I spend a goodly portion of each week running column ideas through both sides of my brain.
The normal side always takes charge of this and has me jot down ideas and scribble notes on any object that will receive ink or pencil lead.
The body of our truck, “Old Blue,” was covered with these never-ending sentences until the normal side started whispering something about how I should be more sensitive and start thinking about the rights of the truck and less about myself.
Not wishing to engage the wrath of the ACLU or the ever-changing mind of the United States Department of Justice, the normal side decided to wash her and rid the poor girl of my thoughtless attacks with pen and pencil.
As I searched through coin jars and flipped cushions for the always elusive quarters I’d need for Blue’s bath, the weak side reminded me of the years of character the truck had built-up on her, and the shame she’d feel if cleaned beyond recognition. Not to mention the big Dodge dually down the street — she has a thing for younger American trucks.
The two sides starting battling it out, and back and forth I went, to wash or not to wash.
It wasn’t giving me a headache, but it was damned annoying.
Then, that dang dark-haired pixie came in from the secret place, and sent me into the closet of death. Instead of washing Blue, I was now supposed to find some kind of spray cleaner and a rag. I came away with one of those cleaning cloths you can put on the end of a stick to do the floors with.
The directions for use said it would clean everything but the fish tank, so out to the truck I went.
Before the controversy begins, I didn’t read the directions. I told Blue that I had because she tends to get self-conscious about her looks and always glances at anything shiny she can see her reflection in.
As I started rubbing the miles of my wordy dribble from her body, I started coming across telephone numbers I’d written down who knows when.
My personal favorite bad habit is writing down someone’s number and not attaching their name to it.
Of course, this is rude and thoughtless to the person who shared their number with me, but what was I to do?
Again, the normal and weak sides started battling it out — leave it, wipe it off, go ahead and leave it, no take it off.
Fortunately, the dark-haired pixie hadn’t left yet, so we, the four of us, slowed down for a bit and decided leaving the phone numbers on Blue was the lesser of two evils and one day when everyone felt better we’d call each number, write down the owner’s name and the reason I had the number.
Unfortunately, part of this four-way decision requires me adopting a kinder, softer, gentler attitude towards life in general.
Dang it, I had so hoped for the grumpy grandpa of the year award.
There goes another fantasy shot to hell.
I’ll discuss politics with anyone, except close friends and those who don’t have a clue about the rule of law, or life in general.
I’ve always found that if you listen to, or read, what “politicians” say, there should be no arguing.
Take for instance last week’s comments from the candidates in the Craig Daily Press.
One standing commissioner referred to his opponent as a “sheep,” and implied himself as the herd leader. Not being much of a follower nor wanting to be thought of as “dumber than a sheep,” I’ll go my way and you vote yours.
Hey, you be careful out there
P.S. — If you see Blue parked somewhere, take a minute and tell her how good she looks.
Columnist H. Neal Glanville can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.