Jetsam

-1) We were listening to the TV-news the other night, a report on the tornado devastation in Greensburg, Kansas.
They were interviewing a flabby, bespectacled 83-year-old Granny sitting in her wheelchair amidst the ruins, breathing oxygen through small clear plastic tubing to her nose.
“Well; I survived the DEE-pression,” she said; “and then went on to make the world safe for democracy. And after that I looked for Russian bombers from the local fire-tower.”
“Wait a minute!” I said. She’s reprising the exact same litany Linda’s mother has said.
Do people from that generation have that etched on their brain?

-2) I had to hit mighty Weggers after the YMCA to buy spinach.
While there I passed a man wearing an “I survived the ‘60s” T-shirt. It had a graphic of a psychedelic-painted Volkswagen bus.
I was tempted to collar him but didn’t.
“I survived the ‘50s,” I would have said.

-3) The cashier at Weggers forgot to process my Shoppers’-Club key-tag — a fairly common occurrence; it means a trip to the service-desk.
Shoppers’-Club is an 80¢ discount on a gallon of milk.
I get out the key-tag first, and put it on the counter for them to see.
No doubt this will prompt noisy blustering from West Bridgewater that I ain’t satisfactorily apprising the clerk — and thereby avoiding responsibility; that I’m therefore reprehensible and disgusting.
But I don’t think the equivalent of noisily smacking the clerk with a ballpeen would be as useful, and tactful, as avoiding the key-tag altogether, and swiping my wallet Shoppers’-Club card together with our credit-card.
That takes the harried cashier outta the loop.

-4) A lady is working-out at the YMCA whose left-arm is limp, and she appears to be wearing a brace on her left-leg.
She fell into waiting for me to finish cranking a Nautilus-machine.
“Are ya gonna be a while?” she asked.
“Almost done,” I said.
I subsequently got off and started wiping the machine with a paper-towel.
“I’d like to ask you a personal question,” I said.
“Did you have a stroke?”
“Yes.”
“Well so did I,” I said.
“You must have got the shot,” she said.
“No shot,” I said. “My whole left side was outta commission, but came back.”
“You’re very lucky,” she said.
“Also ornery,” I said.
“Well I’m ornery too.” she said; “but still no left-arm, and the stroke was five years ago.”
“Sounds like you may never get it back,” I said sorrowfully.
“All strokes are different,” she said.

-5) After I finish the treadmill, which is my first function, I usually have to go to the bathroom — accumulated coffee and orange-juice.

The Ducati-logo on my T-shirt.

The bathroom is accessed by leaving the exercise-gym and walking down a hall past a water-fountain (the one with the admonition against spitting and gum-deposit).
Returning from the bathroom I passed a couple muscle-bound dudes using the water-fountain.
“Do you have a Ducati?” one asked.

The Giugiaro Ducati-icon — the best one. This is the one that was on my motorcycle.

I looked around thinking “What brought that on? I’m not wearing my Ducati-jacket. The dude would have to have seen me in my Ducati-jacket.”
“Oh yeah, I’m wearing my Ducati T-shirt;” the one with the ancient Ducati icon from the ‘50s and ‘60s — before Giugiaro.
“Used to,” I said. “Black-and-gold 1980 900SS. Never should have let it go.”

“Linda” is my wife — her 91-year-old mother lives in a retirement-community in De Land, Floridy.

“Mighty Weggers” (Wegmans) is a supermarket we buy groceries at.

My macho younger blowhard brother lives in West Bridgewater near Boston, Mass. He loudly bad-mouths everything I do or say. He has a habit of fixing things with a ballpeen hammer.

“Giorgetto Giugiaro’s” ItalDesign was hired by Ducati to style its motorcycles in the early ‘70s, including the logo.