Okay, one of the requirements of writing a regular column is that the writer must eventually, if not often, produce what I call “a column of random disconnected observations because you couldn’t string 750 words together in a coherent fashion.”
So. Things lately that have driven me crazy:
Thankfully short lived, but that Facebook app that allowed someone, the Russians, I think, to take a young or current photo of yourself and turn it into what one would look like in 30 years.
This internet “rage” seemed to come and go quite quickly. Perhaps it truly frightened people to see a youthful visage turned into a face exhibiting the ravages of time. I saw not one young photo turned into some sort of silver fox or foxette.
I was not tempted. I keep a large photo of my late mom and dad on my dresser to remind me of the march of time. No thank you, Facebook.
As I have previously written in this space, I’ve done a lot of traveling the last few months and have visited a number of large cities. When did the powers that be decide that America’s sidewalks need to be littered with the corpses of recently used scooters?
The premise seems to be that you have a scooter account on your credit card, grab a vacant one (there’s one lying approximately 10 feet in front and behind you), and scoot to one’s destination. Upon arrival, just drop the personal vehicle at the spot. You know it’s okay because there are five or six scooter brothers and sisters lying randomly at the entrance to the business before you.
OK, now a way too easy target, but I am going to be very specific.
You’ve been there. The three-hour flight has landed, the pilot’s welcoming voice intones the location (insert your destination city here) and also announces the temperature at your arrival spot.
Everyone knows the rules. The plane grows quiet. All eyes are focused on the exit door as if uncertain that, unlike so many times before, the door will mysteriously remain closed. Forever.
Then, the ding. As if it were Churchill Downs all occupants of aisle seats leap up, open the overhead bins, and then, then … they just stand there.
Kids. The way a plane works is the folks closest to the main exit get to leave first. They leave after they’ve grabbed their bags, carry-ons and infant children. No matter how quickly you leap to your feet, you are NOT going to suddenly leap over approximately one hundred souls and miraculously find yourself sprinting up the jet way and into the closest Cinnabon.
Oh, I hear you! I have a connection and the flight is running behind. I may not make Aunt Josephine’s anniversary party if I don’t make the flight.
Beauregard, you are standing in the aisle next to your seat, 34C. There is a small symphony orchestra between you and the door.
Lately I’ve had folks barge by me as I’ve stood upon my turn in the exodus. Not even an “excuse me.” I hope your baggage ends up in Manitoba.
OK, another easy target. Prepare your weapons, grammar snipers!
At my favorite Los Lunas, New Mexico, café this week, I enjoyed my usual smothered in green chili. Satisfied, I ambled toward the exit. Something made me look up and there the sign beckoned: Restroom’s.
Restroom’s what? Restroom’s door? Restroom’s hallway? What, apostrophe, are you modifying?
Of course, erudite readers, you know the answer: Restrooms. Two of them. Plural, sans apostrophe.
I’ve mentioned my madness-inducing store sign in Atlanta with the insane label before. “Fish Only. Birds, too.” I’m not even going to go there today.
Take these lessons to heart, dear readers. Human civilization is in your hands.