Maybe It's Just Me, Bike Lanes Are Annoying

  Maybe it's just me, and usually it is, but bike lanes on streets are a waste. 

  It's not like they are used that often. I go days without seeing a bike on them. Has anybody ever done a cost/benefit analysis? Why aren't they licensed, and the fee used to pay for bike lanes themselves? 

  Do they have to obey traffic laws? I see no evidence that they do. They can run through traffic lights and stop signs, and whiz by me in school zones. 

  And what about those bikes that have a motor attached? The people who ride them shouldn't be trusted with a gallon of gasoline and a two-stroke engine. They're like a suicide bomber on a mission.

  I live in Boise, Idaho. It is a city that is as obsessed with bicycle lanes as it is with the Boise State Broncos.  

  Several years ago, there were three automobile/bicycle collisions within a few weeks of each other. The automobile always wins. A local TV station displayed the pictures of the three cyclists (none sustained life-ending injuries). Here's the strange coincidence: they were all photographed in competitive cycling attire with numbers. My take is that because they were "skilled" cyclists, they thought they owned the road. Indeed, it was discovered later they were at fault, but because they were cyclist, they were portrayed as the victims. 

  Near the same period of time, I personally witnessed an automobile/bicycle collision. A cyclist was speeding on the sidewalk. He had his racing helmet and tights on. He was slumped forward like he was heading for the finish in the Tour de France. With a bike lane available, he chose the sidewalk. He didn't bother checking for traffic because, after all, this was the Tour de France. An automobile, having the light and about a three-thousand-pound advantage, collided with the bike. I'm grateful the cyclist was not killed. 

  The bicyclists and the lanes are a menace and should be changed into something useful. I don't know what, but I do know when something is useless; it's when seldom used. 

Maybe It's Just Me, Over Precise Doesn't Always Work

Maybe it's just me, and it usually is, but when someone asks me more than once to repeat myself, the third time is worse than the first two. 

Let me illustrate. If somebody asks me the capital of Wisconsin. I'd say, "Madison, Wisconsin."

"What?"

"Madison, Wisconsin!"

They are not cupping their hand around their ear, so I assume that volume is not the issue. I may be speaking too fast. 

I'll slow it down to 33 and1/3 RPMs and be very precise. I twist your mouth all around to make sure every syllable is just right. "Ma di son, West con son."

The listener looks at me as if I'm trying to give directions to a tourist from Japan. 

The thing is, you usually say it right at 78 RPMs, but when you slow it down, you really have to deal with all the individual parts.

Maybe it's just me, Football Announcers Are Annoying

Maybe it's just me, and it usually is, but I find announcers on football games annoying. 

I like to watch football. Note, I wrote "watch." There are times I turn off the sound and just watch. That solves the problem, but not totally. You see, the announcers do possess vital information that the viewer does not have. And that information does enhance the viewing experience. 

There are so many things that annoy me about announcers that I don't want to rob the reader of taking them all away from them. I will likely cover them as this year's football season progresses. 

I don't like it when the announcers favor the team with the momentum at Adnasium--not even when it's my team. 

I don't like the camera shots of the quarterback's mom--Adnasium. We know she loves her boy. We know she acts like a madwoman when he scores. And the hotter she is, the more camera shots she gets. And the more animated she gets, the more camera shots she gets. What pressure!

The announcers are aware of who has the larger and more financially affluent fanbase. They will tailor their remarks to that fanbase to keep them happy. Sometimes, but for the score, you'd think the losing team was ahead. 

I hate it when they draw on the screen. "Keep an eye on this guy," they'll say and circle a player. Guess what? That's not the guy, and if it is, we hear about it well past the five-minute commercial break. The announcer will still be talking about it on his way to the airport. I pity his wife. "Did you see, did you see, Honey? I drew a squiggly yellow circle on the TV, and that guy got the touchdown. Wait until contract time comes around. I'm not just another silver-tongued talking head."

And could we please stop it with the Sideline Suzies who stick a mic in the face of some crochety old coach. 

"What does your team need to do to get back in this ball game?"

"We've got to make some good plays and cut down on mistakes."

"What did you tell your team at halftime to get back in the game?" 

I don't think we want to hear what he told them.

  

Maybe It's Just Me, Corny 50s TV

  Maybe it's just me, and it usually is, but I like old 1950s television shows. I find them on YouTube. 

Captain Midnight; from left to right, Ikky Mud
(Sid Milton), Captain Midnight (Richard Webb), 
Dr. Aristotle "Tut" Jones (Olan Soule)

  It takes me back to a time when life appeared simple. Those shows and plots that I watched were not complicated or riddled with preachy messages. If they were, it was about honesty, courage, obeying authority, respect, diligence, and many other positive traits. 

  We saw how to act around adults and figures of authority. Indeed, some of those things were a bit overplayed. The message was, This is proper conduct. 

  The TV of yesteryear is scoffed at as being unrealistic and a portrayal of an idealistic world that did not exist. To be clear, TV programs are fiction.

  The last week or so, I've watched several episodes of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and Captain Midnight. Unbelievable plots, structured dialogue, stiff acting, cheap sets, rudimentary special effects. Like many have said, radio with pictures.

  Sure, it had its faults. We saw no African Americans. That was not society's fault. It was the writers, producers, and programming
executives. Mexicans were portrayed in extremes, humble and gracious or violent and cruel. There was a lot of stereotyping, not just among ethnic groups and races, but also among whites. The short guy was always the sidekick and comedic relief. The fat guy was always dimwitted. 

  Do I wish now that more time was taken to provide fair and believable representations of all people? Of course, but they didn't. And now is not the time to whine about it or overcompensate.

  Looking back at the influence these programs had on my interaction with people outside my racial and ethic group, they did not have any effect on me. I knew it was a show.

Maybe It's Just Me: Cracker Barrel

  Maybe it's just me, and it usually is, but I haven't eaten at Cracker Barrel in a few years. I used to eat there once or twice a month. For one stretch, I ate there every week. 

  When my wife and I went back home a few years ago. We met her family at Cracker Barrel, as we customarily do. There may have been as many as twenty of us.  Good food, great atmosphere, reasonable prices, and good service - what else can you ask for?

  I heard that Cracker Barrel's business had fallen off since COVID. That's happened to a lot of places. Due to deaths, my wife's family has gotten smaller. I don't think the fall off in her family would affect Cracker Barrel's bottom line that much.

  What happens when business falls off? The company starts looking for why. Looking is the operative word, not just speculating or asking others to speculate for you. 

  After the Cracker Barrel CEO likely thought it all out, she said, "Hey, it has to be the decor and our logo. It doesn't reflect today. We can't live in the past. I don't." 

News flash, even when the decor and logo were new, they didn't reflect the present. That was the charm and appeal; it took the customer back to a simple time. I liked looking at and reminiscing about all the old stuff hanging on the walls. It gave me something to do and talk about while waiting - a long time for my food!

  Changing the decor when business falls off is like getting a new paint job on your car, thinking it will run better, when all it needs is new sparkplugs. 

  Food, service, and decor are the Cracker Barrel brand. 

  I'm here to say that my last visits to the Cracker Barrel have been less than what I had previously been accustomed. The meals were not nearly as good, and the service was lacking. That's it.

  I would go so far as to say that the CEO of Cracker Barrel has spent scant time working on the floor or in the kitchen. If so, she would know the food's quality has slipped and how to remedy it. She would know the core of the problem is likely good hiring practices and training. That's the hard work. It's not a quick fix. They didn't lose customers overnight, and they won't gain them back overnight. 

  What the CEO proposed was waving a magic wand. 

  The CEO's previous experience was at places like Taco Bell and Starbucks. Enough said. Frankly, I don't blame her; I blame those who hired her.

A Shot in the Dark

  Maybe it's just me, and usually, it is. 

  Family genealogy is fascinating to me. It's not so much the names, dates of birth, marriages, and eventual deaths, but it is what can be filled in with fact or imagination.

  I have what some might think is a treasure. It is an unpublished book that chronicles my great-great-grandfather's trek from southeastern Ohio to northwest Ohio. And, of course, his wife and sons. 

  It was in the possession of an older cousin, much older. He lent it to me on the condition that it would be returned after I finished reading it. After reading, I handed it over to another cousin, who made two copies, one for him and one for me. I was able to return the original.

  The cousin I originally obtained it from was many times removed from my branch of the family. He didn't even possess my last name. However, it contained a couple of stories thought to be myths with no particular origin.  

  To me, the intriguing part of the book was the chronicle of events that moved my family from Perry County, Ohio, to Mercer County. I calculated the journey to be ten days. 

  There was one very interesting event. At the end of one day, the family set up camp. One of the teenage boys stayed up all night to keep watch. During the night and through the dense trees and underbrush, he saw what appeared to be two sets of eyes. He aimed his flintlock in the middle and fired. The two eyes disappeared. This woke the family. They decided any threat was gone and would wait until morning to investigate.  

  When morning came, Adam and the boys traced to where it was thought the two eyes were seen. They discovered a wolf shot between the eyes. Not bad for a young'un in the night with a flintlock rifle. 

  I heard this story again, but rehashed.

  Over a hundred years later, my dad was stationed at the Panama Canal. He walked guard duty one night. He walked part of his guard post through the jungle. He spotted what he thought was two eyeballs in the jungle. He called out to be identified. No one responded. Dad aimed for between the eyes and fired. The next morning, they conducted an investigation. And a panther was found with a bullet wound between the eyes.  

  Yep, my dad likely borrowed that story. And I have the feeling the other story may have been borrowed also. I suspect that somewhere in my family's history, aeons ago, one of my ancestors shot a bow or hurled a slingshot in the middle of the night and hit something between the eyes.   

Look Out For the Lefties

Maybe it's just me, and usually, it is. 

Years ago, I ate at a great barbecue joint. It was called Lefty’s. The owner took my money at the register. I noticed he was right-handed. 

“Why do you call this place Lefty’s when you are right-handed?” I asked.

“I bought this place from Lefty and kept the name.”

“Why don’t you name it Righty’s?”

“Lefty’s is a better name.”

I asked AI for a picture of the
famous left-handed pitcher,
Sandy Kofax. It produced him
throwing right-handed.
Could it be, he was right-handed
all along? After all, AI is smart.

  That was enough for me. I walked away enlightened, but couldn’t explain my enlightenment. Why is Lefty a better moniker than Righty?

   There’s a gaggle of athletes, (especially) baseball players, and musicians nicknamed Lefty. Lefty Gomez (baseball), Lefty O’Doul (baseball), Lefty Grove (baseball), Lefty Frizzell (Country singer and songwriter). 

Lefty is a good mobster’s name. “Hey, Boss, ya want me to go get Lefty to do the job?” Never do they get Righty. Righty would probably shoot the wrong guy and spill the beans on the whole gang.

I’m sure we’ve come across a few Lefties in our day. Ole Lefty, a reliable guy, always there when you need him, honest as the day is long, the go-to guy. 

When people speak about art, literature, and intellectualism, it is often associated with the Left Bank. What! Are all the idiots on the other side of the river?

Sure, there’s righty; righty tighty, lefty loosey, and tighty-whiteys. Good only for not stripping out bolts or holding everything in place.

Okay, there is the right-hand man, but let’s stare reality in the face; he’s there to take the blame while the Boss and Lefty are sunning in the Caymans. 

Why does marching start with the left foot? I smell a conspiracy—a left-wing conspiracy.