest that can’t leave.

The great minds and floppy disk computers of the basecamp are rolling over scenarios of possible solutions while the others have to deal with the new sounds and smells of their unintending family. How long have their gifts of chips and salsa worn out? Who is spending more time in the loo? Move over on the bead! Are they sucking up all our air? Wonder how the next load of food is going to get here when the loading dock is full?

I suppose the crew can unlock the broken taxi and send it off into the depths of eternity and hopefully not break any parts for the next supply trailer to arrive. Getting a mechanic up here with replacement parts is more than a Google request.

My hermit mind wanders of those few who look down on our blue marble as stranded in a void. If the bubble burst, all is lost.

We, who are firmly stranded on solid ground, can look up and wonder if those up there are lucky or suspended in space?

Are we next?