Do you ever see a car advertised for a low price in the newspaper? Then when you go to the dealer, you find out it has two dozen rebates you don’t qualify for? What the heck is a farm bureau rebate in the city? Or a public safety rebate? Maybe they will have a pregnant giraffe rebate next time? All of these rebates should be disclosed in the ads before you even get out of your easy chair.
Finally when you go into the dealership and sit down with them to buy the car, then they try to tack on an advertising fee. Oh and don’t forget the doc fee, because we all know how hard it is to fill out the paperwork to make a sale. Just give me the paperwork and I will fill it out. They can pay me the $150.00 instead.
Another pet peeve of mine is the low or good miles listed in a used car ad. Why not just list the mileage? What is good miles vs. low miles? To a dealer 100,000 miles may be low miles or to a customer 25,000 miles listed on the odometer may be low. They could easily just put the actual odometer mileage in the ad without the BS. We figure from there.
Do dealers think that if a vehicle is listed in a used car ad as having low or good mileage and you end up in the showroom only to find the car has a 150,000 miles that you are going notice? Or how about when they list the used car as being better than new? Better than new! WTF! Who thinks a used car is better than a brand spanky shiny new one?
I don’t know about you but I am going to try and find a pregnant giraffe so I can qualify for the next dealer rebate….
When I was little I had the honor of growing up in a family that watched a lot of tv. We were also one of the first cable subscribers in our area. We have been Cable customers since 1974. When I think of week ends of my childhood I remember specifically mostly on Sundays, watching the greats of old comedies, and eating eggs, linguisa (italian sausage), and breakfast potatoes. I love old comedy. My earliest memories include, “our gang” (aka little rascals), Laurel and Hardy, the three stooges, Marx Brothers, I love Lucy, and Ma and Pa Kettle.
I really like Ma and Pa Kettle because in certain ways they remind me of my grand parents. Their comedy was really off the wall. It is very similar to some of the comedy of today. Below I have some information about Ma and Pa Kettle via Wikipedia as well as a video of how they do math.
Ma and Pa Kettle are comic characters who first appeared in the 1945 novel The Egg and I by Betty MacDonald about life on a chicken farm. She based them on real-life farming neighbors in Washington state, U.S.A. In 1947, Universal Pictures adapted it into a film starring Claudette Colbert and Fred MacMurray, with Marjorie Main and Percy Kilbride as the Kettles. After positive audience reaction, Ma and Pa Kettle and their fifteen children became the subject a series of their own very popular comic films.
Pa (Franklin Kettle, played by Percy Kilbride) is a gentle, slow-speaking, slow-thinking and lazy man. His only talents appear to be avoiding work and winning contests. Ma (Phoebe Kettle, played by Marjorie Main) is a robust country woman with a potato sack figure, raucous, more ambitious and smarter than Pa, but not by much, and can easily be fooled. She is content with her role as mother to fifteen rambunctious, mischievous children on their ramshackle farm in rural Cape Flattery, Washington state. Because she has so many children, Ma Kettle sometimes gets their names confused. A misspelled sign “Be-ware of childrun” is posted in front of the farmhouse to warn unwanted visitors of hurled rocks, projectiles from slingshots, pea shooters and other missiles from the rowdy and unpredictable Kettle brood.
In the first film of the series, Ma and Pa Kettle, the family moves into a modern home with numerous electronic gadgets that Pa has won in a tobacco slogan writing contest. As the series continued, various reasons were devised to have the family relocate to the “old place”, sometimes for extended periods of time.
Much of the comedy is cornball humor arising from preposterous situations, such as Pa being mistaken for a wealthy industrialist (“P.A. Kettle” in Ma and Pa Kettle at Waikiki, 1955) or being jailed after he accidentally causes race horses to eat feed laced with concrete (Ma and Pa Kettle at the Fair, 1952). (Wikipedia)
Because I have worked in advertising in countries around the world, I am familiar with the practice of multinational organisations who re-use TV commercials in different markets and over-dub them in the local language. This produces cringe-enducing howlers from time to time, one of which was brought to my attention this morning by John Ward of Not Born Yesterday and The Slog fame in his weekend Slogger’s Review Bar. I just had to share it with you.
This classic from Gaviscon comes under John’s “In The Media” headline. I’m not sure how it works, but my guess is that the storyboard he has shown is an English language commercial, translated into some foreign tongue and then back again to English to demonstrate the mistakes that ESL (English as a Second Language) produces from time to time.
If you can’t come up with Pants on Fire nominees to add to my previous post you might find the opportunity to post examples of ESL irresistable. With stuff like this out there we could start a whole new blog!
According to a report by auto research website Edmunds.com, Ford Motor Co. (NYSE: F – News) has become the second-biggest automaker in the U.S. behind General Motors. With this, Ford has overtaken Toyota Motor Corp. (NYSE: TM – News) in the wake of Toyota’s damaging parade of recalls.
According to the website, Toyota is expected to lose more than 1 percentage point of the U.S. market share to hit 16.45% in 2010 due to its global recall of 8.5 million vehicles related to their problem accelerator gas pedals and braking systems. Meanwhile, Ford is expected to achieve 16.57% of the market in the year following General Motors with 18.12% of the market.
I can remember sitting on our back-porch steps with my next-door neighbor. I was driving a 1952 Plymouth and he was tooling along in his 1951 Chevy. We were both about eight years old and never gave a thought to drag racing. We were just enjoying driving side by side through the colorful countryside.
Other memories include riding a bicycle and pretending it was a horse, or motorcycle… depending on the game we were playing at the time.
Most of the boys I grew up with had very few toys. The one exception was Donny Yarling. I think that was his last name. As I recall, he was big into Captain Video and had space helmets, ray guns, and numerous other space-related items.
Donny didn’t play outside much, and his family moved away when we were all very young. I don’t recall him ever letting us play with his toys, so we weren’t all that heartbroken when he left.
My parents didn’t allow us to have toy guns – except on the Fourth of July. Therefore, we pretended to have guns whenever we played “war” or “cowboys and Indians”. The cap guns we were given for Independence Day were only a small part of our arsenal. We were also given hammer type devices with feathered tops. We’d place a cap or two in the head of the hammer, press in the feathered top, and smack the hammer on a concrete block. That would cause the caps to explode and the feathered top to go sailing through the air.
Come to think of it, I’m surprised my mother allowed us to play with such things. We could’ve put an eye out!
The other Fourth of July “play things” were the sparklers. One of our parents or older sibling would provide the flame to ignite the stick. We’d then twirl it around and be dazzled by the light. We were easily amused. I’m not sure what I pretended as I flashed my sparkler around, but I’m sure my vivid imagination had me fighting a foreign enemy with a sword or something. Had “Star Wars” been around back then, that sparkler would have quickly turned into a light saber.
As an adult, I often wonder how much we relied on our imaginations simply because we had so few toys. I watch my grandchildren play with their toys (I should say their abundance of toys) and realize there is still a good bit of pretending involved.
One thing the children up north don’t have to do right now is pretend there is snow on the ground.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are centered around the many hills in Western Pennsylvania and the abundance of snow. We would ride our sleds for hours… on city streets!
I never measured the distance, but we had a course that would’ve done Olympic bob-sledders proud. We’d start at the intersection of Stratmore and Hollywood streets. We’d sled down Hollywood, across Arnold, and circle around to where Hollywood ran into Arnold a second time.
If we had enough speed, we’d make the turn onto Arnold and continue in the direction of Hollywood until our momentum finally died away. Then, we’d pull our sleds up Ford Street and walk along Stratmore to Hollywood and repeat the run.
One time, just to be different, I went down Ford Street with the intention of turning up Arnold. I missed the turn and slid into the curb. With bloody lips, I dragged my sled back up the hill and returned to the Hollywood run. By the time I got back to the top of the hill, the bleeding had stopped, so I just kept on going.
Often times, in the summer, we’d find ourselves really missing the snow and sledding. That’s when we would walk down to Bodnar’s Appliance store and get a cardboard refrigerator box.
There used to be a vacant lot at the corner of Stratmore and Ford. We never thought they’d build a house there because the lot was basically a cliff – great for sliding down the hill in a box or on a snow disc, but not really suitable for a home with a lawn.
Our favorite sport was to load five or six boys in the box, and then roll it sideways down the hill, Our bodies would be bouncing and rolling over one another until we came to a sudden stop at the bottom. Cut lips, bloody noses, and black eyes didn’t discourage us one bit. We’d drag the box back to the top and do it again… and again… and again… until the box was torn to shreds.
I just realized I’m pretending to be back in that box. Or maybe I’m sitting with my friend on the back-porch steps driving my 1952 Plymouth through the countryside.
I live in San Lorenzo California, which is a small community. The next town over is San Leandro. I have a bunch of photos that I found on Ebay, and found their location via Google Maps. I thought it would be cool to do a before and after. I always think about places in San Lorenzo, Hayward, and San Leandro and how they may have looked when they were first built or the changes that were made around some of the still standing buildings and local historical landmarks. I think its interesting how much things have changed just during my life.
East 14th Street
East 14th Street
East 14th Street/ 144th Ave
Hesperian Blvd and Olive Ave
San Leandro Blvd and Williams St
Estudillo Ave
Here are a few postcards of what would be Washington Ave and East 14th Street (All of this has been torn down.)
Below you can see the bus stop area and also that Washington Ave does no longer go through, instead runs right into the shopping centers parking lot.
I know that most of you won’t recognize the places in these photographs, but I did this to try to spark the interest to see what your surroundings once looked like way back when. I hope you enjoyed the photos. If you have any before and after photos like this I am interested in seeing them.
Valentine’s Day or Saint Valentine’s Day is a holiday celebrated on February 14 by many people throughout the world. In the English-speaking countries, it is the traditional day on which lovers express their love for each other by sending Valentine’s cards, presenting flowers, or offering confectionery. The holiday is named after two among the numerous Early Christian martyrs named Valentine. The day became associated with romantic love in the circle of Geoffrey Chaucer in the High Middle Ages, when the tradition of courtly love flourished.
The day is most closely associated with the mutual exchange of love notes in the form of “valentines”. Modern Valentine symbols include the heart-shaped outline, doves, and the figure of the winged Cupid. Since the 19th century, handwritten notes have largely given way to mass-produced greeting cards.[1] The sending of Valentines was a fashion in nineteenth-century Great Britain, and, in 1847, Esther Howland developed a successful business in her Worcester, Massachusetts home with hand-made Valentine cards based on British models. The popularity of Valentine cards in 19th century America, where many Valentine cards are now general greeting cards rather than declarations of love, was a harbinger of the future commercialization of holidays in the United States.[2] It’s considered one of the Hallmark holidays.
The U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that approximately one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide, making the day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year, behind Christmas. The association estimates that, in the US, men spend on average twice as much money as women.[3]
Saint Valentine
Numerous early Christian martyrs were named Valentine.[4] The Valentines honored on February 14 are Valentine of Rome (Valentinus presb. m. Romae) and Valentine of Terni (Valentinus ep. Interamnensis m. Romae).[5] Valentine of Rome[6] was a priest in Rome who suffered martyrdom about AD 269 and was buried on the Via Flaminia. His relics are at the Church of Saint Praxed in Rome.[7] and at Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin, Ireland.
Valentine of Terni[8] became bishop of Interamna (modern Terni) about AD 197 and is said to have been killed during the persecution of Emperor Aurelian. He is also buried on the Via Flaminia, but in a different location than Valentine of Rome. His relics are at the Basilica of Saint Valentine in Terni (Basilica di San Valentino).[9]
The Catholic Encyclopedia also speaks of a third saint named Valentine who was mentioned in early martyrologies under date of February 14. He was martyred in Africa with a number of companions, but nothing more is known about him.[10]
No romantic elements are present in the original early medieval biographies of either of these martyrs. By the time a Saint Valentine became linked to romance in the fourteenth century, distinctions between Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni were utterly lost.[11]
In the 1969 revision of the Roman Catholic Calendar of Saints, the feastday of Saint Valentine on February 14 was removed from the General Roman Calendar and relegated to particular (local or even national) calendars for the following reason: “Though the memorial of Saint Valentine is ancient, it is left to particular calendars, since, apart from his name, nothing is known of Saint Valentine except that he was buried on the Via Flaminia on February 14.”[12] The feast day is still celebrated in Balzan (Malta) where relics of the saint are claimed to be found, and also throughout the world by Traditionalist Catholics who follow the older, pre-Vatican II calendar.
The Early Medieval acta of either Saint Valentine were excerpted by Bede and briefly expounded in Legenda Aurea.[13] According to that version, St Valentine was persecuted as a Christian and interrogated by Roman Emperor Claudius II in person. Claudius was impressed by Valentine and had a discussion with him, attempting to get him to convert to Roman paganism in order to save his life. Valentine refused and tried to convert Claudius to Christianity instead. Because of this, he was executed. Before his execution, he is reported to have performed a miracle by healing the blind daughter of his jailer.
Legenda Aurea still providing no connections whatsoever with sentimental love, appropriate lore has been embroidered in modern times to portray Valentine as a priest who refused an unattested law attributed to Roman Emperor Claudius II, allegedly ordering that young men remain single. The Emperor supposedly did this to grow his army, believing that married men did not make for good soldiers. The priest Valentine, however, secretly performed marriage ceremonies for young men. When Claudius found out about this, he had Valentine arrested and thrown in jail. In an embellishment to The Golden Legend provided by American Greetings, Inc. to History.com and widely repeated, on the evening before Valentine was to be executed, he wrote the first “valentine” himself, addressed to a young girl variously identified as his beloved,[14] as the jailer’s daughter whom he had befriended and healed,[15] or both. It was a note that read “From your Valentine.”[14]
My skin had a fresh South Florida tan, still requiring a daily coat of aloe when I moved to Midtown in Atlanta, Georgia in the winter of 1993. I was unprepared in body, mind, spirit and wardrobe for the infamous blizzard in late March, a mere two weeks after I arrived. This was too far outside my comfort zone. And even after my third nip from a passing flask of whiskey in Piedmont Park I couldn’t bring myself to join the locals in many swift, drunken hurtles down a snow-covered hill on stolen street signs and restaurant food trays and crashing them into near-by Dogwood trees.
It should have been a magical weekend unlike anything this panhandle princess ever dared to experience but my thin skin wasn’t ready for the frigid weather and I spent my extreme yet short winter hiding in my apartment with the heat on high; safe in my comfort zone out of the elements.
I remember waking one day of the far side of April and opening my windows to a glorious temperature. A wondrous breeze filled my tiny apartment: the perfect temperature, humidity and barometric pressure. I sat down with my cup of store-brand coffee and stared at the leaves and the sky in reverence, half expecting a trio of blue birds to alight upon my windowsill to sing me a song of spring.
Later that same flawless southern day, as my land lord was fixing a light switch, my perfection ended abruptly. Noisy air-conditioners clanked on throughout the neighborhood. So many windows slammed shut down 8th Street it seemed to echo into forever.
“What was that?” I questioned my land lord.
“That was spring.” He answered, quite simply.
Spring sprang, then sprung.
Summers in Atlanta are as long as the list of streets with Peachtree in the name and even the most reclusive, yours truly, could not endure the solitude it took to keep heat stroke at bay. I wasted many hours categorizing as many different words for heat as Eskimo’s have for snow. Thick, wet, scorching, painful, smoggy, blasting, roasting, evaporating, fatal…etc…
One particularly hellish day (there’s another word) I peered from my darkened apartment at the visible swelter through drawn drapes. It looked hot. But I’d spent the last few eye-ball simmering Saturdays inside rotting my brain with westerns and Matlock reruns. Even I couldn’t take another squint-eyed, cigar-smoking, trail-dust covered moment of the genius that is Clint Eastwood, so this was clearly borderline madness.
Would I hole up again in the chilled sanctity of my abode, air-conditioning so high I could lose my smaller appendages to frostbite? Or would I race to the car, hissing at the sun like the undead, so I could meet with my boyfriend Steve at the local pub, again, doing our part for local beer sales?
I wasn’t really looking forward to the usual early afternoon buzz, but it was better then another wasted day in my 20X20 foot living room. I added one more term for heat to the category, ‘boring heat’ and ‘hissssss’ I fled from my apartment and the boredom that surpassed my fear-based desire for comfort.
As I approached my minimally-insured oven in my parking space, I could see the driver’s seat, molten and bubbling, forming little imitation leather islands on the car seat with black sand beaches and everything. I reached for the door handle with my now print-less fingertips and flung open the car door. I recoiled in pain from the blasting fumes of fermented to-go cups and whatever was rotting in that Styrofoam box and I checked if my eyebrows were still there.
The unforgiving sun forced my decision over grilling my legs or a stewing death by vitamin D poisoning. And since my parking lot didn’t have frosty glasses or this week’s issue of Creative Loafing, I favored a nice medium to medium rare with ‘FO’ charred onto the back of one leg and ‘RD’ on the other. But backwards, so it read DROF.
I’m sure if I was anywhere else but Midtown, people would think it was some weird scarification thing they were too OTP to understand. But, no; as I entered the pub, the bartender pointed at my welted fanny and said,
“So, I see you got your Taurus fixed.”
“Kiss my DROF.” I replied and picked a seat at the bar beneath the air vent.
I demanded ice cold beer to decrease the swelling in my brain and a trendy weekly circular for when my vision and motor skills returned.
“What are you doing to stay cool today?” The bartender asked as he placed a pitcher of beer and an icy mug on the bar top next to a tattered weekly circular.
“Looking for plane tickets to Australia,” I replied breathlessly fanning myself with the paper. The bartender looked confused. So I clarified, “Its winter there.”
I’m not sure if he understood but he left and I caressed myself with the frosty mug like an over-sexed beer commercial that didn’t quite make it past Standards and Practices.
When Steve arrived, late and sweaty as usual, I asked him what he planned for us that day. He silently filled his beer. I knew what that meant. I was looking at what his plans for us were today. It wasn’t a bad start to a Saturday afternoon. But sharing a pitcher of beer was what we were supposed to do while deciding what to do for the day. Right?
A monotonous hour, one pitcher of beer and a few redundant Bevis and Butthead impersonations later, I felt a strange thing happen to my face. My lower lip grew heavier and began to protrude. My forehead crinkled and wrinkled and I heard a weird tone in my voice as I said:
“I wanna do something fun.”
“Don’t pout about it.” Steve replied, “Open the paper and find us something to do tonight.” He waved for another pitcher of beer as my lower lip grew;
“Not tonight. Today.” I whined.
Steve glared at me and in a few more testy words I was questioning whether or not he was going to leave that barstool to trot to the can. Maybe locking myself in a tiny apartment every weekend doing my best interpretation of a dormant cave fish had taken its toll on my social etiquette and sanity. I said, a bit too loud, the most unbelievable string of words a person could utter according to the look on Steve’s face:
“Well, I don’t care how hot it is. I’m bored with this place.”
Man, you could have heard a feather hit the frigging floor. I saw pitchforks raising and torches blazing out of the corner of my eye. I was waiting to be stoned to death by angry, loyal pub patrons for my blasphemy as Steve moved his barstool away from me ever so much.
I cast a needful gaze at the side door. I knew if it wasn’t unlocked I was going to have to break through the plate glass window Kung-fu style to make it out of there with my life. But then, brave, stupid or bored beyond reason, I knew I could not spend another day trapped inside a stale climate-controlled environment. And with a psychotic twitch in my left eye, I demanded Steve’s answer;
“I’m going to the park and walk around at the art festival. Are you coming with me?” Steve dismissed me politely. Well, maybe not that politely; thus my snide response, “Typical.”
And I stood up tall. I chugged my beer like it was my last meal. With my boldest stride towards the exit daggers of disbelief from patrons and employees alike shredded my DROF-engraved backside as two Goths dragged themselves from outside to the bar, dehydrated and weak. They had chanced a decent make-up job against a mad dash to the pub and lost. I added ‘melting heat’ to my growing list.
“P…B…R…” One Goth gasped through charred lungs and chapped lips to the bartender, “P…B…R!”
With the speed and precision of a paramedic I watched the bartender dispatch two large cans of beer to the bar and the Goths both guzzled half the beer down and dumped the rest on their steaming skulls.
I turned my concerned gaze back to the front door. Damn. It was going to be a perilous heat. P.e.r.i.l.o.u.s…
But now everybody was watching me, daring me with their scowling eyes and I boldly exited my sanctuary and I heard the words from some wise guy;
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of death…” And the tinted door to my comfort zone closed behind me.
I’ve heard it said that Atlanta is a city built in a forest. So the Valley of Death must be those few blocks I had to walk to get to the park. There were no trees to shade the sidewalks so they blinded me with their midday gleam. I had only the familiar scent of a near-by drycleaners and the high-pitched beep omitting from the pedestrian signal guiding the blind across the bustling intersection.
Curiously I examined my cement path ahead through vision-impairing heat-vapors. I listened again.
Somewhere over and beyond the rumble of traffic whizzing by me on the right I could vaguely hear a drumbeat. For a moment I thought it was merely another Fulton County driver field testing for seismic activity in the metropolitan area with the newest rap CD but as I made my way closer to the park, it grew steadily louder. Slowly I heard the melodic wail of a wind instrument until I knew it was a flute, tweeting wildly and joined by the feral chiming of tambourines.
My feet grew anxious, if such a thing can happen. Maybe it was just the heat affecting my brain;
“Hurry!” My feet told my burning lungs. “Wanna go there!”
Ahead of me was the Tenth and Monroe crosswalk. My feet hadn’t been on this corner yet.
And across the Valley of Death in this unexplored part of Midtown, was a new and personally undiscovered breed of human being that looked like they actually planned this outing; light-colored clothing and brimmed hats, reeking of SPF 5000 and citronella and toting cold purified H2O in reusable, environmentally friendly, color-coordinated bottles. And if I wasn’t mistaken; they were looking forward to their day in the stifling blaze.
I was considering doubling-back to my comfortable apartment to beg for Clint’s steel-eyed forgiveness. But the infectious music pulled me up Tenth Street, towards a tree-dotted haven bustling with vendors of crafts, creations, cooked delights and sweaty city-dwellers. I saw the line of tented booths and my mind began to wander towards the colorful merchandise.
My feet reminded me;
“Hey, DROF! Music? That way.”
I herded into the park with the other bi-peds and followed the drumbeat to a crowd gathered around something happening that I couldn’t quite see. But I could hear the music calling me and my anxious feet. I pressed through the thick circle of entertained onlookers. A crushed toe here, a lock of my long hair snagged there, one; ‘hey pal, keep your hands to yourself,’ and I found my way to the center.
It was a-whirl with colored cloths and netting, feathers and urban-jungle hair upon what appeared to be a dozen child-like wood-nymphs frolicking in the sun.
‘Marvelous.’ I thought, my eyes darted unfocused at the young and limber and exuberant dancers spinning around circle. I even released a light giggle at the truest expression of freedom I had ever seen. But I realized there was a plot amidst what I thought was merely a splendid chaos.
There was some kind of fox, by the look of the performer’s fake pelt and tail, dashing around to the beat of the drum or the chirp of the flutes. A group of mighty hunters rhythmically charged and chased the fox in tempo around the performance circle. The mighty hunters lost track when the fox slipped slyly into the crowd. They searched high and low and even as the fox pulled a pretty teenage girl from the crowd and hid behind her, attempting an escape across the circle, the mighty hunters of course could not see the fox behind the lovely victim.
Suddenly a hippie burst theatrically into the performance circle. Donned in a dingy rock and roll t-shirt, flip-flops and faded burgundy bell-bottoms and tangled sun-kissed hair, he was a flash-back of great beauty, but there was a ‘crap this is going to be bad’ feeling flowing through the crowd. For only a brief moment.
The hippie easily picked up the beat and joined the hunters in their search as the fox slowly crept across the circle hidden behind his giggling victim. The hippie was given an invisible spear by another hunter and the hippie began to dash in and out of the excited crowd; his frizzy, long-haired head popped up between people as he dramatically scoured the horizon for the fox.
Suddenly the hippie burst from the crowd directly behind the fox. He pulled back his invisible spear and charged. The startled fox darted away and the crowd was over-joyed when the hippie began to lead the hunters in a dancing pursuit back around the perimeter.
But the fox had grown tired and the hippie soon cornered the fox between himself and the mighty hunters. The hippie charged the fox with his invisible spear and invisibly pierced the fox’s belly. The fox clenched in invisible pain and then laid dead. The hippie poked the fox once then seized the fake fox pelt and tail from the performer’s shoulders and held it high and victoriously. The mighty hunters danced around the perimeter of the cheering mob with honor to the hippie, triumphantly sporting his furry trophy.
The heroic hippie’s march stopped at the lovely teenage girl he rescued from the fox and dropped to one knee before her. He pointed gallantly to the sky, to his heart, then to her and presented her with the fox’s pelt as a token of his love. She accepted the pelt with a nod as the performers danced again, now in apparent celebration of a wedding. The hippie offered the pretty girl his elbow and led her to the edge of the circle.
Then the hippie turned and bowed to his grateful audience. With a humble sweep of his hand he honored his fellow performers. He bowed to his leading lady and kissed her hand good-bye before he disappeared into the applauding crowd without uttering a word.
I dabbed the tears of viewing perfection from my eyes and let my feet take me out of the performance circle. I found my way to the hill atop the park with activity and life and people milling around below me.
Then I cursed myself for wasting so many days in my protective comfort zone, away from that which I assured myself was harsh and unbearable. I spent so much time cowering in my climate-controlled environment and not stepping out into the elements, into the experience of life, in fear of getting weathered.
I was wishing I had the brass below to throw myself so confidently into life like that brilliant hippie when my cell phone rang. It was Steve.
“Me and the guys are going to see a movie in a while.” Steve said, obviously expecting me to invite myself out of the heat, “Do you want me to get you a ticket?”
“No thanks,” I replied, “I don’t feel like seeing a movie.”
“Are you going to come back to the pub and hang out?” I could hear his subtle pout.
“No. I’m good.” I said, but there was a long pause to comprehend that, then Steve asked;
“Aren’t you hot?”
I looked around at the sights to see and listened to the sounds to hear and smelled the aromas to smell. I smiled when I saw the hippie playfully chasing a few ecstatic giggling children around on the hilltop. Though I knew I could never pull off spontaneous performance art without a second chancing of being on the bad end of a village stoning, I knew that I had already stepped outside my comfort zone to live life despite the heat.
“No,” I said, “I’m just getting comfortable out here.”
I was smiling as I hung up and walked onward, looking for another bottle of cold water and some of that SPF 5000 I smelled on everybody, maybe some funnel cake. It looked like I was going to be out there a while, roasting my DROF off, happily enjoying myself in the wonders outside my comfort zone.
Below you can see the bus stop area and also that Washington Ave does no longer go through, instead runs right into the shopping centers parking lot.