Children's Story

Here's a nice little bedtime story for all you grown kids out there (click pic):

Kids Say The Darndest Things

This edition of Kids Say The Darndest Things is brought you by the collected resources of myself and my coworkers and the wonderful little children in our lives. Enjoy!

Mommy: I have a baby growing in my tummy, that's why it's so big.
Two year old: Oh. Mommy, do you have a baby growing in your bottom, too?

Little girl annoys everyone around her with her new gifts of a dress, perfume and wristwatch demanding that everyone she meets see her dress, smell her perfume and listen to her wristwatch. Her parents tell her to stop as it becomes unbearably repetitious. They go out to dinner at a restaurant and the little girl is desperate to show off her new Birthday wealth. So when the waitress arrives at her table she bursts out, "If you see something, hear something, and smell something then it's probably me!"

A woman on a bus with her niece tries to convince her not to bite her nails, "If you keep doing that your tummy will swell up!" she says. So the little girl stops and as they get off the bus, she says to a pregnant woman near the front, "I know what you've been doing."

At a dinner of Chinese food, a five year old watches me eating with chopsticks and asks what they are. "Chinese people use them to eat their food," I tell him. The boy slides off his chair and sidles over to his mother and whispers in her ear, "Mom, is Sarah Chinese?"

A little three year old boy is asked to give a speech during his birthday celebration. So he stands up on his chair and delivers the following words: "I would like to thank all of you for coming to my birthday party and I hope that every one of you goes straight to hell." That little boy is now 78 years old.

Bedtime Story

Once upon a time there was a man. He looked like other men and thought like other men, but he was not like other men. He was tall. Taller than other men around him. ANd he stuck out like a sore thumb. This tall man tried very hard to fit in the chairs that society had made for him. He stooped under doorways and crouched into cars. He folded himself to get on the bus and even rolled himself up to carpool with his fellow workers. But secretly he longed to be average. He looked with envy on the short little men who walked into stores and ice cream parlors without banging their heads and without slouching so far down that they had breathing problems. If only, he thought, I could stand up straight in the world. If only I didn't have to slouch just to get along.

One day as he hunkered over his computer screen on his short desk in his teeny swivel chair, a co-worker stopped by and said, "Hey man, why don't you take up biking?"

So he did. He bought the tallest bike he could (it still wasn't tall enough) and he walked slowly to the end of his street. He placed one leg on either side of his bicycle and sat. He pedalled forward and began to pick up speed. Soon he was going down a long hill, pedalling faster and faster, the wind whistling past his ears and his hair. He clung to the handlebars as the houses on either side raced by....

(How do you think the story continues?)

Boxed What?

Boxed Wine. It's apparently making a comeback. My family used to drink the stuff. It's funny to serve. It sits on the edge of the table and you open a little spigot. Very funny stuff, boxed wine. I mean, intrinsically funny. Also, the little picture of a juice box wine I found to the side here is also funny. French children carry them to school, I bet.

Pizza Delivery Stories

You can read 'em yourself.

I liked #58.

Everyman Goes to the Olympics

Q. What do you get when you watch the Olympics, are overcome with an acute desire to participate, except that you have no skills, are not an athlete and have no country who will send you?

A. Jonathon Phillips.

That's right! My friend, and internet grandson, has got it into his addle-headed brain to compete in the 2012 Olympics. And he's going to raise $1,000,000 British Sterling for charity in the process. All he needs now are an event he can compete in and a host country to send him. Don't think he can do it? Just watch and see...

Rapscallion Scalliwags Thwarted!

This is a real, honest-to-goodness complaint letter that crossed my desk today. I have never met a gendarme, in the suburbs or otherwise, but I am fairly certain if they all had the vocabulary of this retired cop, a lot more ne'er-do-wells would think twice before stealing tomes! Read it for yourself:

Camping Down Under

(My friend [and internet grandfather] UnaBubba tells of a school sponsored camping trip with his son in his native Australia. Good times.)

Well, it had to be done, it seems.

My son's school decided to hold a "Camp Out", so that boys and their dads could "bond" better. As it's a school with separate campuses for boys and girls but non-discriminatory, parents and siblings were encouraged to attend.

So, we borrowed a 6 man tent from a friend who owns a business that manufactures 4WD camping accessories (like awnings that can be mounted to the roof rack of your vehicle). It's a spacious thing, with good headroom.

The camp site was a sports oval at the corresponding girls' school campus. Everything was going well until the school groundsman and the school bursar turned up and ordered all vehicles off the verge of the oval and into the hardstand carpark about 800 metres away from the campsite. That took all powered camping devices that run off vehicle electrical systems, out of the mix. It also meant that our awning had to be struck and removed from the campsite. Fine, we still had the tent.

Darkness falls. It's an almost moonless night, so there's not a lot of visibility to be had. Then it was decreed that the tents were not to be pitched on the well-grassed, level, playing surface of the oval, but were to be removed to the sloping ground away from the edge of the oval. We had to move our 6 man tent about 30 metres. It's for the kids... it's OK. The site seems reasonably comfortable, though certainly inferior to the first choice, as it's on angle of about 10-15 degrees.

The dinner that was catered for us ($15/head) was great, apart from the potatoes that somehow managed to avoid the cooking process almost completely. They certainly had time to be cooked, as there was a substantial hiatus between when the meats were cooked and when they were served (enough time to drop to room temperature, it seems). Roasted meats, still in the grease in which they were simmered. Dessert was better... pavlova and cream or cream and pavlova... just the shot for diabetics and the health conscious. A great big sugar rush for the kids, too... just before bedtime.

Night games, to wear the kids out, then bedtime at 9pm. Light rain at 9:30. More rain at 10pm. A heavy shower at midnight. A break... 2 inches of rain in half an hour, at 2am. This is a tropical storm, that manifests as a line of severe thunderstorms more than 800 miles in length, moving northeasterly at about 55 miles/hr. We are in the path of this maelstrom of wind and water.

When it hits we are secure in the knowledge that I have done as well as I can to secure the tent, with many 12" x 3/8" pent pegs driven into the firm soil. I close the tent fly up, to keep the rain out. It works very well. No water enters the tent, from any point above ankle height.

Not willing to get up and trudge half a mile with tent and stuff in driving rain, with 2 small kids, at 2am, we endure it. 2 inches of rain in 30 minutes is a lot of water, and it needs somewhere to go, fast. That much water off the roughly 6 acres of a cricket oval means that the drainage system comes into play and a cascade leaves the edge of the oval with a vengeance.

You'll never guess what the designated camp ground has become, by this time. 300 people, in tents, in pouring rain, in the path of a shallow river of water that is pouring away from a large area that naturally percolates water through 6 - 18 inches of perfectly draining soil and sheds it down the nearest hill. The tents are all pitched on this slope and each one becomes a small dam across the aforementioned torrent.

None of the trees or heavy branches that come down in the storm actually hit our tent, as Daddy has been careful to site his tent out of the fall line of any major trees. This is a "Good Thing". Others are not so lucky, with one tent being bisected by a tree trunk around 16in in diameter. The three occupants were visiting the toilet block when it fell.

The scene is... interesting. The groundsman and the bursar are nowhere to be seen, while we sit in tents that mostly have "waterproof" ** floors,with belongings stacked on inflatable mattresses and kids stumbling about in the dark.

** Waterproof seems to mean that ground moisture won't be much of a problem while the tent is in use. It doesn't anticipate 2-3 inches of water running across sloping ground, I assume.

The wind abates but the rain persists. It's a warm night so the 4 of us (me, wife, 5yo son, 3yo daughter) huddle together on a queen-sized inflatable mattress until daybreak. Sleep, like failure, is not an option. Some hardy souls have packed up their gear and fled, vowing to return for abandoned tents in the morning.

4:45 and I go and get the SUV, bringing it down to the campsite. I am wet, tired and angry.

The headmaster and the groundsman (The bursar must still be supervising the peeling of grapes, for his petit dejeuner?) appear out of nowhere, telling me I cannot drive across the wet ground of the campsite to load up our gear and my family, to go somewhere dry. The ensuing discussion starts out fairly cordially, with an explanation about how we have been in a relatively dire position for most of the night, while they have presumably spent the night in warm beds and secure houses. It ends with suggestions that entail the headmaster removing his person from my presence, with all possible haste. He leaves me alone and goes to the next vehicle that arrives, to conduct what appears to an almost identical conversation with that driver.

I help out with a few other campers' tents, after I've sorted mine out. Fellow sufferers are welcome to my charity, anytime. Feeling a tad bedraggled, we make it home at 7:30am, and set to pitching a wet tent in our garage then hosing it down, to get all of the storm debris off it. We eat the breakfast we were to cook on the inadequate barbecue facilities at the school, and go to bed for a few hours sleep.

The tent fly will be hung up and cleaned later today. I'm unsure whether the discussion with the headmaster will prejudice my son's ongoing education. It is unlikely that camping will be high on the priority list of fun things to do, for a while.

I now remember why my motto, in relation to camping, is: "If It Ain't 5 Star Then It Ain't A Good Campground."

Of course, I am also reminded that the most memorable experiences of childhood, for most people, are the camping adventures. I can't imagine why they're so memorable.

A typical Cleveland morning

Yesterday was a good day, despite having seen a dead body on the city streets on the way in to work. Yep, even a hit and run victim under a sheet in front of a convenience store two blocks from my office couldn't put a dint in my day! Clear skies (except for the clouds), fresh air and cops for miles around swarming in with lights flashing, marking off distances from the head of the deceased to the curb! A beautiful day!

Even the young hoodlums who got on at the very next stop from the scene were quiet and calm, talking in hushed voices of the sprangled position of the body they had seen before it was covered up. And how politely they got out of the way as I made my way off the bus at my stop! So obliging. So charming. This whole city. Feel the love!

Toothcapades

I picked the place out of a hat. Well, I might as well have. It was the dentist office nearest to my house as close as I could figure and their tagline was something like 'we cater to cowards' or whatever. Not that I care about that. I'm not afraid of dentists, or drills, or needles. I don't really care. I just want to walk away looking the same or better than I did walking in.

I had an early appointment. I parked and ran inside the converted house/office. The woman at the front desk told me to move my car. I did. When I came back she was gone and I stood at the front desk as the doctors filed in with the casual disdain adopted by most doctors. I had a good feeling already.

The woman returned and passed me the usual clipboard which says I give them permission to use my records if a natural disaster hits the area or if I'm mauled badly in a horrible life altering accident or something to that affect. On the patient form it asked, "What would you like us to know about you?" To which I responded, "I would like to keep my teeth for awhile longer." Then it asked, "What do you think is an important trait in a dentist?" I said, "Not assuming my mouth is their property."

I was taken to a waiting room to get my x-rays. The assistant proceeded take the wrong ones. I sat looking at the round mirror on the ceiling thinking, 'That surely puts my mind at ease.'

After the x-rays they shuffled me off to another barely partitioned area. As I sat on the reclining chair I remembered for a moment that the electric chair was invented by a dentist. Then I saw the sign posted in big red letters just outside the window:

Again, not really helping to create a sense of ease or calm. The assistant came running in and out asking if I was sure which of my teeth it was that was causing problems. I kept my headphones on so I could better ignore her. Much hubbub later she realized she was looking at the wrong tooth and finally my prognosis was handed down: I had a dying nerve. My tooth was going to be dead. According to them, quite soon. I tried to take in this information. They rushed me back to the woman at the front desk. Up to this point I had failed to realize how much she looked like a women's volleyball coach.

"We here at (name withheld) Dental believe in creating a relationship with our patients." She began, "We believe in earning trust..." I looked off into the room full of people who were about to hear my ailment, my financial situation and future tooth plans and wondered where this trust was supposed to be coming from. "Now here's what's going to happen: We need to schedule a root canal. After that we'll put a crown on the tooth. Now since you don't have insurance we can try to work out a payment plan..."

I interrupted, "I'm sorry, could you explain what a root canal is?"

She looked a little disgusted and said, "I'll explain everything in just a moment." She rolled her chair towards me and between my legs. "I'm going to show you something." She hoisted her muscular body over me and opening her mouth she inserted her finger into her gaping maw and said, "Shee ziss? Ahn ziss?" She closed her mouth again, "Those are all crowns. I never floss. I'm terrible role model I know, but I got all that work done here. We only use precious metals. We believe in the highest quality work."

I cast an eye towards the waiting room full of patients watching this eerie spectacle. One woman looked up and gave me a faint pitying smile. I sighed. The walrus with the french braid was still going on about procedure and protocols. I cut to the chase.

"How long can I expect this thing last?"

She smiled all-knowingly. "Some of the crowns I have in my mouth I got 'em 25 years ago."

I didn't bother asking about the rest of them. I shelled out the cash and left.

Later that day I returned and picked up my x-rays (much to the receptionist's dismay). I have since made an appointment with someone else. One who knows what he is doing. Thank God for second opinions!

I won't be going back to the dental shop of the devil, but if you want to know of a great dentist in Cleveland then just ask me. I do know the man for the job.

Stranger Than Corn

Sorry, Worldgineer, but I couldn't get your entire order filled. I struggled to unite the corn, the camera and the kindly stranger on a bus all at once, but my purse just wasn't big enough. So I did the next best thing. I asked a stranger at the library to hold the can of corn while I told him my life story (albeit briefly) and then took his picture. The only thing I know about the man in the picture is that his name is Mendrell, he doesn't like canned corn, and he doesn't know what an octogenarian is. What he does know is my life story.

"Ya Whippersnapper!"

A college student at a recent Carolina football game challenged a senior citizen sitting next to him, saying it was impossible for their generation to understand his.

"You grew up in a different world," the student said loud enough for the whole crowd to hear. "Today we have satellite television, jet planes, space travel, man has walked on the Moon, our spaceships have visited Mars, we even have nuclear energy, electric and hydrogen cars, computers with light-speed processing and, uh .."

Taking advantage of a pause in the student's litany, the old geezer said, "You're right. We didn't have those things when we were young; so we invented them, you little shit head! Now what the hell are you doing for the next generation??"

(via email)

Yaar the Champion

I grabbed the seat closest to the front of the crowded bus, the one jammed behind the driver with no view. The little woman sitting next me was attractive, middle-aged, and foreign. I smiled, said hello and then made an off-hand comment about the crowded condition of the bus.

"It was not this bizzy when I took at sevens in the morning. But now I take it later; it's bizzy." She smiled. She had a cute smile. She had y wrinkles around her eyes, olive skin and a crop of curly brown hair pulled up in a loose ponytail. She was dressed casual nice.

"You don't have to go to work so early anymore?" I chimed in, "That's good. You can sleep in now!"
She smiled, "No, I have five childrrren." She gazed at me as the information sank in. She was gratified by my response.
"Five?"
"Yes."
"What ages?"
"My oldest thirteen. My youngest five." She gave a pleased smile that was half exhausted and half mischievous.
"Wow! That's a lot!"
"My husband is dead. I am widow," she added.
"Oh," I replied, rather sobered, "so you have a lot of work to do each morning!"
Again the exhausted impish look, "Yes." She was staring at me again. "I'm here in U.S. three years. I have no family living here to help out. My husband family, I no like them. They think because I widow I do something bad, you know..." Here she gave me a pious, celibate frown meant to allay my fears that she might be running out on her dead husband.
I smiled at her. "What country are you from?"
"I move here from Germany, but I come from Afghanistan. After my husband die."

"Do you miss it? Afghanistan?" I asked.
"No," she shook her head thoughtfully, "It is beautiful country, but I don't like anymore..." She trailed off and smiled shyly.
'Your husband's family lives there?"
"Yes. There."
"So you have no one here in the U.S.?" As I watched her face I couldn't believe that she was about to hit me up for money, she looked too well off. But then why would she volunteer so much information to a total stranger?

"I have few friend. They help sometimes. One friend, Elizabeth, from the college, she come and tutor my childrrren each week. They speak now better English than me!" I liked the way she rolled her 'r's. She added a laugh and shook her head good-naturedly. "I have also other friend," she lowered her head and almost whispered, "A man. His name is Mohammed, but he not Arab, he black, you know Muslim, but from here," she pointed to the floor.
"Oh!" I nodded affirmingly. Her smile broke out like sunshine.
"He a good friend, he help out with kids sometimes, you know." She rocked her head side to side to indicate the breezy way in which she could take or leave this friend.
"That's good!" I responded. "Everybody needs friends."

I imagined her and this black Mohammed, their budding friendship and the growing sense of impropriety that their friendship created in this woman's life. She was obviously proud of him, whatever his role.

I turned back to the green-brown eyes, "Do you work down here?" I pointed vaguely out the window.
"Yes, I work at hotel _ _ _. I work there two years."
"Oh really? What do you do at the hotel? Are you a manager?" I couldn't imagine this lively, intelligent woman cleaning rooms.
"No," she murmured, "I do the rooms, you know..." She looked embarassed.
"Oh! Really? I used to do that, too!" A complete lie. "Do you like working there?"
"Is ok," she shrugged. "I'm sorry my English so bad. It's very hard. I know five language, but in my country no one teaching English, so..."
"Actually, your English is quite good. It will get better the longer you live here." I beamed at the little Afghani.
"I used to be teacher," she confessed.
"Really? What did you teach?"
"My language. To children. I know Russian, Farsi, Hindi and two languages of Afghanistan. But I can't speak English very well."

As a teacher and a perfectionist, I could easily understand her frustration living in a country whose language she'd never been taught. How hard, I thought, to know so much and be unable to express it. I assured her, "It will get easier over time. Don't worry."

As we pulled up to my stop, I rose from my seat to exit the bus. I turned back to say goodbye and as I did this small woman opened her arms to hug me. As I hugged her I wondered when I would ever hug a total stranger on the bus again.

"My name is Sarah, by the way. What's yours?"

"We are."

I struggled for comprehension, "We are?"

"Y-A-A-R," she spelled out the all important word as I stepped backward toward the door of the bus.

"Yaar. OK. Goodbye," I said it as the doors slid shut.

The bus pulled away carrying the only Afghani immigrant I know.

How many Lawyers Does It Take?

A lawyer's point of view on the New Orleans devastation:

5,000 - 6,000 lawyers (1/3 of the lawyers in Louisiana) have lost their offices, their libraries, their computers with all information thereon, their client files - possibly their clients, as one attorney who e-mailed me noted. As I mentioned before, they are scattered from Florida to Arizona and have nothing to return to. Their children's schools are gone and, optimistically, the school systems in 8 parishes/counties won't be re-opened until after December. They must re-locate their lives.

Our state supreme court is under some water - with all appellate files and evidence folders/boxes along with it. The 5th Circuit Court of Appeals building is under some water - with the same effect. Right now there may only be 3-4 feet of standing water but, if you think about it, most files are kept in the basements or lower floors of courthouses. What effect will that have on the lives of citizens and lawyers throughout this state and this area of the country? And on the law?

The city and district courts in as many as 8 parishes/counties are under water, as well as 3 of our circuit courts - with evidence/files at each of them ruined. The law enforcement offices in those areas are under water - again, with evidence ruined. 6,000 prisoners in 2 prisons and one juvenile facility are having to be securely relocated. We already have over-crowding at most Louisiana prisons and juvenile facilities. What effect will this have? And what happens when the evidence in their cases has been destroyed? Will the guilty be released upon the communities? Will the innocent not be able to prove their innocence?

Our state bar offices are under water. Our state disciplinary offices are under water - again with evidence ruined. Our state disciplinary offices are located on Veteran's Blvd. in Metairie. Those of you who have been watching the news, they continue to show Veteran's Blvd. It's the shot with the destroyed Target store and shopping center under water and that looks like a long canal. Our Committee on Bar Admissions is located there and would have been housing the bar exams which have been turned in from the recent July bar exam (this is one time I'll pray the examiners were late in turning them in - we were set to meet in 2 weeks to go over the results). Will all of those new graduates have to retake the bar exam?

Two of the 4 law schools in Louisiana are located in New Orleans (Loyola and Tulane - the 2 private ones that students have already paid about $8,000+ for this semester to attend). Another 1,000+ lawyers-to-be whose lives have been detoured. I've contacted professors at both schools but they can't reach anyone at those schools and don't know the amount of damage they've taken. Certainly, at least, this semester is over. I'm trying to reach the Chancellor's at Southern and LSU here in Baton Rouge to see if there's anything we can do to take in the students and/or the professors. I think I mentioned before, students from out of state have beens stranded at at least 2 of the other universities in New Orleans - they're moving up floor after floor as the water rises. Our local news station received a call from some medical students at Tulane Medical Center who were now on the 5th floor of the dormitories as the water had risen. One of them had had a heart attack and they had no medical supplies and couldn't reach anyone - 911 was busy, local law enforcement couldn't be reached, they were going through the phone book and reached a news station 90 miles away!! It took the station almost 45 minutes to finally find someone with FEMA to try to get in to them!!

And, then, there are the clients whose files are lost, whose cases are stymied. Their lives, too, are derailed. Of course, the vast majority live in the area and that's the least of their worries. But, the New Orleans firms also have a large national and international client base. For example, I received an e-mail from one attorney friend who I work with on some crucial domestic violence (spousal and child) cases around the nation - those clients could be seriously impacted by the loss, even temporarily, of their attorney - and he can't get to them and is having difficulty contacting the many courts around the nation where his cases are pending. Large corporate clients may have their files blowing in the wind where the high rise buildings had windows blown out.

I woke up this morning to the picture of Veteran's Blvd which made me think of my students who just took the bar. My thoughts wandered from there to the effect on the Disciplinary Offices. Then my thoughts continued on. I'm sure I'm still missing a big part of the future picture. It's just devastating. Can you imagine something of this dimension in your state?

A Noble Birthplace

Seeing an empty seat next to Maloof on the bus, and steeling my nerve for another strange confrontation, I sat down.

"Good morning, Noble!" I had to shout. His hoary ears pivoted toward the sound, "Oh, hello!" he said, as if he were shocked to see me even though he had watched me climb aboard the bus and pay my fare.

Sitting next to his slight body, I felt him tilt away as the bus took the corner.

He ventured to say, "Lovely weather this morning." I fired back with a chipper, "Yesterday was beautiful, too!" There was nothing he could say. We were at a standstill in the conversation and I had no intention of helping him out, despite my natural feminine desire to ease the tension.

As we turned another corner he began again, this time in earnest, "We got weather like this in England. Cool and with a breeze and all that." "Oh, were you born in England?" I've been waiting a year to ask him that question. "Oh, no," he looked embarrassed, "I wasn't born there." Pause. "So, where were you born?" I asked. Then Noble responded in one of the most classic of all human responses. He said, "Where do you think I was born?" I laughed out loud. "I have no idea where you were born, that's why I'm asking!" "Well, I was born in Cairo. In Egypt. That was a long time ago." Here he modestly shook his head and looked out the window. And I thought about the distance between him and his place of birth. Removed in space and time from this bus. I wondered if I would ever end up so far from the place I was born.

While I was thinking, Noble made yet another offer, "You should come up to my place some time for tea and you can look at my paintings." 'The Noble Collection,' I thought. "Ah, yes," I said, "I remember you telling me that you paint. What medium do you use?" "Hm?" he queried. "What type of painting supplies do you use; what medium?" He resonded with, "Well, they're not all my own paintings of course. A lot of them are French or Dutch." I wasn't sure why this mattered, but in the world of Noble, it obviously did.

"So you were raised in England?" I asked, hoping to prompt a further exposition into the antiquity to my left. "My father was a Colonel. He was stationed in Cairo when I was born. then we moved to England" "Ah, so he was in the military!" "No, no, he wasn't in medicine. No. He was a lineman." "In the Army?" I clarified. "Yes, of course! In the army!" Noble's patience with my stupidity momentarily wore thin and he glared out the window to collect himself.

I ate a mint and stared straight ahead.

He finally resumed the conversation. "So, you work downtown, yes?" "Yes. I get off at the same stop you do now." I'm still not sure why I volunteered that information. I even told myself not to. "What?" asked my favorite deaf man.

"The same stop as you. That's my stop now."

"Oh really!? You'll be getting off at that stop! That's... that's, ok, good." He was practically beaming. He was delighted. He smiled as we pulled up to our stop and followed me off the bus at our stop.

And so we wandered along the boulevard, talking and laughing; the air rich with warm summer breeze and the promise of love.

Hall of Shame

I burnt another bag of popcorn in the microwave at work. As I rushed to the smoldering microwave I made a plan of action: I whipped the door open, inhaled a lungful of smoke, pinched the bag shut burning my fingers and staining my hand and rushed out of the office, down the hall and out the back to the construction dumpster. I chucked the billowing bag of smoke up onto the heap and walked back to my desk. The construction workers were laughing and applauding. I smiled and bowed.

Now my office reeks and my fingers make me look like a chain smoker.

5 packs a day. Popcorn habit.

Tara drew me this picture:

Noble Pursuits

I didn't mean to follow him home. It just kind of happened. Our paths converged despite my attempts to follow at a discreet distance. As he crossed the street toward me he raised his hand and shouted, "Hello, Sarah!" I fumbled with my cellphone trying to look preoccupied, but it didn't work. "Hello, Noble," I said. Green bag in hand, Noble stepped to the sidewalk where I was. His hat, as always, sitting on his gigantic glasses. "You never talk to me anymore," he said, by way of introduction. Startled, I began to retort, "That's not exactly true..." but he was still talking. "You can say 'hello' you know. If there's a seat open next to me, you can sit there." I stammered out the rest of my excuse which, like my frequent greetings to the old chap on the bus, went unheard. "We should be friends," he summarized, finally pausing long enough for my response. "Yes, we should be friends. I agree." I said, somewhat flatly. "You can sit by me on the bus if there is a seat free." It sounded like an order. "Well, thank you." What else could I say? And then of course he pressed the advantage, "Would you like to come up for tea or coffee? Just a cup..." I stammered out an excuse, "I promised my grandparents I would stop up to see them." It was a lie. "We're having dinner this evening and I promised I would come right after work..." Lies, lies, lies. Noble mulled over this new bit of information. "Your grandparents? Huh." I refrained from suggesting they might be about his age. Instead I reached for his hand and shook it in an attempt to be proactive. "It is good to see you, Noble," I said. And I meant it. Because it is good to see Noble. No matter how strangely he may behave or how many times he follows me off the bus.

"Good to see you, too!" And he was off to his building.

World's Most Boring Post

I'm going to try a little experiment. I am curious to see how hard it actually is to write as boring as possible. I haven't tried to write boring in years. I mean, I spend all my writing time trying to strengthen and simplify my words for maximum impact. But by thus neglecting my boring skills I run the risk of losing these skills altogether. And I can't have that!

Here's my attempt at the world's most boring post. Written from the point of view of a high-schooler at home on a summer day. 10 ¢ to anyone who can find or write a more boring blog post.

"Today we had some hot weather, but not too hot. Hot enough to be kind of humid, too, but also there was a slight breeze. That made the hot less hot. There's always a little breeze, but today there was more than just a little. The lady at the bus stop said that, too, that there was a little bit of breeze and it was nice, cuz otherwise the day would be really hot and too hot is not good. Last week we had a day that was really hot. AND there was no breeze. Not even a little bit of one. And there usually is one, at least a little bit of one. It was so hot I didn't even want to go to out. I asked my mom if I could turn on the air conditioning unit in the living room. I had to turn it on early enough so that my bedroom would be cool, too. Because if my room isn't cool enough I can't sleep. It's too hot to sleep sometimes, so I turn on the air conditioning unit in the living room. It's the only one I have. I don't have one in my bedroom. Anyways, it doesn't really matter except on days when it is TOO hot like that day last week I was just talking about when we didn't have any breeze and it got hot. Right now I'm just sitting here in my living room (but the air conditioning unit is not on right now because there is a breeze and it is cool enough for now so we don't need it on) and I am writing this post so my friends at school can keep in touch with me during the summer. Hey guys. I would be outside right now except I ran out of asthma meds."

Picture of Noble Maloof

As I got on the bus this morning, I saw what I had been looking for all week: an open seat directly in front of Maloof. I plunked down next to walleye (the wobbly gent with the oblong head) and fiddled with my camera, pretending to clean the view screen and surreptitiously clicking photos. The first three were absolute crap. I knew this because I immediately reviewed them in the confines of my bag. Walleye kept sneaking glances at me and seemed like he was going to burst into heavily-accented conversation at anytime, but he refrained. I took one last shot over my shoulder at my ancient, wary target and hoped for the best.

It was a beaut.

I couldn't have asked for a better or more atmospheric shot.

And since I'm taking next week off and won't be here to offer you all the tidbits I think you so richly deserve, I'm giving you the next best thing: the beauty of Maloof!

It's my way of saying thank you to all of my readers.

You're the best!

The Elusive Maloof and other stories

Noble Maloof has escaped my grasp thus far this week. I had plans to photograph the elderly gentleman as I board the bus we share to work. He's just not there. Except Tuesday. He was on the bus Tuesday. Of course that would be the morning I forget my camera. There he sat like a tiny, ancient flower waiting to be picked. His enormous bespectacled eyes and hairy ears tufting out from under his Kangol cap. I will own a picture of you, yet, you gorgeous creature!

Instead of Noble there was an assortment of other people. One of my favorites these days is an Eastern European man with wall-eyes that point off in funky direction from the front of his incredibly shaped head. His head looks like an upside down pyramid. Narrow at the bottom. Flat and wide at the top. Entirely flat. When the weather is cold he wears a scarf wrapped around his head which causes him to look a great deal like ET. He seems very nice, but he has very poor balance. Especially when the bus is moving. Which it usually is. He teeters and weaves and wobbles all over the aisles and then gets off.

Today, at the bus stop, there was a vaguely comforting sound coming from my umbrella: rain drops. You know the kind, not just little patter, but firm occasional splats. The kind of rain that drips off trees in the early morning onto your tent on a camping trip. Why does it always rain on camping trips? No matter where I camp - even my own back yard - I am awakened by soft persistent rain. Usually at 3 in the morning. I love it. I should go camping more often.

Just need a sleeping bag...