It’s far past the time where I write a seat-of-the-pants column, touching on a variety of things that I’ve noticed over the past couple weeks.
Why don’t we do that now.
You lucky ducks you.
It’s been a long time since I’ve mentioned Sue Grove in my column and the other day I got to sit down with her at the Coffee House on Main to talk about an upcoming idea for the newspaper and to basically talk about whatever made it into our heads.
I really like Sue because she compliments me so well in that little-bit-country, little-bit-rock and roll sort of way only in this instance she’s a lot more class and I give running commentary about my cats.
I hate my refrigerator
The other day Janeen and I wandered over to Rochester to accomplish a few things we haven’t been able to the last few months. Among these things was looking at possible replacements for our refrigerator.
Our fridge still works, but sometimes a bit too well. Its got this annoying habit of accounting for a packed fridge by freezing anything that gets shoved too far to the back. Normally, this action victimizes any leafy vegetables: Your lettuce, spinach, whatever happens to be growing in the forgotten Tupperware in the back.
What we realized far too quickly is that a fissure was growing between us as we looked — icecube maker or no. It’s a serious hurdle we’ll have to get over in our relationship, but we did come to one joint conclusion. Neither of us needs to watch TV on our fridge.
Ha! Take that Best Buy and your $4,000 fridge.
Do we really need four-way stops
The first day of the fair, while I was contemplating the long line moving down 12th Street Southwest at an agonizing pace, I wondered: “Do we really need four-way stops?”
It was, after all, the reason why the line stretched to Blooming Prairie and with my estimates I reckoned to be in Lansing by 8 p.m.
Of course, that’s an exaggeration, but the idea the wait conveys made it feel very real. Probably, close to five minutes panned past my car as I crept along, and as I neared the four-way I got caught in an epic struggle that has plagued mankind since the first time two Egyptian chariots arrived at a brick crossroads for the first time.
Two drivers vigorously waved at each other in a furtive gesture to get the other to go first which made me wonder how neither could know who reached the stop first.
As I watched the enthusiastic greetings and the mouthed, “Hello’s” I realized, “I think I just turned 44 during this stalemate.”
I need a horse
Walking through the fair can often be a hassle, especially trying to move through the midway as people race to see who can get the most grease in one night’s span.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m far from a healthy eater, though I’m striving for something better, and I know I eat poorly at the Renaissance Festival, but the route these eateries flank make getting through like a walking version of “Tetris.” You just look for a place to walk and then go for it, adjusting as you go.
And then I saw some of the Mower County Mounted Posse and I had my answer: I needed a horse.
A horse would solve everything and I would take full advantage of it, especially when it starts circulating that a headless rider is running through the fairgrounds throwing Jack-O-lanterns at people.
I can see Sheriff Amazi rolling her eyes in impressed irritation now.
Bikes and killer moths
I love riding my bike home from work these nights, which I’ve started doing in an effort to be a little more healthy and save some gas.
It’s peaceful and allows me to roll through thoughts as I roll through streets and avenues. The down side is like what happened the other night when I rolled into our driveway, dismounted and struggled to find the garage door opener in the black of night.
As I did this a moth, roughly the size of a hawk, glided near my face and fluttered close enough for me to hear and sense its presence.
I love moths, always have, however, when they assail you at night, one has the jerk reflex to break into an interpretive dance of flailing about in the dark, complicated by trying to make sure the bike and you stay upright.
This was my dance this night as I juked and jived and maybe made sounds you only hear out of a wounded cat. Even after my King Kong-like defense of my bike, I still looked around as if I expected to see a studio audience of walkers standing to watch.
Not likely, but I live a charmed life.
Why are the British so cool sounding?
Wednesday afternoon, in an order to make work go smoother, I listened for possibly the 100th time to H.P. Lovecraft’s, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth.”
I love the story and love Lovecraft, but every other version I’ve listened to was not the version I listened to this day — read by a man in a British accent.
I don’t mean to stereotype the British and I for one have gotten past the Revolutionary War [they did some things, we did some things — hey, you all wouldn’t consider letting me back in the empire would you? Just wondering]. But listening to a British accent reading Lovecraft just seems so right for reasons I can’t really explain.
So I hope you enjoy this ride through random. I promise, I’m not this all over the place, but if you promise not to tell I’ll let you in on a little secret.
I really don’t know what I’m doing.