“Who are you?”

The Keed

“Who are you?”

Late yesterday afternoon (Saturday, September 8, 2007) we attended a surprise 60th birthday-party for one of Linda’s past co-workers.
The party was at a nearby local park: Powder Mills Park.
I have taken to accompanying my wife on these shindigs, because -1) I would have nothing else to do (except perhaps sew acrimony with this here rig), and primarily -2) my wife is automotively challenged, and I don’t want her to drive over strange roads and probably get lost.
Actually, I think she could have found the park, but it would have meant -A) a map, and -B) a trial run.
My wife successfully found a funky restaurant, but it was on a street she had driven before.
I drove her to the main Rochester post-office in deepest, darkest Henrietta so we could find a route with dedicated and signaled left-turns.
Cardinal rule here: all left-turns can only be made from dedicated and signaled left-turn lanes. (Believe it or not, The Keed knows this stuff.)
My wife once did volunteer cleanup for a group-home for the mentally challenged near Powder Mills Park.
It was so hard to find I ended up taking her there myself. Two trips; one going there, and one returning.
Powder Mills Park is also hard to find.
I pulled out three maps, but my Finger-Lakes Bicycle map is useless, since it lacks many roads, and Powder Mills Park isn’t even on it.
My second map is Western New York, mainly Buffalo and environs. But it’s only counties west of the Genesee River — Powder Mills Park is east.
So I was left with only one map, my giant Finger-Lakes district map, but it covers half of New York state, so the segment around Powder Mills Park is tiny.
So here we are driving north on Strong Road, headed for State Route 251.
“That map I drew can’t be right,” I said. “Right takes me toward Victor, not Mendon. Mendon is left.”
It’s my old sense of direction taking over; what lead me to loop near smelly Boston Harbor on the way to Logan Airport.
(“Halt in the name of the law!” the security-guards shouted, massive sidearms drawn. “Where do ya think you’re goin’, you terrorist lackey?”
“I was trying to get to Logan,” I said. “I was following directions by my brother, Jack Hughes.”
“We know that guy,” they said. “Get yourself turned around. He had ya headed toward New England.”)
I could drop into negatory mode here, but I’ll pass. After all, these are the people that make America great — Liberial-Arts majors, as opposed to engineers that drop the I-35W bridge into the Mississippi. People that care about what they do...... as opposed to billionaires that want to leave no billionaire behind so they can drive megabuck Mercedes.
A flaccid male bimbo with red-dyed hair was dashing madly about snapping pictures with his Canon digital camera, beer in hand, pop-up flash flopping lazily.
Fortyish hags were trying to project sex by wearing saggy tanktops. One thin girl was trying to compete with Jack’s “Sweet-Cheeks” Harley-Momma, but her tiny boobs were still above her belt. She was leashing a dog that serenaded me loudly.
The protagonist, Mary, arrived about 3:30 p.m. and everyone shouted “Surprise.” I’m sorry, but the Aunt Betty birthday-party was more successful.
Mary was “shocked” — pleased that so many of her coworkers (and former coworkers) were there, but Aunt Betty was stunned. 89 bazilyun relatives from all over the country had come to her party — relative overload. Aunt Betty, the youngest, is the last Connor child left — all the others are gone. Aunt Betty was turning 80.
This was mainly a Lawyers Co-op (West, Thomson; WHATEVER) party, so every once in a while my wife would get up to go accost someone, while I sat quietly reading my Trains Magazine.
Um, no problem. This is what I usually do at a Messenger party, while Linda sits quietly in the background.
Dinner came from the famed Dinosaur Bar-B-Q in Rochester; a place Lawyers employees frequently had lunch at.
Dinosaur Bar-B-Q is mainly a Syracuse operation, but they have a restaurant in Rochester, at the old Lehigh-Valley railroad-station.
I had pulled-pork, baked beans and macaroni-salad; the equivalent of a regular meal.
The dog was trying to snag plates, and eying its owner earnestly while she ate. (“I could eat that!”)

“Linda” is my wife.

“Henrietta” is a rather effusive and obnoxious suburb of Rochester.

“Jack Hughes” is my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston. We flew to a wedding of his daughter, and then got rather wonky directions from him back to Logan Airport.

“Liberial” is how my brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled.

RE: “as opposed to engineers that drop the I-35W bridge into the Mississippi.” My loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston was trained as an engineer, and claims superiority. I majored in History, so am inferior.

RE: “Aunt Betty, the youngest, is the last Connor child left......” Connor was my mother’s maiden-name. My mother was second-to-last, but quite a bit older than my Aunt Betty.

RE: “Lawyers Co-op (West, Thomson; WHATEVER).......” My wife worked work for “Lawyers Co-operative Publishing” (a lawbook publisher) for years, but they were later bought out by West Publishing, and later Thomson Publishing, and thereby became rather unbearable.

“The Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired — best job I ever had.