Regular Life

(Note: Please force your browser to refresh this page to get the new banner, if you don’t see it. I caught that guy on film back in the mid-1980’s from a canoe on the Little Red River. My dad was paddling upstream like a madman to give me a chance for a shot.)

I sit in my car in a McDonald’s parking lot as I type this. A Chevron convenience store sits slightly ahead of me to my right, its fenced-in Dumpster straight ahead. A crow stands atop the wooden fence, pacing back and forth three steps at a time, hoping to find a morsel amongst the detritus. He caws, but it sounds nothing like “Nevermore.”

My car windows down a few inches, the shifting breeze brings in scents alternating between burgers and gasoline. Fine mist from the Chevron’s drive-thru car wash floats in and lands on my right arm. The sounds of vehicles zinging past on the Interstate, at inhuman speeds, fill my right ear. My left ear hears the tinny, electronic voice of a McDonald’s employee repeatedly saying, “Hello, can you hear me?” They’ve done some remodeling and currently have two ordering speakers, confusing everyone.

I’m accessing the Internet by intercepting a signal spewed forth from a wireless router somewhere inside the restaurant. AT&T and McDonald’s — two mega-corporations working together to make this the ultimate consumption station.

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(Note: It looks like when I upgraded my blog software, it wiped out the e-mail subscriptions — unless everybody unsubscribed, which I hope isn’t the case. If you can use an RSS reader, then subscribing to the RSS feed might be better for you. The link for that is just above the top right corner of the banner photo.)

I thought I’d share another first.

Because Shannon had to report to the eye surgery center Tuesday morning, I took Ben to school. (More on the latest eye news at another time.)

On that day Ben was his class’s star person, a distinction that allows the child to bring in a favorite thing to show the class. It can be a toy, a book, a stuffed animal — whatever. The last time Ben was featured, he took a wheelie stunt Lightning McQueen with a pull cord that makes its oversized back wheels spin very fast.

Shannon was hoping he would take something a little more high-brow this time.

I slept about an hour later than usual. After showering and dressing, I overheard Ben and Shannon’s conversation via the baby monitor.

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Well, I videotaped it.

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My page-a-day calendar mentioned this invention, and I had to share.

It’s a washing machine for pets.

Here’s a page (with images) on the company’s website.

One groomer’s website suggests (with pic) that kids can join in, too. He seems like he couldn’t be happier.

One of the inventors of the Lavakan (Spanish for, roughly, “dog washer”), mentioned that cats aren’t quite as keen on the idea as their canine counterparts. “But it’s better than having a cat attach itself to your face, which is what can happen when you try to wash one by hand,” Andres Diaz said.

Umm… don’t cats kind of handle that themselves? We had a cat when I was a little boy, and I don’t remember anyone bathing him. Whatever the case, a cat in a Lavakan must be one heck of a show.

Ben watches me as he thinks about the next rock he’ll throw.

Just last week I told my wife I know exactly why I don’t ask for a morning here or there to just get up and go do my own thing (her morning thing is sleeping in). It’s because my place to go has mountains and trees. Waterfalls. Wild azaleas and irises. Reaching and enjoying such refuge would require a whole day, if not an overnight trip.

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On my way Tuesday to pick up a prescription for Ben, I have the top down. It’s about 75 degrees outside on a lovely February afternoon. My music selection? De La Soul’s Three Feet High and Rising. I have the Sebring bumpin’ (which is, in itself, almost an anachronism). Just “Me, Myself and I.”

Then, I’m jarred out of the 21st century by something much older than I or the average person who drives my car.

In the parking lot of (coincidentally enough) an abandoned pharmacy, stands a man playing bagpipes. He’s wearing a polo style shirt and jeans shorts. Anyone who’s ever stood within 15 feet of a bagpipe player knows that I can hear him just fine. Nevertheless, I turn off Prince Paul and guest Q-Tip to get a better idea of what he’s playing. I don’t recognize the song, and I don’t know what makes a good bagpipe performance, but those are my own shortcomings.

The point for me is that the guy is in the middle of Plano, Texas playing bagpipes at innocent passersby.

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While working on an upcoming post — my first man-on-the-street interview — I discovered a hidden gem that should serve well in the meantime.

And now, Ben, if you’ll please take the floor. Thank you. (don’t crank it up too loud until it gets to about the 0:07 mark)

(2:32)

(Note: The final chapter of “Apartment Life Returns” is now available. Thanks for reading. Enjoy. If you’d like to read it all at once starting now, then go here.)

Some engineers have all the fun. (figure out how it’s supposed to look before watching the video)

Okay, so I don’t know that it took an engineer to draw up this toy, but I must say it took a designer with some engineering know-how. I hope it took some kind of big brain to conceive it, because merely putting it together was more of a challenge than I like to admit.

But, of course, I’ll do so here, and with gusto.

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(Note: The final installment of “Apartment Life Returns” is almost ready. I’m trying to tie it up as neatly as I can without making everyone wait too long. I anticipate a Tuesday finish.)

A couple weeks ago, a co-worker walked down our aisle of cubicles and said what sounded like “My butt is a dragon.”

I ran the sentence through my head a few more times and, knowing that he had come in very early that morning, came up with an alternative that seemed much more appropriate. “My butt is a-draggin’.”

That got me a-thinkin’. Is that usage colloquial?

It’s not unusual in the South to hear someone tell a story that includes a phrase like, “He was all upset and just a-cryin’,” or “We looked at the possum, then over at her, and she was just a-runnin’.” More commonly, however, the latter would be heard as “She was just a-gettin’ it.” Which means, basically, running very fast. I’ve seen a man chase and run from an o’possum, with the tide changing less than 15 seconds into the chase, and believe me when I say there’s nothing slow about it.

The “a” in the above examples is pronounced like the “a” in “above.” Or, as most people probably barely remember, the schwa sound. It’s length is similar to a grace note. Those who read music know that means there’s no assigned time for it to be held; it’s there just long enough to be noticed.

I had this post’s title sentence written on scratch paper stuck under a refrigerator magnet. Yesterday, while Shannon prepared the house for a party that night, apparently she decided not to proudly display it for the guests (some who had never been to our house, and some whom she’d never met). She gladly set it on the computer desk, directly in front of the computer monitor. What’s she doing right now?

Just a-sleepin’.

Hello, my name is Mark, and I am obsessed with a cup in a street gutter.

To catch up anyone who didn’t see last Friday’s post, the cup with the blue straw has been lodged there since at least as long ago as June 2006. It has survived many hard rains, which led some readers to believe the engineers didn’t do such a good job of predicting water flow at this intersection.

The debris indicates that something’s getting washed down that hole, so there must be some cosmic force holding the cup in place. Its being plastic no doubt increases its chances of surviving (did everybody notice no apostrophes in that sentence? Good. Bonus points, too, if you caught the gerund.).

Incidentally, the Styrofoam cup on the left has been there for at least a week, but without anything more than a sprinkle of precipitation. I don’t think it will last through a downpour.

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