A couple of weeks ago my neighbor, Art, and I went out on the bikes with no particular destination in mind. Since Art hadn’t been out to see the Pony before, I suggested that we stop in at Gene’s and give the Pony a visit. The Pony couldn’t believe I was the same guy that always shows up in jeans and a sweatshirt. Here’s a shot Lynne took.
Before we left, Lynne looked at us in our colorful cycling gear and said, “You guys look like serious riders.” Art shot right back, “Any ride with this guy is serious.” What does that mean? I’m probably the least serious guy you’ll find.
Speaking of the Pony, now that he has “eyes” he’s started reading the paper on a regular basis. The following article title was something that he never dreamed he’d see, “Meatball sales Suspended in Asia and Caribbean.” It made him chuckle, and he wondered, “What will Italians put on their spaghetti if they’ve got no meatballs?” Then he read that the meatballs were actually Swedish meatballs, and he wondered, “Why do Swedes need special meatballs? Do they even eat spaghetti?” That’s just the way the Pony’s mind works. But as he read on, he was shocked.
If you believe recent media reports, it appears some horse (read pony) meat has found its way into products that are supposed to be all beef. The Pony is beside himself with a mixture of outrage and fear. Butchering up dumb cows, well that’s understandable. Any critter dumb enough to stand in a field blithely eating grass waiting for the lights to go out, hell, it gets what it deserves. But horses, they’re strong, noble, intelligent and a great friend to man. The Pony pointed out to me that before the farm tractor came along, the horse was responsible for keeping the American farm going. He further pointed out that he is both a Pony and a tractor, essentially bridging the past with the future. Brother, now that’s getting a little carried away. Anyway, he’s asked that Gene and me make sure the garage is locked up tight at night just to make sure no one gets any ideas about turning him into meatballs, Swedish or otherwise. Take it easy boy, we’ll protect you.
Just to keep you informed of “all things donut,” I saw something pretty clever recently in the N&O. Realizing that most folks have trouble reading maps, but everyone knows where the donut shops are, they’ve devised a new donut-centric map-making program. The map below was provided along with an article about some new low-income town homes going up over in Raleigh.
Note how the writer has shown the location of the new development in relation to the nearest donut shop. Perfect, I know exactly where that is!
Just a brief comment, I guess, question. Every time you hear the “word du jour,” sequestration, do you immediately think like I do, castration?” I sure hope the former hurts less than the latter?
How do you carve up a year? With the passage of February, the IB sent a note saying that one sixth of the year was shot. At age 65 time really flies. Before I got too busy, I used to measure in terms of garbage days, 52 per year. Daffodils coming up at the old cabin, once-a-year. Visits to the dentist for the annual check-up, 2, but, man those seem to come up all the time. Morning 40’s are dots on the calendar, generally 12 per month (right now there are 22). Those seem to add up agonizingly slowly during the winter, but zoom by in the summer. Two batches of new copperheads hatch; I see them squashed in the road, spring and fall. Two broods of blue birds fledge, but in the odd year, three, which throws me all off. Then in the category “so many you can’t count ’em,” there are: compliments on my hair (nose, almost as often), bold predictions that come true, “killer” posts to this blog, and number of times The Princess says, “You know, you’re right.” These all just fly by in a blur.
However you carve them up, remember, we each get only so many. My advice: keep adding new categories.
Have a great weekend (they’re 28.5% of the year), and thanks for reading.