I like to write junk…

It was either 1985 or 1986, that I was driving my family to Lake Havasu City, from Wickenburg, Arizona, on a much-needed vacation. We’d left Phoenix late in the afternoon, and then spent the night in Wickenburg after a giant thunderstorm hit. I didn’t want to take any chances with flooded roads in the area. Never in my life had I seen or heard so much fury from a storm—not even in Kansas.

Driving through Salome the next morning, I noticed a sign painted on side of a building saying, “Salome, Where She Danced.” Not having a clue what that meant, and not knowing who “she” referred to, I too was at the point of dancing after consuming several cups of coffee.

Researching the town of Salome, when we returned home to Alaska, I found the historical information quite interesting. It was a gas and watering stop for travelers back in the day. Another name for this place was Drinkmens Wells. That fictitious namesake came from a 1945 movie titled, “Salome, Where She Danced,” starring Yvonne DeCarlo.

Salome was factually named after one of the founder’s wives, Grace Salome Pratt. Supposedly, she danced after trying to walk across hot sand in bare feet. I know that feeling as well from a popular beach in Florida.

Just a few miles west of Salome, we came to the US 60-70 Café and Truckstop. Stopping to take some photos of the now boarded up place, a door was unlocked. I cautiously walked in with camera in hand. The exterior and interior hadn’t been graffitied up like so many other abandoned dwellings in and around Phoenix. Not considering it to be trespassing, although I was, my intent was to simply document things for posterity’s sake. I’m glad I did.

Slowly taking in the surroundings while on the lookout for snakes and other creepy crawlers, I noticed the counter was totally intact along with some tables still being useable. One of them was turned upside down, and I could see small blobs of ABC gum still dotting the underside of it. ABC gum for those not knowing is: already been chewed gum.

As a child, Mom used to scold me whenever I stuck my hands underneath a restaurant table, knowing better than me what lurked on the dark side of things. I believe this constant lecture on her part all started, when I removed a blob of hardened gum and brought it topside for show-n-tell.

The inside of this café was pretty much intact, and with a good amount of elbow grease and dollars, it could’ve easily been saved. I wrote a poem about the mysterious place and still have it tucked away in a filing cabinet.

Looking the business name up on http://www.newspapers.com, several “help wanted” ads were found as well as a slew of advertisements listing the property for sale. Thirty acres of vacant land went with the building. For a person wanting to work there, one of the ads showed that an apartment was provided.

A 1961 edition of, “The Yuma Daily Sun” newspaper article told a sad story regarding one of the workers. The article started out like this, “Waitress Dies At Salome Café – Eva Edith Momsen, age 58, employee of US 60-70 Café in Salome, died of an apparent heart attack while on the job.”

The following year when we drove back through, with me hoping to snap even more shots, there was nothing left of the place other than concrete where gas and diesel pumps once stood. We actually rolled right on past that morning, and it wasn’t until backtracking that I rediscovered the location.

There’ve been several other buildings I took photos of over the years that are no longer standing. The Riverboat Saloon on the California side of the Colorado is one such establishment. It was loaded with graffiti in the 1990s, and I got the chills just stopping there for a few minutes to take a few pictures.

A former California Highway Patrol officer told me that place was a real haven for criminals back in the day. Judging by location and how this decaying building looked when I last saw it, I understand why.

Quickly darting in this decrepit tavern, I glanced under the shattered remnants of a bar, spotting hardened blobs of gum attached to it like in the US 60-70 Café. Not forgetting any of this, and needing slightly more material for this composition, just recently I decided to research chewing gum as the finishing touch.

In a nutshell, this is what I discovered in an article written from a totally “green” perspective. The information came from an Aspiration newsletter. Aspiration is a climate-change-based, online financial investment company. I didn’t even know there was such an institution until now.

Chewing gum is basically non-biodegradable. A piece of discarded gum can last anywhere from 5 – 1000 years. Most chewing gum products are made from inorganic polyisobutylene, or polyvinyl acetate rubber bases, which are both resistant to biological breakdown processes.

These are the same materials used to make adhesives and tire tubes. They’re designed to be long-lasting for heavy-duty use. That’s why so much chewing gum exists on our sidewalks, benches, and lampposts for months, even years, with very little change in form. In Denmark, a piece of gum chewed some 5700 years ago was discovered during an archaeological dig. The article came to the conclusion that we shouldn’t be chewing gum for health and ecological reasons.

That explains to me why ABC gum in these two businesses remained there years after they’d closed down. According to the same article, 250,000 tons of discarded chewing gum lie in our landfills.

So, what does this all mean to me? I’ve been chewing gum for ages and don’t plan to stop. I chewed gum in school going back to the day when some teachers forbid it. Now, with other more violent things taxing a teacher’s state of mind these days, we don’t hear about gum chewing being condemned anymore.

Offer me some and I’ll take a stick—just make sure it isn’t ABC. I learned not to accept that flavor going back to first grade, perhaps earlier. There are several places to responsibly dispose of chewed gum. Under a restaurant table or on the sidewalk isn’t one of them.

Once all flavor is gone, I generally swallow the remnants. There’s no telling where it will end up after this takes place (pun intended). Getting rid of it this way is more environmentally friendly than sending spent gum to a landfill. Can you see I’m trying to save the planet here?

I didn’t think so!

This blog marks number 400. It’s taken me 15 years to obtain the goal if you can even call it that. I had no particular number in mind when starting, hoping to at least reach 100. The total amount of words of all 400 compositions is 343,021.

In comparison, the exact number of words in the KJV Holy Bible is 783,137. I’m not even halfway to that point. It took several people a period of some 1500 years to complete things for that book. Taking this into consideration, I’m not typing as slow as I think I am.

People in 88 countries have looked at my blog, with over 34,948 reader’s total. That’s hard to imagine and one of the main reasons I’m careful on what I write about.

On the average, it takes me three hours to compose a decent piece. That time includes numerous proofreads and corrections. Taking 400 and multiplying by 3, of course, comes out to 1200 hours total. That in itself equates to 50 days of writing over 15 years if I sat at the keyboard nonstop—24 hours a day. Being that I can’t do it, three-hour days at the computer comes to 400 days, or a little over a year.

From a mechanic’s perspective, normally, it takes me around 3 hours to do a full brake job on American vehicles, that is if I have the parts on hand. Using that number as a guideline and taking the 1200 hours of writing and dividing by 3, I could’ve theoretically performed 400 brake jobs over the past 15 years.

The last brake job, I charged a person $100.  Taking that amount and multiplying by 400 equals $40,000.00. Of course, had I done brake jobs over a decade and a half instead of writing, all of that money in my hands would most likely be gone. I’m thinking if I had that cash now, a Can-Am Maverick X3 RC SXS would be nice, decked out of course.

What I have instead, are 400 different stories. Unfortunately, none of them can be taken to McDonald’s and traded for a cup of coffee.

If I want to reach the number of words in the Bible, I still need to write an additional 440,116. At the rate I plodded along to reach 343,021, it’ll take me another 17 years to reach that goal. I’ll be 89 if I make it. Being that I’m not doing brake jobs anymore, writing seems like the venue to best spend my time. Some seniors paint, do puzzles, beadwork, crochet, or watch TV, but that’s not for me.

If writing keeps me upright—then it’ll be well worth continuing. Perhaps by the time I decide to hang it up, I’ll get one right where spelling and punctuation are concerned!

Someone asked me today if I saw the solar eclipse on April 8. Technically, I was outside looking skyward, yet clouds obscured anything remotely resembling a sun or moon. How was I to answer that question other than, “I tried.”

I’m not one to get excited about such rare celestial occurrences anyway. Researching how many partial and full, lunar and solar eclipses that have taken place since my birth, there’ve been 312, or 4.457 for every year of my life.

A song sung by Roy Hawkins in 1951, titled, “The Thrill is gone.,” immediately comes to mind.  The late blues musician B.B. King sings it best. Lyrics go like this,

“The thrill is gone

It’s gone for good

All the thrill is gone

Baby, it’s gone for good.”

I’m not positive this song meaning relates to watching too many eclipses, but it does for me. Whenever I hear that another eclipse is on the way, it generally goes in one ear and out the other. There’s one exception to this star gazing, and that’s to see Halley’s Comet when it once again passes over earth.

The last time that happened was in 1986, and I was in Alaska. With the skies there being cloudy a good portion of time, I can’t remember if I saw it or not, but it’s highly likely I was outside looking up. I’m not so sure I would’ve even known what it looked like had I saw it. According to NASA, there are over 3,800 comets in our solar system.

Halley’s Comet is set to appear over our planet once again in 2061. Hopefully, I’ll be prepared this time and there’ll be no clouds to hinder observation. Telling my wife this, she said that if I do catch a glimpse, it’ll be from a totally different perspective. That comment took a couple of seconds for me to comprehend.

Yes, she’s right—unless I make it to 107. If not, I’ll be looking down at things instead of up. Fortunately, a person won’t end up with a kinked neck while doing so.

This is the day I turn 70, or the “Platinum Jubilee” as it’s referred to by Grey Poupon users. A big deal to me because of so many things, especially knowing various friends and family didn’t make it this far. No birthday bash or party extravaganza planned. The day will be spent with Joleen and me taking a short hike in the desert and then lunch at Red Robin, only because I have a free burger coming from them. I thank God for so many blessings along the way, especially a loving wife, supportive family, and faithful friends.

STILL KICKIN’

That boy’s still kickin’.

But, not quite as high.

Gait’s a bit slower.

Help needed for eyes.

***

Loved ones departed.

Pets did just the same.

He just keeps walking,

In fear of goin’ lame.

***

Still makin’ memories.

Dexter boots in the sand.

Out hiking vast desert.

With crimson suntan.

***

It’s better to be pokey,

As long as you can.

Than starin’ out windows.

Unable to stand.

***

Happy Birthday, Michael.

Some folks will soon say.

Yet, each waking morning,

Is reason to celebrate.

***

That boy’s still kickin’.

More sunsets to watch.

Keep movin’ forward.

You ancient, Sasquatch!”

Ecclesiastes 9:11

It’s that time of year in Lake Havasu City, when allergens seemingly rise out of the ground, ready to wreak havoc on allergy sufferers. I’m one of those people. Like so many newcomers—I came here blindly thinking that the desert is a great place to escape pollens. Arizona isn’t the only state in which allergies rule the land.

In Alaska, cottonwood trees bloom every few years, sending cotton fluff, seeds, and spores floating throughout the air. Many times, it’s so thick that they totally blanket driveways and parking lots. Trying to mow dry grass with this stuff clinging to it generally leaves me teary eyed and hacking. Kleenex tissues were generally kept wadded up in both pants pockets.

In 1982, we had a tall cottonwood tree in our front yard until a strong Chinook wind took it down, directly on top of two vehicles. The ‘good hands people’ expeditiously took care of that problem. A local oil company was giving away chokecherry tree saplings at this time, and I believed I did the right thing by planting one where the cottonwood once stood.

The chokecherry is now considered an invasive plant in Alaska, and the city of Anchorage went so far as to ban the selling of them within city limits. Ours lasted a good twenty years before another Chinook windstorm along with heavy snow split it in half, this while we were vacationing in Arizona. Today, that part of the yard is void of a tree, which is okay with me, because we no longer own the place.

Getting back to the problem at hand: mesquite trees, or Prosopis glandulosa as they’re botanically called. I wouldn’t lose sleep if our city leaders banned the selling of them. Problem is, I don’t know anyone having purchased a mesquite, since these allergen producers are free for the plucking. Like the Palo Verde, they can inconveniently sprout up on their own.

It’s hard to imagine anyone planting “mesquitos” on purpose. I sometimes use the word mesquitos to describe this pesty species for obvious reason. Mosquitos and mesquitos are things I believe humans can live without.

Mesquite trees grow wildly to the south of our house, and in conjunction with a neighbor’s unkept yard, we have every type of weed imaginable in close proximity to my nose. Because of this—each waking day is spent going through a medicinal regimen to keep allergies at bay.

Quail have taken to these trees as home, and being a lover of birds and wildlife, those now flowering trees can stay for this reason alone. If it wasn’t for this, the mesquites near my place would be eliminated through an act of nature, namely an axe.

Of course, some will emphatically tell me that honeybees need those trees as well, and they were here long before I was. Having a sarcastic and off-the-wall response for these folks, I’d quickly reply back with the title of an old Beatle’s song, “Let It Be!” That’d have them scratching their heads for several seconds until figuring out what I truly meant was, “Bug off!”

On the internet, a person can find something positive or negative on most every subject. If I was searching for something positive on smoking tobacco, I could locate such. Mesquite trees have lovers and haters. The lovers say that they’re good for the environment, while haters say they consume too much water and choke out other plant life. For this article, I looked strictly for the negative.

An agricultural writer named, Travis Urban, wrote a piece saying this about the foliage, “Mesquite trees are some of the worst invasive species on the planet, and are known as the devil with roots.” He went on to explain why.

“Native to arid and semi-arid regions, this tree is capable of thriving in most conditions. Mesquite has the ability to grow a tap root 200 feet down, and roots that spread and search for water up to 50 feet outside the tree canopy. These features not only enable Mesquite to survive in areas other trees will not, but also choke out surrounding vegetation.

Mesquites are heavy water consumers. A single tree can consume nearly 21 gallons of water per day. Mesquites absorb groundwater and lower the water table effectively causing surrounding vegetation to die off, making it able to thrive and spread.”

Sounds reason enough for government to begin select extermination, much like the State of Arizona did with feral pigs, and the State of Alaska initiated on wolves.

I don’t think this will happen for several reasons, namely, those precious birds and bees desperately need the trees for survival. Having to accept things as they are because of not being that high on the Arizona pecking order, I’ll continue to fight allergies by keeping plenty of Tylenol, Aller-Tec, Fluticasone Propionate, Qvar, azithromycin, amoxicillin, codeine-laced cough syrup, and excellent doctors within close proximity.

Arizona cowboys wore bandanas over their mouths back in the day, undoubtedly, because of having to endure the dreaded mesquite pollen and dust. Learning from them, perhaps I should start doing the same. It must’ve worked, because how many cowboys or cowgirls have you seen with a box of Kleenex strapped to the back of their saddle!

Last Friday night, on YouTube for free, I watched a 1962 episode of the television series, “Route 66” filmed in Lake Havasu City. To be honest, things have changed so much around town that I didn’t recognize a lot of the landscape, especially buildings. I would’ve been 8 years old at this point.

The storyline centers on an upcoming endurance outboard race on the Colorado River, a distant and unaffectionate father, and his love-lost daughter. It also has a philosophical ending that my simple mind still can’t grasp.

I suppose some old-timers will remember when Martin Milner and his movie crew came to visit. Milner played the part of Tod Stiles in “Route 66” — going on to “Adam-12” fame as Los Angeles, police officer, Pete Malloy.

Dad was an avid “Route 66” fan and tuned in regularly. My father was seriously injured near Victorville, California, on Route 66 in 1957, when a Corvette he was a passenger in left the road on a curve and crashed. That might be why this show meant so much to him? I recall nothing of the series except for the cool ‘vette and theme music. My ears perk up whenever I hear it playing.

The episode filmed in our city is titled, “Go Read the River.” An opening scene shows Tod Stiles boarding a vintage Beechcraft 18 airplane in Los Angeles bound for Havasu. Quickly jotting down the FAA identification number on this plane, N44N, and after checking things out, I discovered it once belonged to the McCulloch Corporation.

That was no surprise since the plot involves testing of a McCulloch outboard-powered race boat. The episode was an excellent, hour-long subliminal pitch for Robert McCulloch Sr.’s outboard motors.

It was during this time, 1962, that I saw another movie connected with water— more like underneath it. Walt Disney’s, “20,000 Leagues Under The Sea” was playing at the Sel-Mont Drive In Theatre in Selma, Alabama. My family loaded in the car one evening and headed for the giant screen located on Highway 80.

Undoubtedly, Mom brought along sufficient food and drink for us, because snack bar items were deemed too costly by my folks. The re-released movie, starring actor Kirk Douglas, first came out in 1954, this being the year I was born.

I remember more about “20,000 Leagues Under The Sea” than any movie during my childhood, except perhaps, “Bambi.” The book written by, Frenchman, Jules Verne, is about a mysterious submarine named the Nautilus, along with a vengeful man in command of it, Captain Nemo.

Three men on a voyage to look for a monster fish, accidentally end up on the Nautilus as prisoners after their ship is attacked and sunk. In 1869, Jules Verne put all of his creative juices to work when he put pen to paper for this captivating science-fiction tale.

In the beginning, Ned Lamb (Kirk Douglas), sings a very unusual song about being a sailor and having to date strange women. Over 63 years, I still remember several of the lines.

“Got a whale of a tale to tell ya, lads.
A whale of a tale or two.
‘Bout the flapping fish and girls I’ve loved.
On nights like this with the moon above.
A whale of a tale and it’s all true,
I swear by my tattoo.

There was Mermaid Minnie, met her down in Madagascar.
She would kiss me, any time that I would ask her.
Then one evening her flame of love blew out.
Blow me down and pick me up!
She swapped me for a trout.”

One of the most memorable scenes has Ned and the other two survivors having dinner with Captain Nemo. Food prepared for them by Nemo’s chef never escaped my brain. Filet of sea snake. Biscuit of blowfish with sea squid dressing basted in barnacles. Fruit preserves were made from sea cucumbers grown in an underwater garden. Succulent pudding composed of Sautéed unborn octopus was served for dessert. And to top things off, milk or cream from giant sperm whales. How could a young guy forget such delicacies?

At the end of this meal, one of the prisoners, Professor Aronnax, accepts a large cigar handed to him by Captain Nemo. This act of generosity takes place within the tight confines of a submarine. What I remember most about this, was that Captain Nemo said the cigars weren’t made of tobacco but consisted of nicotine-laced seaweed.

If all of the sailors took part in this vice, without question, when the Nautilus surfaced and a hatch was opened, more smoke rolled out of it than Willie Nelson’s bus.

In the “Route 66” episode I just recently viewed, there’s one thing that hasn’t changed in Lake Havasu City, and that involves cars. Although it might’ve been unusual to see a 1962 Corvette driving around town in the early 60s, it isn’t today.

At the end of the story, Tod Stiles’s partner, Buz Murdock, played by actor George Maharis, drives their infamous ‘vette to Havasu from LA to watch his friend race. Of course, Buz brought along a couple of beautiful girls for company. There were always gorgeous women in “Route 66.”

I spotted a ’61 or ’62 Corvette just the other morning cruising down McCulloch Boulevard. An older gentleman sat behind the wheel with a nice-looking lady perched beside him. Stretching things just a bit here by using Jules Verne’s wild imagination, perhaps Tod Stiles loved Lake Havasu City so much back then, that he never left town!

* finished product.

It’s rare that I hear anyone say these days, “I’m just trying to make a living.” My parent’s generation used this term quite frequently along with my grandparents. It basically means: earning enough money to place a roof over your head, food to eat, and clothes to wear.

After my father was honorably discharged from the Air Force, he entered the business world owning a gas station and automotive parts stores. Dad was of the frame of mind, that merely working for a W2 form for the rest of his life went against the grain, in being able to ‘adequately provide’ for his family and have anything left. By entering the business world, foremost, he became a provider of jobs to others.

Early on, he believed that the government was taxing people to death as a means of preventing them from getting ahead. With the recent 1.2 trillion-dollar spending budget just passed, hang on to your wallet or purse because they’re coming for more.

The San Francisco rock group, Huey Lewis and the News, recorded a song that exemplifies how my father felt regarding W2s. “Working for a Living” is the song title, and these now dated lyrics, fit his ideology perfectly back then.

“Hey, I’m not complaining ‘cause I really need the work.

Hitting up my buddies got me feelin’ like a jerk.

Hundred-dollar car note, two hundred rent.

I get a check on Friday, but it’s already spent.

I’m takin’ what they’re giving ‘cause I’m workin’ for a livin’.”

Early on, I know my parents lived from paycheck to paycheck, with Dad sometimes moonlighting at a parttime job while still in the military.  Mom worked at a hospital as a nurse’s assistant, including taking in ironing for other people. My folks knew the meaning of working hard to try and get ahead.

I tried to instill the same in my children, believing that if you want something bad enough, you have to earn it. It seems that philosophy went flying out the window where this entitled generation is concerned. Now, it seems, more and more young people and newcomers to this country, believe things should just be handed to them. It’s easy to see the decay in America because of this socialistic downturn.

Driving through our city, I see “NOW HIRING” signs in many business windows. Businesses seemingly can’t find enough people willing to work. In some cases, the ones they do hire are expecting a paycheck for merely showing up.

Trying to keep my ears open whenever possible, I heard a young employee in a restaurant tell a customer, “If they want me to stay here, they need to pay more.” Basically, she was either looking to quit, or was priming the pump for a bigger tip. I didn’t see a ball and chain attached to her ankle, so the gal was free to leave.

Free cell phones, free college tuition, free food, free cable, free internet, free lodging, free medical and dental, and the list goes on and on, was never a part of my parent’s generation. Government, along with a good number of followers, seem to have turned on those hard working and business savvy people providing jobs.

A good friend of mine uses the term, ‘the haves and the have nots.’ In his definition of the term, it doesn’t refer to just rich and poor. The haves are folks that worked hard and fulfilled their dream, whatever that might be. A nice home, car, boat, airplane, home on the lake, etc.

The have nots in his mind are those people that criticize the haves, jealous of them, saying that they’re the reason for them being in the have not position to begin with. We’re seeing this flawed ideology in our country right now, with certain government leaders, politicians, and even educators mostly to blame for stirring the pot.

It’s akin to what happened prior to WWII in Germany. Adolf Hitler turned a good percentage of the German people against Jews, saying they were responsible for the hard economic times being incurred in that country. Jewish students were taught early on the basics of financial discipline, and they prospered because of it. Many still do.

They were the ones providing jobs back then, with a good number of Jewish citizens being business owners. Tragically, we’re seeing history repeat itself—not with just Jewish people being singled out—but the haves as well.

Those song lyrics mentioned by Huey Lewis and the News, could now be changed to reflect things a bit differently these days.

“Hey, I’m complaining ’cause I really don’t wanna work.

All those rich people I see, I’m being brainwashed into believin’ they’re selfish jerks.

Five-hundred-dollar car lease, thousand dollar rent.

I’m not worried, you see, Uncle Sam covers this for me.

I’m takin’ what the government’s giving, ‘cause I don’t wanna work for a livin’!”

How will this end up? Only time will tell. Hopefully, voters will see through the charade before it’s too late to avoid where this twisted path of destruction is taking us.

I’ve been hearing the term “dysfunctional family” here lately and don’t know entirely what it means. There are many different interpretations found on the internet for dysfunctional.

The following is a partial list of these reasons: perfectionism, addiction, abusiveness, depression, communication, emotional neglect, jealousy, guilt, lack of empathy, lack of boundaries, controlling, insecurity, extramarital affair, lack of intimacy, and finance. Thankfully, I don’t meet any of these definitions.

I’m not sure who decides if a family is dysfunctional or not, as the judgment behind such a decision seems to be subjective. I asked a friend to name a family that he considered dysfunctional, and he immediately answered, “The Royal Family.”

I suppose that’s a valid answer going by the above list of credentials, yet who wouldn’t be maladjusted having mega photographers and tabloid reporters watching your every move, 24/7/365.

Being a former mechanic, dysfunctional to me means windshield wipers not working or blinkers doing the same. Where unusual habits of people like the Windsor family of Great Britain are concerned, I generally chalk it up to quirkiness and not dysfunctionality.

Most every family has a quirky member or two. The Windsor’s seem to be blessed with a significant number of such people. As Mom often said, “It takes all kinds to make the world go ‘round!”

Judging by the mechanical definition of dysfunction, most of my senior friends, if not all, are part of a large dysfunctional contingent. I won’t mention names, but there’s bad knees, hips, eyes, ears, legs, arms, hearts, and even fingers and toes within this group.

Some time ago, I saw an unusual decal on the back window of a car in our city. Each stick family member pictured had a problem. The husband holds a bottle of booze, while his wife is angry and abused. An older son grasps a cannabis joint between two fingers while the youngest boy wields a knife. Little sister of all things is a pole dancer. The dog is even featured—with it apparently having an identity crisis. A fancy ruffled collar was wrapped around its neck.

I’m not sure how a perfect family would be characterized these days, as society and Hollywood have seemingly destroyed what’s known as the nuclear family. A nuclear family is one having a father, mother, including children. Some early television sitcoms such as, “All in the Family” and “Married with Children,” intentionally made nuclear families out to be dysfunctional. “The Simpsons” animated series is perhaps the worst.

It appears there’s an attempt to totally wipe out the definition of ‘family’ from what it once meant. Nothing proves this more than a decal recently observed on the back of a Toyota pickup window. In it, a Jeep is attempting to chase a stick family down. At the bottom of the decal are these words: “Nobody cares about your stick figure family!!!”

After seeing that, I had to wonder about the person driving this Toyota, and what was his reasoning behind displaying such. It didn’t take long for my brain to come up with a logical, armchair-psychologist answer.

“The driver is probably overweight and has a dislike for thin people, along with having a warped sense of humor!”

Getting a much better view of him at the next light, my hunch was right. The seemingly large guy met one of the dysfunction criteria, that of being addicted to food. This decal was his way of getting back at society.

For those about to lecture me that the young man could’ve had a medical problem, please stand down. For crying out loud, he was eating what appeared to be a pastry of some kind. I added those first four words for unnecessary emphasis and nothing more.

Eons ago, I had a boss that used the phrase quite often. One day, I faked as if I was crying out loud to see what he’d do. The former Army sergeant was none too pleased with my sarcastic humor. Anyway, getting back on track here.

Where this young man’s vinyl message was concerned, I wasn’t offended and got a hoot out of it. What I didn’t like is that it wasn’t perfectly aligned on the glass. Having been an employee that installed decals on Alaska State Trooper cars for several years, I notice trivial stuff like that. These days, I especially watch for misaligned business signs and placards on cars and trucks.

Realtors seem to be the worst offenders. How can these people sleep at night knowing that their decals aren’t square to the rest of the vehicle? I know I couldn’t until things were corrected.

It’s like walking into someone’s home and seeing a painting or picture hanging off-kilter on the wall. I don’t know about you, but I want to walk over and immediately straighten it. In some cases, I have.