Trash Tells a Story

If the FBI had a search warrant for my house, they would find these things in a bin that I use for scrap metal recycling.

Back at FBI HQ, they might have an analyst pore over these artifacts and reconstruct my activities over the past few months to find out whether I committed the crimes for which I am a suspect.

I sure hope to be exonerated. I would not do well in the joint.

Google

I went to the App Store looking for the Google app to download to my iPhone. Why? Well, that is not important right now.

I found the app. Before I hit the download icon, I saw this on my screen.

Now I'm no fraidy-cat and I'm no pussy. But this made my head explode. And I know I can live without the Google app.

I put my phone in the washing machine and set it for SCRUB HARD.

Maybe Google already knows everything about me. It's all out there in cyberspace, right? But I didn't sign up for that. At least I don't think I did.

But, oh the hundreds of times I have blown right through the terms and conditions! Christ.

I'm screwed. My reputation is shot. They know what I did last night.

Peanuts

 Two days after my 11^th birthday*, my dad took me to a baseball game.  Maybe to some kids this would not be a memorable event.  To me, it was Disneyland and the Super Bowl with cherries on top.

I listened to the St. Louis Cardinal broadcasts pretty regularly.  Well, second-hand listened, anyway – stepfather Russel listened on the family radio, and in a small house that meant everybody listened.  The Cardinals certainly got in my head and my heart, and I rejoiced when my hero Stan Musial hit a homer.  The flip side of the same coin is that I moped when the “Birds” lost.

 

Sportsman’s Park was a place I’d only heard about.  Now I was there! Damn, was I excited.

 

On the way to our seats, we had to pass under an overhead walkway the players used to get from the clubhouse to the dugout.  Some of the players would linger there, signing autographs for the fans.  This particular day, a player I didn’t know by sight (there were many of those, it being before TV showed us what the players look like) was signing autographs, so I handed up my scorecard.  It came back with the signature of a little-known utility player named Peanuts Lowrey.  I wished it could have been Musial.  Oh, well.

 

The game was tied after nine, so the game went to extra innings.  In the bottom of the eleventh, Musial led off with a double.  With two outs and the bases loaded, a pinch-hitter – Peanuts Lowrey – was called on.  Lowrey hit a line drive to the right-center field wall, scoring the winning run.  Cardinals win.  I’m clutching the autograph of the guy who made the game-winning hit.  I’m there with my dad.

 

I didn’t come down from that high for maybe three years.

The Explanation

I think I need to provide an explanation in advance.

Someday, one of you will find me unconscious and/or dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs, and I won't be able to tell you what happened. So I'll go ahead and tell you now.

I was walking down those stairs, and one of my feet did not quite clear the edge of the step I was on, as I tried to step down. My heel came down on the very edge of the step, and the rest of my foot went down, hyperextending my ankle and causing my body to pitch forward.

If I had been holding the handrail, I might have kept myself from falling. But I wasn't holding the rail because I am not ready to give in to being so old that I can't walk downstairs without holding on.

If there is a memorial service, go ahead and read this explanation to the assembled throng of maybe 5 people.

Don't bother to treat my sprained ankle.

Bummer

People get attached to their homes. Having your home destroyed is a bitter pill. Blown away by a tornado, that would be a bitter pill. Watching the governing authorities flood your home slowly, well, that would be a BITTER pill.

This is happening right now to some people in Turkey. To build a hydroelectric power plant, the Turks moved thousands of people out of their town where they can watch their former homes slowly submerge. 

It's the saddest thing I read/saw today. Just passing it along to bum you out, too.

Needs More Study

I don't have a degree in it, but I have studied mannequinology a bit.

Some have heads.

Some do not.

Some heads have faces.

Some heads are chopped off at the cheekbone.

Some are just weird.

Speaking of weird, some get dressed up (not their fault) like this:

Largely attributable to bigger women protesting the skinny mannequins, there is a trend toward wider ones. I wonder whether the store has to pay more for these. There is more to learn. 

My studies are not complete. 

Selling Your Home?

 If so, you might want to call Cheryl. Or not.

There must be a segment of the population that would, right? 

Methinks Cheryl gets handicapped parking on account of being delusional.