Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Most people learn that the same response doesn’t fit every situation and adjust their behavior and responses to reflect the moment. Some, however, never seem to learn, insisting on using the same strident notes, no matter what’s happening. Even as that fails, their only response is to lean harder on that one mode, as though it’ll miraculously work, never seeing how they’re only worsening matters, even though people avoid them or walk away.
They end up alone, shouting at themselves.
Two lanes in each direction with a turning lane, Ashland Street is one of our little city’s busiest main streets. Besides connecting to the southern Interstate exit and entrance, it’s home to four shopping centers, a fire station, college dormitories, five gas stations, a Starbucks and another coffee shop, along with several other businesses, motels, and restaurants. Connecting to our main drag, Siskiyou Boulevard, which leads to downtown, Ashland Stret is divided by median stripes and cement dividers in numerous places.
The city has added white stanchions alongside the bicycle lanes on Ashland Street. Some call them bike lane delineators. A couple inches in diameter, they’re tubes which stand 36 inches high and help separate the bike lanes from motor vehicle lanes, making it safer for bike riders.
Questions have arisen from the people. Like, how are cars supposed to pull over to the curb to let emergency vehicles pass? Second question that everyone wonders is, how will the street sweeper handle the stanchions? There’s no clearcut answer for that, they say. As for pulling over for emergency vehicles, people insist that they can’t.
Except: I noticed that these stanchions or delineators are spring mounted. They bend over. I believe cars and street sweepers can go right over them. The question is, will drivers do that?
You know how it is with change. Some have a harder time with it.
We’re waiting to see what transpires next.
I dreamed that I was discussing the mathematical order of operations with several other people. Of all of the subjects, events, and worries I can remember dreaming about, this seems like one of the strangest. Sitting, I kept saying that it’s a matter of precedence and you start with things in parentheses or brackets first, as if that was in dispute.
My wife and I met with friends for coffee at 10:30 this morning. I ordered espresso with ice cream: an affogato.
My companions were appalled. “Ice cream, at this time of day?” they asked.
“Why not,” I retorted. “It’s time to do away with the provincial idea that ice cream can’t be consumed in the morning. I’m retired. WTF not eat ice cream in the morning with my espresso?”
Light, cool rain still fails in Ashlandia, a salve for the spirit, comfort food for the soul.
So, it’s a mini-rant on a subject tapped before. I don’t understand some drivers.
Followed a guy along city streets today. I don’t know if it’s germane but the Santa Cruz truck which he drove sported Oklahoma plates. Rental, student, visitor, new arrival who hasn’t registered their vehicle yet? Couldn’t say.
In the 35 MPH zone, they slipped along at 30-31. Okay, they’re cautious, I thought, Maybe looking for something.
The speed limit plummeted to 25 MPH. They cruised through, pulling away from me.
And that dichotomy is what manufactures my ire: why do they go below the speed limit in one area and above the speed limit in another. That’s so contradictory to me. It’s like, and I don’t know if this is what they think, “I’m just going to establish my own speed limit and adhere to it no matter what the local signs say.” Or maybe it’s something they picked up from their parents. Perhaps it’s an Oklahoma habit.
As I said, I don’t understand some drivers.
I ordered a new knob for my gas range. It’s the third one I’ve had to buy for the GE Profile range. The range is about six years old. Quality, right? Headshake.
Anyway, I’m tracking the knob. They said it shipped. I looked up the details.
After being picked up by the carrier, it arrived at the carrier facility, and then arrived at a carrier facility, and then arrived at a carrier facility. All the carrier facilities are in Arkansas.
It’s like, such strange progress. But then, another part for something else last week left California, south of us, and arrived at Eugene, north of us. Then it went further north to Portland. The day after that, it came back down south to Medford, basically northwest of us, before being delivered.
I suspect the folks behind these shipping processes are the same people who are always shouting, “Do more with less!”
The area’s electric power went down. It was a valley-wide outage affecting all of our little city, along with several other small cities. Turned out to be a major transmission line failure. A crew went out and found and fixed it.
Electricity ceased about 11:24 AM. I was at my writing haunt, which is a locally known coffee shop. It was suddenly so quiet, and a little darker. “The power is out,” a barista exclaimed.
Only three customers were in the shop. One barista looked over at me and asked, “What did you do, Michael?”
I was innocent, of course. We were all told to leave. Turned out it wasn’t just that little corner of existence.
I drove home. All the traffic lights were out. People were handling it with courtesy and awareness in my part of town, but others later said they witnessed some flagrant driver idiocy. Takes all kinds, we agreed.
It’s weird how something like this can affect the day. Like, okay, power is out. I drove home. Clicked on the garage door opener to verify it didn’t work and parked in the driveway. Went in with a key to the side door. I was thinking what will I do with this time? Well, I can still write on the computer. I just won’t be on the net. Battery will last a while. Or I can dust furniture or cut the lawn.
A smoke detector was announcing that its battery was on low. So I located it, got out the small metal step ladder and took care of that. I remember my wife not wanting me to purchase those little steps. “Just use a chair,” she urged. But I figured we were adults and should have the proper tool for the job, so I paid the $40 for the stairs.
My wife then arrived home. She didn’t have any house keys, and I saw her trying to ring the doorbell. After I let her in, we wondered, what does work for us? Can we get texts and make phone calls? She had one text from the county telling about the outage. I called her. Her phone rang but we couldn’t connect.
So we sat and talked. Not like we don’t sit and talk every day but something new is always coming up. Then I get a text from my sister saying, “I see trump just screwed up again.”
I texted back, “what happened? We don’t have power.” But my text wouldn’t go. How could I receive a text but not send one?
Fifteen minutes later, the power was back on. It too much longer than the outage lasted to return to the rhythm of the day.
Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) came to the room’s door. Sitting down, he composed his tail and then looked at me. Then, very deliberately, in a deadpan voice, he enunciated, “Me. Ow. Me. Ow.”
It was so weird. He never says “me. ow.” He says, Mrrrmpf,” and variations of that, like a grumbling old man too bored to bother with a whole meow. Or very loudly, sharply, “Mmrrrrowl.” But “me. ow”? No.
It was like he was doing some offbeat feline impression of Bob Newhart or Steven Wright as a cat. “Me. Ow.”
A middle old person — 75 to 84 years old — has a penny. He asks several other middle-old people if they can read the date on that penny. “My eyes aren’t good enough,” he proclaimed.
Three other middle old people gathering. No, not without my glasses, they were all saying, chuckling. Glasses were pulled from purses and pockets. More folks moved in to try to read the penny’s date. Soon it’s a crowd of seven.
They all fail. The original gentleman takes his penny to the counter and asks the young barista for help. She studies it for several seconds, shifting the penny, squinting, bending her head lower.
A result is announced but I don’t hear it. He pockets his penny and thanks her.
It’s life.
Michael Seidel, writer 