Southern Comfort

So now we live in the Metro Atlanta area. In many respects a nice place to live, but there are some drawbacks as well. The price of the many conveniences in this area is pretty steep and is paid twice: first you pay with your time and then you pay with your vehicle operating costs. You can cover 5 miles in a mind-numbing 20 minutes and that is not during rush hour! It just goes up from there. To make matters worse there is always the clown trying to pass everyone in the turn lane only to cut back in .5 mile down the road. Moron! Then there's the guy who thinks the go cart sized gap between your vehicle and the one in front of you is an open invitation for him to wheedle his way into your lane. Doh! Knucklehead! It's a good thing that I am a naturally laid-back kind of guy or it might actually cause me some serious consternation which would (naturally) tempt me to cause the offendor to experience said consternation.

At this point, I must digress. Have you ever noticed that your horn has varying levels of volume? I will be submitting the Holton Theory of Volume Relativity to the Argonne National Laboratory soon that states that there is an inverse relationship between the necessity and the volume of any given sound (in this case, a car horn). For instance, it is much too loud when you don't mean to bump it (or when your kids climb into the drivers seat or, as in my case, your limbs get in the way) . There always seems to be someone around to witness your moment of least poise and they are drawn to stare at you like you just called them a name.

Then, there arrives the time when one of those groups abovementioned offends your driving sensibilities with their personal illusions of self-importance and, when you go to the self-same horn, it just doesn't seem to be nearly loud enough...to the point you think maybe the horn didn't work, because that joker seems to be unphased--and you were calling him names!

I expect to receive an honorary doctorate at some point, but I am in no rush. Knowing I am right is recognition enough. If, by reading this, you feel the need to recognize me for this insight, I will accept filthy lucre. You can keep the clean stuff.

Well, Dad is looking over my shoulder, so I better type something nice. Oh, look, that caused him to leave. Now I know the secret. I'm thinking he wished he knew the secret to get me to leave before I married his daughter.... He should have done more research, that's all I can say. I have already passed the statute of limitations and, like a fence two feet over the property line in that situation, I am here to stay.

Well, it is getting late and I really should go to bed and get some sleep.

Buenas Noches, mi amigos! Hasta luego!

Back in the Ditch

Well, the holidays are over and now it's time to get back to work. The grand days of Christmas vacation with the 9 a.m. wake-up bell has been replaced by the annoying alarm clock from somewhere in Dante's Inferno which speaks forth with a Stygian song: Aaanh-Aaanh-Aaanh-It's 5:50 a.m.-Aaanh-Aaanh-Aaanh-Goodbye to your rest-Aaanh-Aaanh-Aaanh! And so I enter the ever-descending depths of the American workplace and my routine...

As with every good story we have an angel to offset the evil. She comes to me with caffeine in hand and a bite to eat, enough to get me on my course for the day and a small token of the love she holds for me. Despite this, I am already on course for yet another day in the bowels of the beast, hardly thanking my angel for the effort she has taken, and contemplating just what fresh Abyss I will encounter this day. Regardless of my thanklessness/contemplation, she will arise in the morning and bring to me a hot cup and a warm meal. For 12 years now we have repeated this daily routine and may it continue for many more. Well, all except the part about the alarm clock.....may it fall into the Abyss!

I owe, I owe, so off to work I go....