2013-23 Santa Fe

Well the weed (not that weed!) is tumbling again.  I have cut myself loose from the Land of Enchantment come EOY 2013 and will be heading back to Paradise Valley, Montana and the Chico Hot Spring soak-a-thon in the new year. New readers or those with a short memory can scroll down to Posts from January-February of this year for a refresher on Pray, MT.

My Santa Fe departure is premature but well advised. The position is “term,” (I had to sign an agreement that they could fire me on 24-hours’ notice), and while they would prefer I stay on, I have developed a framework which others can execute with dispatch, should they so desire. Said another way, the design challenge has been met, now the implementation has begun.

A contributing factor to this decision is a growing awareness that my tenure on the planet rests on the south side of the mountain and the opportunity for contribution is in late autumn with winter breezes turning to gale force.

Unlike many who long for leisure (yet find themselves at loose ends on a rainy Sunday afternoon), I will search for challenge until the engine slows to a sputter. Pray, MT will offer a suitable venue for contemplation as I gaze at the Rockies and renew discussion with disaster response firms.

Interspersed with more high-minded activity over the past decade have been bouts of delivering phone books and selling tickets at a historic railroad operation. I use these as barometers of achievement and accomplishment, and when the current level of satisfaction falls below these thresholds, I take it as a sign that change is appropriate.

And so I bid New Mexico farewell and head north.

 

 

My Montana accommodation will be a cottage 5 miles from Chico Hot Springs, on a small ranch complete with 2 horses, a black lab, Sarah the cat, and several bipeds.

Private trout pond, right-of-way access to the Yellowstone River, Cable TV, Wi-Fi… Mercy me!

I will laze a bit before heading in search of acceptable excitement; the result of which may well be an increase in BLOG frequency, which will be viewed in various shades of light or darkness depending on one’s proclivities.

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Whoa! What’s this nonsense about getting rid of MSNBC’s Martin Bashir over his comments directed at Caribou Barbie? Simply because he spewed vicious, venomous, loathsome statements, not over the top but over the moon? C’mon. Silencing one of the planet’s most contemptible inhabitants? How will the kids ever learn right from wrong?

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Reading a fair amount of WW-II history I came across this quote directed at FDR, “I have no respect for him as a man, but he is the most brilliant politician of this (20^th) century.” I thought this might have some current applicability, but now…

 

 

2013-22 Santa Fe

Those paying attention will note that I have been a tad lazy of late. In some measure because I find that reporting on events I consider weird, bizarre, or just plain screwy, are more and more accepted as normal. But occasionally…

Sitting in a secluded outdoor corner of a favored watering hole, trying to profit from the last rays of summer, I overhear a father say to his cute but squirmy 2-year old “See that man over there? Why don’t you go talk to him?" Removing him/her (obligatory unisex haircut) to the floor, he turns to his yuppie tablemates, obviously far more engaged with them than his progeny.

As the only “man” in the vicinity and the assumed target, I greeted squirmy and tolerate his/her scurrying around my small table and even dodging a few small pebbles scooped from the floor and flung in my direction.

But upon the attempt to climb on my lap I take him/her gently by the hand and return him/her to the familial bosom. With uncharacteristic equanimity (attempting to accommodate a family member distressed that I am sinking into chronic curmudgeonry at an alarming rate), I politely intone, “thank you for sharing, but I raised my own and prefer that you do the same with yours.”

The response, quintessentially predictable from the progressive species that pervades Santa Fe, a snarled “what do you have against children?” The instant realization that nothing I could say would penetrate the thick wooden barricade encasing his brain, I walk away to the glares and rude comments boring into my back.

I know these folks believe it takes a village. Surprisingly my two have survived quite admirably with just two loving and attentive parents.

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Quote of the Week:

Former French Foreign Minister Bernard Kouchner in a radio interview. "Let's be honest, we eavesdrop too. Everyone is listening to everyone else. But we don't have the same means as the United States, which makes us jealous."

So apparently the international outrage stems from the fact that we do it better than everyone else. As the French might say, Tant pis…

Chrystal clear however is the fact that the Administration’s promise to “restore” US credibility around the world has been a colossal failure.

And, an insider joke from my Paris research bureau. “The only person listening to (increasingly unpopular socialist President of France Francois) Hollande is Barack Obama.”

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If you subscribe to the Chinese proverb of wishing to live in “interesting times,” you have your wish in spades, or perhaps in the clubs both sides are using in the misbegotten hope of bludgeoning the other into submission.

Of the several defective genes I carry, seeing both sides of the argument is perhaps the most troublesome, as it often sends all within earshot (readshot?)  into a tizzy. Although I have noticed that my liberal acquaintances are far more affronted than are those who occupy contrarian views.

I take this to be the result of liberal conviction that from the left they are always right, i.e. correct and pure in all things. It must be a great cross to bear struggling through life with the burden of perfection on your back.

Like the Wake Forest professor when asked why there are not more conservative academics, replied “they’re just not bright enough.” Or our President who repeats obsessively that “they just don’t get it,” and seems genuinely perplexed that all the planet’s inhabitants don’t naturally fall into lockstep behind his flawless leadership.

It could just be that liberals are smarter, but wisdom doesn’t equate to intellectual acuity.

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I was not and am not in favor of defunding Obamacare in the manner conservatives attempted, but I cannot get my arms (nor brain) around the illogic that says big business gets a reprieve, thousands of waivers have been dispensed to individual commercial enterprises, and unions are demanding (and will surely get) massive concessions, but we poor schlubs who slog through life trying (for the most part) to do the right thing have to pony up.

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“There are few things more demoralizing than working for people you don’t admire,” a quote from the unlikely lips of Julia Child in the much-trashed “A Covert Affair,” by Jennet Conant. Wonder if I should put this in a frame and hang it on my office wall? Probably not a wise move!

 

A la prochaine...

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2013-21 Santa Fe-Albuquerque-Houston-Atlanta-Anniston-Atlanta-Denver-Albuquerque-Santa Fe

O dark thirty in the Albuquerque Sunport. Eight ticket agents at the United counter and no passengers. Scary! On the way to Anniston, AL (drive to ABQ, air to Houston, connect to Atlanta, 2 hour motor coach to Anniston to take a FEMA course that I had previously completed at FEMA’s national training center in Maryland, taught there by the acclaimed “dean” of instruction). But here is it required to “check a box.” Go figure.

Departed Santa Fe in the midst of severe statewide flooding, described by one official as “biblical.” I’m not a religions person, but would direct her attention to the section of the Bible that references Noah and the Arc. But troubling nevertheless, with arroyos that can morph from dry to a raging torrent in 30-minutes time.

Spent most of the week in the company of first responders discussing the consequences of someone (anyone) trying to confiscate their firearms. And lots of locker room talk that took me back to junior high. But they do rush into burning buildings and confront terrorists, so I cut a ton of slack.

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“Cut off your nose to spite your face,” a favorite expression of my grandmother, a tough Pennsylvania Dutch matron who baked & sold pies, squirreling away some of the proceeds from her husband (a loving but tightfisted German) in order to dole out a nickel here and there to each of her five kids.

I never fully comprehended the meaning, but it does appear to have some relevance to the current political theater inside the Beltway.

My namesake George Will provided a Lincoln quote with the power of a bazooka. If (the horrendously misnamed) Affordable Care Act is as bad as some believe, allow the “silent artillery of time” to bring it down.

Yet an immutable that might join "death and taxes" is the certainty that given government largess to the populace in whatever form, the likelihood of its withdrawal approaches that of lottery winners and lightning strike victims.

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“Happiness is complicated; freedom is not.” This may not be original. Thoughts occasionally pop into my head and I’m never sure whether they were self- generated or inadvertently cribbed. I tend to submit such items to Google, and am occasionally amazed that the likes of Oscar Wilde, Flaubert, Lincoln and I have similar thoughts.

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I’ve clearly been watching too much TV lately. Current annoyances:

“Limited time offer” and “supplies limited” vice “offer good to the end of time” and “infinite supplies available”.

The plethora of “reality TV.” As folks slink with excessive stealth to repossess cars, boats, airplanes and whatnot, I can’t blank out the fact that there is a TV camera crew in close proximity that could blow their cover.

A proliferation of ads that announce "if you owe the IRS more than $10,000, we can help you get up to 85% of the debt quashed." How proud they sound helping deadbeats while we poor schlubs pay and pay.

But isn’t that what we have become, a burgeoning class of “takers” and a diminishing group of "givers"? Historians muse that all great civilizations of the past have withered, and speculate on when it will be our turn. Perhaps the tipping point will be when the 1% is no longer able (or willing) to subsidize the 99. Actually the ratio here is more like 45-55, but going south daily. Gerord Bernard Shaw opined that "those who rob Peter to pay Paul will always have the support of Paul."

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Government shutdown tomorrow. Perhaps. Incredible stupidity or a “march into hell for a heavenly cause”? The coin is in the air.

2013-20 Santa Fe.

A vexing conundrum that has baffled the scientific community for decades focuses on the fact that a win secured by one’s preferred sports team can evoke mild elation and a restful night whereas a loss can spiral into clinical depression.

Last evening outside of Washington, DC my team, thought by talking heads to have a chance for the best season in years, fumbled (literally) and bumbled (literally) to humiliating defeat at the hands of a neighbor to the north.

Though gone from the nation’s capital, my heart rests at the old RFK stadium, and I cannot hear the team fight song without evoking stirring memories of Joe Gibbs, Doug Williams (the quarterback who led the team to Super Bowl victory yet no one remembers) and even Joe Theisman before his aging prostate started giving him fits.

Hail to the Redskins indigenous people

Hail victory

Braves Native American males on the warpath acting aggressively

Fight for old DC.

Some day before it’s all over I hope to get to FedEx Alternative to the US Postal Service Field and see them play, hopefully to vanquish the dreaded Dallas Cowboyspersons or the Philadelphia Eagles National Symbols.

Note: to my international readership confused by the above, don’t even bother!

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I’ve tried to stay away from the current political fray, but can’t resist passing the thought from a faithful reader that perhaps this means Putin will be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Don’t see why not. It was once awarded on the basis of a dazzling smile and a host of promises (largely unfulfilled). But if so, would that mean he must relinquish his KGB credentials?

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Last week was Fiesta in Santa Fe. A brief history lesson is in order. In 1680 indigenous people from northern New Mexico pueblos got fed up with Spanish colonists and laid waste to Santa Fe. The conquistadors, realizing they were no match for natives scorned, fled to El Paso and spent the next 12 years drinking margaritas and complaining about the bad accents of the Mexican people.

In 1692 Don Diego de Vargas was appointed Governor of New Mexico by the Spanish throne, and returning to Santa Fe he discovered the locals had mellowed somewhat. He bravely declared victory and restored Spanish authority to the city.

Every year since then the return of de Vargas is celebrated at Fiesta in Santa Fe Plaza. Somehow the indigenous people selling trinkets throughout the area do not appear caught up in the excitement.

 

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2013-19 Albuquerque

My student obligation behind me for the moment, I am passing the week as an instructor. Teaching is harder but more fun and you rarely doze off while teaching.

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“Back and forth.” Shouldn’t it be “forth and back?” Well perhaps not if it’s a government program.

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While discussing geopolitics with an old acquaintance of long duration, the thought occurred that politicians honestly seeking solutions – Reagan and Clinton come to mind, are positive forces moving the country forward. While the “in-your-face” crowd usually creates stagnation or worse. I can think of at least one from both political parties.

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There is a weed (not “the” weed) that grows wild in the West in large bushes that threaten to obscure sidewalk and trails. Near the Plaza this weekend a local entrepreneur has uprooted a bush, hung it upside down to dry, and was selling sprigs for $2 each. I applauded his innovative commerce but couldn’t help shaking my head at the tourists lined up to purchase.

His street office sported a hand lettered sign “support indigenous peoples,” I had to dig out my Funk and Wagnall’s to learn the precise definition, and I don’t think the Bronx qualifies.

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State employees on travel have two reimbursement choices: a modest per diem and “actuals.” What this “actually” means is that auditors recalculate allowed tips to the allowed penny, and woe onto those whose dinner receipt includes an adult beverage. These restrictions form the very tip of a large iceberg, so per diem it is for me.

This decision finds me in a modest but clean hotel in what has been described as a transition area buffering “affluent” and “never-to-be-seen-again" neighborhoods.

But yesterday at first light while stretching in preparation for my thrice-weekly run (euphemistic though that term may be – it was once a run, then a jog, now a slog) a van labeled “City Coroner” pulled up and entered a room several doors down. Not a promising sign. I normally do 5-k on the weekdays but voluntarily extended a bit to avoid whatever exited the room. Mercifully upon my return the vehicle had departed.

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I have noticed hereabouts a touch of “island syndrome.” Years ago on a family vacation in Hawaii I detected a disturbing sociological trend first manifested in a rental car office at the airport. As the family entered there came a chorus of “aloha’s”, and my young daughter was delighted to receive a lei from one of the clerks. For a moment it seemed as though the entire staff was putting on a “welcome to Hawaii” show for us. For a moment.

 

Reservation, license and insurance card entered into the computer, the signing ceremony complete, we were directed to spot A-3, “just outside the door,” by the saccharine sweet staff.

 

But A-3 housed a rinky-dinky, teeny-weenie imitation of an automobile, half the size we reserved, and a glance at the contract revealed that the price charged was that of the much larger vehicle we ordered.

 

Back inside it took but nano-seconds for the smiles to be replaced by a snarled ultimatum that “this is what we have and if you don’t like it you can stuff it.” Of course starting from scratch after a long flight with fidgety kids wanting to hit the beach (and their fidgetier father much in need of an adult beverage), was not a viable option, so we tucked our tails and crammed bodies and luggage into the clown car.

 

Driving away we opined that the glorious welcome was intended to blunt the unpleasant reality, but the scenario played out again several times as the week wore on, namely that all was sweetness and light until a concern was raised, one so innocuous as expressing mild surprise that the hotel restaurant in Kauai was “closed for repairs” and there was no other within miles.

And there is a twinge of island syndrome alive in Santa Fe. A hippy-dippy, kumbaya, love your neighbor atmosphere until the neighbor asks a question not filled with sunshine. But the humidity is very low!

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2013-18 Albuquerque

I am this week in “Albuquirky,” so named by the residents of Santa Fe in the grossly misbegotten belief that they, and not world surrounding them, are the true arbiters of truth and light. I will be here 3 out of 4 weeks this month, taking a class then teaching a class then presenting at the State annual DHS Conference.  Whoopie!

 

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We are outraged (inraged as well)! On the eve of Albuquerque’s annual balloon festival, France (France!) has claimed to have wrested from us the one hour balloon launch record (345) by setting off 408 on the occasion of their Fete de Balloon.

 

What? The French? What do they know about balloons? OK, there was that Montgolfier fella, but that was over 100 years ago. I smell something poisson-esque. Perhaps they were counting une, deux, trois, huit. In any event, come our festival October 5, locals vow to blanket the sky with canvas, perhaps to prove we have more hot air than the French, which would be quite a feat. Vive la balloon!

 

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I am certain there are those who would rise in indignation to dispute this assertion, but I do believe that Santa Fe is the “doo-dad” capital of the planet. Virtually every summer weekend the historic Plaza is roped off to vehicular traffic and replaced with stalls, there have to be 500+, merchandising a dazzling array of bric-a-brac, mostly jewelry and painting, all “in the tradition of the west,” which to me translates as gaudy.

And in the shade of the adobe overhang along East Palace, seated on the ground, wares spread before them on blankets, rest indigenous peoples hawking baubles at one third the price of identical merchandise displayed in the air-conditioned shops a block away.

Hawking may be a misnomer. In general they appear uninspired by the commerce they undertake, and mid-afternoon often finds them dozing until a tourist attired in blinding shades of chartreuse and fuchsia arouses them with an inquiry into price. I find the scene depressing, a stark reminder that despite the Government expenditure of billions designed to improve their lot, we have largely failed.

And I cannot traverse East Palace without grinding my teeth at the transformation of address 109 from the ancestral home of the Manhattan Project into a garish emporium of gewgaws, gimcracks, and thingumajigs.

 

Those who have not yet heeded my counsel should proceed post-haste to their local library or used book shop (or Amazon for the couch potatoes among you) to acquire “109 East Palace” by Jennet Conant. Even the pacifists among you should appreciate this comprehensive account of the birth of the bomb.

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I wonder what Santa Fe will be like when winter drives away the tourists and replaces them with ski bums? I am already starting to dither upon whether to reacquaint with my skis, although the $50 “old fogy” season pass is a temptation (when I was age 58, essentially free skiing was common for those 60 and above. As my age progressed so did the threshold, but I have finally caught up.)

 

A long-ago acquaintance and ski patrol team lead abruptly abandoned the sport at 70, saying the voices get louder and the fall and bounce at 20 gets you a free ride in a sled at 70. True. And even the exercise of caution, at which I show scant competence, does not protect against the buzzed (at 10am!) 250 pound out-of-control wingnut wreaking havoc on the slopes.  Stay tuned.

2013-17 Santa Fe

Those who know me will find unsurprising my silence on such cosmic issues as the birth of the anticipated future king of Great Britain. But I rise to note that I have some direct familiarity with St. Mary’s Hospital on Pread St., in the Paddington district of downtown London, where the “little prince” arrived.

 A family member spent some of her last days there, in a ward with dirty floors, dim corridors with light bulbs out or missing, a visitor’s bathroom that would rival the depths of any rural gas station privy on the planet.

I suspect princess Kate was in a different section, perpetuating the wisdom of the ages that the chosen fare better than the choosers. Brings to mind the behind-the-scenes attempts of “progressive” US lawmakers to insure their lofty medical insurance programs are not diluted by Obamacare which they tout so aggressively to we great unwashed.

And I bet the Royal family is unaware of a superb Chinese carryout just across the road from the hospital. Perhaps I’ll drop a line…

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In New Mexico I must present at least 5 pieces of identification (originals only if you please), one from list A, 2 from B, etc., to obtain a driver’s license. But in order to cast a vote for the President of the United States I need only declare that I have a right to do so. No questions asked, thank you very much. Show a picture ID? How dare you!

 

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Enjoying a beer in the garden of a local establishment last Sunday, an (obviously) tourist duo arrived and plunked down at a free table. Well, he did; she grimaced and walked inside, only to emerge with a sponge and a wad of paper towels and proceed to thoroughly wipe down what appeared to be a clean table. She closely inspected the glass in which her water was served and fidgeted excessively over what she clearly felt were unacceptable sanitary conditions.

As I departed, in keeping with my (partially) successful campaign to be more socially acceptable (or at least less disagreeable), it required all my willpower to refrain from glancing under her table and exclaiming, “my God, did you see the size of that rat.” Being a good citizen takes much fun out of life.

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Despite the excessively liberal nature of my surroundings, there is a pervading sense of humor present in many of the locals that can bring out an easy smile. I was informed by an aging Hispanic gentleman with a twinkle in his eye, that contrary to the accepted dictionary definition, mañana in New Mexico means “not today.”

And prominently displayed in an office near mine rests a sign that I wondered might affront some of my co-workers.

Calling an illegal alien an undocumented immigrant

Is like labeling a drug dealer an undocumented pharmacist

Despite a very politically correct workforce, the sign appears to generate no palpable offense.

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The monsoon rains have arrived, not the literal sheets of water that characterize the Asian variety, but a deluge nevertheless. High winds and flooded arrayos accompany the precip, but it does cool down the landscape.

2013-16 Santa Fe

Happy 4^th of July. With Cinco de Mayo behind us and Quatorze Juillet (Bastille Day) just 10 days hence, we are awash in jours fetes. But nobody does it quite like the Spanish. While assigned to the U. S Consulate in Barcelona long past, we incurred a month with some 10 Spanish holidays and one American. More days off than on.

One of my odysseys during that period involved a summer crossing Spain to witness its plethora of festivals, including Santiago de Compostello (with fireworks on metal wires exploding just overhead a packed square) and the crown jewel Pamplona with its infamous bull run.

I and amigo Archie, much to the consternation of his Israeli wife (in no small part as they were parents of 18-month old twins) vowed to participate in the running, the first iteration of which occurs on the 7^th hour of the 7^th day of the 7^th month.

It is de rigeur for runners to spend the night before in Hemmingwayesque fashion, drinking and bolstering courage through multilingual braggadocio. Somewhere in the early hours I slipped off the rails and regained consciousness to the sound of trumpets high in the hills heralding the release of the bulls.

Simultaneously I felt a rough passage over my midsection and looked up to see a street sweeper gently nudging me out of his cleansing path. It is my only instance of sleeping in the gutter, and I have often wondered if this was divine intervention or simply a drunkard’s folly. The latter most assuredly.

It was on this sojourn that Archie’s Ella and my companion departed to explore the town, leaving us with the twins on an Atlantic beach. Shortly after their departure we heard cries for help whereupon Archie and I leapt into the surf and rescued two pre-teen locals caught in a riptide.

We were roundly feted by the local populace, mostly with the presentation of jugs of vino tinto. When the women returned they were offended by the accumulation of jugs and totally unbelieving of our feat of heroism.

In fact Ella was sorely agrieved by her awareness that one of the improperly attended twins was ingesting large handfuls of sand. Not to worry, claimed Archie, he’ll figure it out in the morning and the lesson learned will remain for life.

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Though I am poorly equipped to do so, I am attempting to teach Spanish to Henrietta, the lady in my GPS. She is resisting. Lujan comes out “low-jan,” etc.

 

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Mooshie2 (named in honor of a former feline friend) hangs out around my ground floor balcony and is often curled up in my balcony sling chair when I arise around 04:30. There’s a rumor that s(he) – still haven’t got a good look at the south end – is feral, but as even the wild must eat I lay out the odd morsel.

2013-15 Santa Fe

Back in the USSR ROC EOC (Emergency Operations Center, for the uninformed). We have been activated for over 2 weeks due to wildfires, mercifully burning mostly in uninhabited areas, no deaths, no reported loss of structure, minimal evacuations. Unlike Colorado that has at the moment 2 deaths and over 500 homes consumed.

A 10-hour shift last Saturday, and it was quiet, a good thing but a bit boring. As I am always “up” when the adrenalin flows, and increasingly (as I age) “down” when nothing is happening, I muse upon the plight of all who dwell in the realm of emergency. You certainly don’t want to sue for activity as it almost certainly means weeping and wailing and the occasional gnashing of dentures, while conversely a 10-hour shift can seem like a week when nothing is happening. Not as bad as the solo 12-hour 6-pm to 6-am odysseys I pulled as a county Watch Officer in a previous life. One night at 4-am Elvis sauntered in, but he was looking for a party and quickly departed.

The above was written a week ago and we are now back to steady-state operation, the EOC de-activated, and those once deployed have now returned to home base – they’re “ployed” I guess.

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The temperature here has been 90F+, but not accompanied by the 250% humidity suffered by friends back east, and thus generally tolerable.

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On the treadmill at 04:30 several mornings ago when the news broke that James Gandolfini succumbed to a heart attack at the age of 51. No deep thoughts here, but it did make the workout a bit more tolerable.

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We dress down here and jeans and collared polos are common for the masculine workforce. I have clung to the dress shirt until I discovered to my horror that laundering here is $3.50-$4.00 per shirt vice about $1.40 some 1500 miles eastward. But it may be a zero sum game, as I have found a brewery midway on my 10-minute commute home that has a happy hour with a quite tolerable pint of IPA for $2.50.

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Continuity, at least as practiced in government, is a slow and steady process, which provides time for contemplation. That and the fact that at the Cowgirl on Sunday a young woman offers a very passable rendition of the Janice Joplin classic “Me and Bobby McGee,” got me to wondering how Janice disposed of McGee’s body when “somewhere near Salinas, Lord, I let him slip away.” Hope she didn’t leave him curbside. If I’m ever in Kansas, I’ll ask around.

 

As one who has circumnavigated the globe a time or two, I say with some authority that I have rarely encountered so shopworn a populace as here in the Land of Enchantment. It might be the sun (which can be harsh), the wind (which I have yet to experience in extremus but which I am told can be fierce), or perhaps something else. After all, Roswell is just down the road.

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At the Cowgirl, where if you have been paying attention, you know I spend much of my free time, I have noticed that about 90% of the tables are same-gender and 5% are tourist families with progeny in tow who look like they would trade a double root canal for the experience.

Were I a more social individual, I might consider undertaking some cross-gender introductions. Well, perhaps not.

And yesterday while basking in the sun listening to Joe West and Friends, I was approached by a matron of a certain age who offered me sunscreen. Trying to think of a non- or minimally-rude response, I replied that I am not a fan of rubbing grease on my body, upon which she offered to undertake the application on my behalf. Cheech!  

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2013-14 Santa Fe

I have made note that my current digs are VERY quiet. That changed this morning as I returned bedraggled from my weekly 10-k. Immediately behind me, sirens a blaring, came the SFFD and an ambulance. Suddenly the lobby was alive with octogenarians.

“Who’s hurt?”

“I smell smoke.”

“I bet it’s Harry. Haven’t seen him for days.”

“Well, if it’s Mable, it’s her third time this year.”

Twenty minutes later the EMT’s departed and the lobby returned to its eerie quiet. I didn’t see whether it was Harry or Mable.

I guess I fit in with the majority agewise, although I do get stares when I come in from running and I have noticed some squints of curiosity as the early morning dog walkers look to ascertain what manner of imbicile could possibly be in the fitness room at 5:30am when no responsible tenant would be found there at noon.

But better the snoozers than a heavy metal band practicing at 2:30am.

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He sat next to me on the bus as I headed to the Plaza for Saturday refreshment and heaved a great sigh, the kind you know is precursor to conversation. Without prompting he volunteered “I’m not interested in the old gals and the younger ones are too fast for me.” Never thought of it that way but he did have a point. We rode several stops in silence, and as he rose to depart, “Higher maintenance, too.” Got that.

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I am working at adjusting my attitude toward interaction with strangers. Normally when approached I glower and keep on moving. On airplanes when seatmates insist on being social, I have been known to furl my brow and ask innocently, “Do I know you?” When the jabberwocky answers in the negative, I respond “WELL THEN WHY IN HELL ARE WE NATTERING ON LIKE LONG LOST COUSINS.” Works pretty well.

But I still find it disconcerting to be approached by a fellow shopper and asked my opinion of a particular food product. It takes all my willpower to refrain from a response like “gee, I wonder if that’s the cereal my dog got into just before the rabies.” I’m working on it, but it ain’t easy.

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I grew up in a blue collar suburb of Philadelphia, an Italian enclave attractive to upwardly mobile South Philadelphia residents. The Clifton Heights school system was by far the smallest in the area. It endured many challenges, not least of which was suffered by the high school band.

Unlike neighbors Darby, Eddystone, and Radnor, the Clifton Heights band was forced to form the double letters “C and H” during football halftime activity. There was always a frantic scramble to recruit band members to complete the formation, musical talent not required.

As a nerdy freshman I was thrust into this morass, and found myself the lone horizontal bar between the two parallel lines of the “H.” Many a frozen Friday night I staffed this critical post, clarinet poised, cheeks and fingers moving, no sound coming forth. We also serve who only march in silence.

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A constant source of annoyance (you may have noticed I have many) is the consistent refusal of politicians (of every stripe, persuasion, and affiliation) to provide reasonable answers to questions on talk shows, at press conferences, and community forums. Not only skirting issues, but wholesale refusal to offer a response remotely related to the question. Follows a short quiz:

Question: Do you favor a bill that would delay or eliminate sequestration

Answer:

A.   I have always supported our nation’s farmers and will continue to do so.

B.   We must secure our borders.

C.   The most vulnerable among us must be shielded from penury.

D.   I have answered that question many times, and my answer remains the same.

Now, match the answers with the profiles below:

1.    A Midwestern politician from either party

2.    Any of 535 plus untold state, regional, and local solons

3.    An inner-city liberal

4.    A southwest conservative

I am considering shopping a new concept to the cable industry. A program titled:

YNR – Yes, No, Refuse

Questions would be put to the politician who would have but 3 options. Answer “yes,” “no,” or “refuse” (to answer). Those selecting the first two choices would be given one minute to clarify their response. At one minute a red light would appear before the respondent. At 1 minute 10 seconds (assuming continued monologue) a substantial electrical charge would be directed to the respondent’s chair (greater entertainment value than simply cutting off a microphone). The electrical charge would also be used to remind wayward responders of the rules of the game.