“Thanks for yielding.”

We are headed west on Monroe St., the main drag west outta Honeoye Falls.
I am taking Linda to a CT-scan in Rochester; she probably coulda done it herself, but she’s “automotively challenged.”
“Automotively challenged” isn’t something the average person understands, since they aren’t.
But it’s something I’ve lived with over 41 years; frustrating at first, but on balance not that big a deal.
My brother-in-Boston goes utterly ballistic; he wouldn’t understand at all.
We are in the CR-V.
Far up the street I see a black Chevrolet Envoy coming east, the kind of car that will lose half its value if GM goes bankrupt.
It’s probably lost a lot already, because it’s a bloated SUV.
The eastbound lane is partially blocked by a work-crew; they’ve parked against the curb, but since there’s no shoulder, they’re blocking three-quarters of the lane.
I’m closer, so under normal circumstances the Envoy would yield, but not in this case.
The driver probably voted for Dubya, so he could do whatever he wanted (“Git-R-Dun”).
Unsignaled he swings left into my lane, so I hafta stop.
“Thanks for yielding,” I say.
No idea if it had a Dubya-sticker; I didn’t look.

“We” is my wife of 41+ years “Linda” and I. She had lymphatic cancer. It was treatable — she survived. The CT-scan was to determine if she had any residual cancer.

“Honeoye Falls” is the nearest town to where we live in western New York, a rural town about five miles away.

“My brother-in-Boston” is Jack Hughes, my all-knowing, blowhard younger brother, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He’s a Git-R-Dun person.

The “CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“GM” is of course General Motors.

“Dubya” is George W. Bush, our previous president; proclaimed by my siblings as “the greatest president of all time.” A “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

Angry Passat

Last Sunday morning (November 30, 2008) we’re taking the dog to Baker Park in Canandaigua, the place we can let her run loose.
I’m stopped at the red-light at Route 65 and 5&20, about to turn left (east) onto 5&20.
A car is behind me, fixing to go straight, and two back is a silver Volkswagen Passat four-door sedan, signaled like me to turn left.
The light changes, so I turn left.
I see in my mirror the car behind me go straight.
Suddenly I hear a roar, and the Passat is arcing widely to my right.
Oh well, what else is new?
At this intersection each section is four lanes wide, although 5&20 goes back to two lanes in about a hundred yards.
Passat is blasting madly past on my right, a move that would get him ticketed by the N.Y. State Police.
We used to get moves like this all the time driving bus. Angry intimidators committing all manner of insanity and illegality to get by.
“What was that all about?” Linda asks.
“Desperate,” I say. So desperate he turned into a driveway shortly after passing me.
“Don’t blame me. I voted for Big Mac and the ‘Cuda.”

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s three-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live on State Route 65 in West Bloomfield, NY.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.

An “intimidator” is the average macho driver, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

“Don’t blame me. I voted for Big Mac and the ‘Cuda.........” is a bumper-sticker for John McCain and Sarah Palin. —My siblings are all tub-thumping REPUBLICANS, but I’m not, so I’m reprehensible and stupid.

snippets

One of the consummate joys of working out at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA is that I get to hear amazing snippets from the infamous “Marcy, it’s everywhere” file.

FOR EXAMPLE
—1) The exercise-gym at the YMCA plays a boombox tuned to WDVI (“The Drive”), 100.5 FM, although it’s probably an HD feed.
“And now, presenting the lineup for S&S Limousine. First we have the Chargers and Chrysler 300s!”
“Next we have the magnificent land-yacht that holds 36 people! Granite floors, and lap-of-luxury seating!”
“36? Izzat all?” I thought to myself. I drove buses that seated 53; but they weren’t the lap-of-luxury.
The seats were green fiberglass-reinforced plastic, and hard.
And the floor was rubber on plywood. And if the frame warped or broke, the floor warped with it. We had one bus where the floor looked like ocean waves.
I think a so-called “soft-seater” held 49; and ya had to watch out getting up because a luggage-rack was right over your head.
Our buses were 40-feet long with a 33-foot wheelbase. Our bus-routes had to accommodate a mighty swing.
“30-foot wheelbase,” it crowed.
For cryin’ out loud; try to drive anywhere with that sucker.
My father died in ‘94, and our family got chauffeured to the cemetery in a stretch-Lincoln owned by the funeral-home.
Despite my recent stroke, I rode shotgun beside the stretch driver.
The turn into the cemetery was a sharp hairpin.
“NO WAY are we gonna make that turn,” I said. —The stretch had at least a 20-foot wheelbase; perhaps more.
“We’ll be all over the grass.” (It was raining.) “The rear will clip the hairpin, and the front will swing out,” I said. (Old bus-driver waazoo.)
When our niece got married they hired a stretch-limo. Thankfully I never saw it. I don’t know as the groom did either, as he was rather soused.
Almost killed his best man.
Same guy that carves the Thanksgiving turkey with a chainsaw.

—2) I’m walking down the main drag in front of the YMCA, shortly after exiting.
A 200-pound bespectacled Harley-momma is walking toward me from the other direction.
All-of-a-sudden: “Dat-da-da-Dah-Dah! Dat-da-da-Dah-Dah! Dat-da-da-Dah-Dah! Dat-da-da-Dahhhhhhhh.”
A “Ride of the Valkyries” ringtone.
(If my cellphone ever did that, I’d stomp it.)
Harley-momma unholsters her cellphone. “I can’t believe you were such a rat to put that thing away before ya took me for a ride!” she screamed.
“Okay,” I thought to myself. “Put away for future reference. I don’t believe the stuff I hear.”
All I could think was I sure am glad I’m not married to such a person.

—3) This isn’t so much a snippet as a traffic-incident; the sort of thing that rarely happens, but when it does, I can write it up, causing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
I drive out of the YMCA parking-lot, west on Park Ave., under the twin railroad bridges, and then south toward the parking-lot of the West Ave. Shopping-Plaza. (I wrote this plaza up earlier.)
Granny blue-hair is ahead of me in a silver Subaru Forester.
We enter the parking-lot, and Granny sweeps far to the right, clear into the parking area.
I angle left to pass Granny, but then Granny makes a sudden sweeping move to the left, right in front of me, unsignaled of course, intent on parking in the handicap-slot of the Medicine-Shoppe Pharmacy to our left.
Since I wasn’t charging at 15-20 mph I could avoid her without drama; just a slight tap of the brakes.
She never demonstrated any knowledge that I was behind her. And sure used enough swing to make her turn — enough for a semi.
As they used to say at the bus-company pertaining to the driving of others: “EXPECT ANYTHING!”
No sign of a Dubya-sticker, but “Don’t blame me; I voted for Big Mac and the ‘Cuda.”

“Marcy” is my number-one ne’er-do-well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. A picture of her is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells. —Once Marcy asked where I got so much insane material. “Marcy, it’s everywhere,” I responded. (The “Ne’er-do-Wells” are an e-mail list of everyone I e-mail my stuff to.)

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

RE: “Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.....” —My siblings all noisily insist I’m an accident waiting to happen; since I can write up each (and rare) traffic-incident.

RE: “Since I wasn’t charging at 15-20 mph......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, insists you can — and should — do 15-20 mph in a parking-lot, which I say is too fast. He once dropped his motorcycle on top of himself in a parking lot when doing 15-20 mph toward an oncoming car. He broke many bones.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right. “Big Mac and the ‘Cuda” are John McCain and Sarah Palin.

Generation-Z alert

So here I am yesterday morning (Tuesday, September 30, 2008) taxiing my wife to Wilmot Cancer Center for a follow-up doctor appointment.
It’s about 9 a.m.; NASCAR rush-hour is almost over. I.e. no glowering intimidators and Jeff Gordon wannabees dancing madly all over the highway, angrily flashing their headlights, pounding the steering-wheel, and flipping the bird.
Wilmot is the southern outskirts of Rochester; the most direct route is Interstate-390.
Getting to I-390 is about 15-20 minutes; then 10-15 minutes on I-390.
I get off I-390 at an exit for the old 15A and then 15.
I cross 15A, and continue to 15; which I also cross.
15 and the ramp are a major intersection controlled by traffic-lights.
The ramp widens out to three lanes: a dedicated right-turn, a dedicated left-turn, and left or straight in the middle lane.
Going straight, I head for the middle lane.
Suddenly a filthy navy-blue Cavalier sweeps from the dedicated right, across the middle lane, into the dedicated left.
He can’t fully switch to the dedicated left, so he has his four-ways on, partially blocking the middle lane with his back end.
The old bus-driver waazoo kicks in: expect anything.
The light changes, so Cavalier executes a U-turn.
“He had both signals on,” my wife observes. “Left then right? Right then left?”
His cellphone is at his ear; probably giving a running account to significant-other at Dunkin Donuts.
Sorry chillen; couldn’t see if it had a Dubya-sticker — my view was blocked.
But I doubt it.
He looked like a Generation Z-er; or whatever the most recent generation is. Face-metal; purple-dyed iridescent mohawk.
But ya never know.
Maybe face-metal and purple-dyed mohawks are the latest REPUBLICAN craze.
Perhaps Sarah should dye her hair and burn her bra.

“Marcy” is my number-one ne’er-do-well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. A picture of her is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells. Marcy married Bryan Mahoney (ex-reporter from the Messenger newspaper), and together they live near Boston. (Marcy keeps a blog at Playtime at Hazmat.)

My wife of 40+ years is “Linda.” She had lymphatic cancer. It was treatable — she survived.

A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.

“Jeff Gordon” is a NASCAR race-driver.

Chevrolet “Cavalier.”

RE: “The old bus-driver waazoo kicks in.......” —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

“Sarah” is of course Sarah Palin; REPUBLICAN vice-presidential candidate.

Hummer Alert

So here I am yesterday afternoon (Sunday, September 28, 2008) blithely bopping eastbound in the CR-V on 5&20, headed for mighty Weggers to do our weekly grocery-shopping.
5&20 is always a crap-shoot. Usually nothing happens — I’ve driven it thousands of times.
But it can. I always have to expect anything.
It’s the schtick we applied driving bus. Granny would pull out of a mall parking-lot right in front of you — “Oh look Dora; a bus! PULL OUT! PULL OUT!”
And then you had to stop nine tons of hurtling steel on a dime without throwing your passengers out of the seats.
So I’m approaching Toomey’s Corners (“TWO-mee”); a major intersection with a traffic-light.
(Didn’t used to be a traffic-light, but I guess the accident threshold was passed.)
State Route 64 comes up from the south, and turns left (west) on 5&20.
There also is a cross-street — Whalen Road — but that ain’t 64.
The light is green for me, and there’s nothing that would trip it, so I’m approaching at about 50 mph.
Suddenly an opposing black Hummer arcs right in front of me; a sweeping left-turn south onto 64 — unsignaled of course.
I stab my brakes.
Sorry chillen; couldn’t see if it had a Dubya sticker. It was going the other way.
I have to watch for followers.
I can’t just turn my head.
But it was probably a macho driver; although it wasn’t a full-size Chevy pickup with a gun-rack behind a Confederate flag, and the decal of Calvin peeing on the Ford-oval.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

“Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

“Calvin” is a character in the Calvin-Hobbs cartoon. He is rather nasty. —The “Ford-oval” is the oval-shaped blue Ford (Motor Company) icon. (A variation of this is Calvin peeing on the Chevrolet bow-tie symbol.)

Granny alert

So here I am gaily motoring in the Bathtub down Ontario St., which is State Route 65, northwest into the nearby village of Honeoye Falls.
I’m on my way to Interstate-390 to begin a giant surfeit of errands, beginning at the Funky Food Market in deepest, darkest Henrietta, and then mighty Tops and Weggers in Canandaigua.
This will involve a jaunt on the N.Y. State Thruway, from Henrietta to Canandaigua.
About two-and-half to three hours total. I can do this because I couldn’t do the YMCA (yesterday, August 12, 2008). That was because Linda was working, and Rochester-Colonial was finishing our window replacement project.
You will recall that last summer I was noisily accused of lining the pockets of Rochester-Colonial, replacing half our first-floor windows (including the porch), all our cellar windows, and four of our seven exterior doors.
They also had to repair a water-damaged section of our porch exterior wall, where I was noisily accused of poor engineering.
A trained engineer could catch a small-time builder’s mistake of not kerreckly flashing a roof-seam. (If had actually designed this segment, I think the builder woulda pointed it out.) —I guess ya gotta be a trained engineer to stand lazily around and supervise.
—Save the day by fiddling this here site.
Same guy that pumped concrete into the stratosphere so he could “set” (“pour,” “place,” WHATEVER) the floor-slab for his museum.
I’ve yet to understand this. I’m not a tree-crushing LeTourneau lackey.
Majored in History — oh, woe is me.
Funky-Food-Market and Tops because contrary to the strident bellerings of all on this here site, mighty Wal*Mart doesn’t have everything, like Arrowhead-Mills puffed rice by the case, or east-coast peaches (I think they’re from Pennsylvania).
Proof yet again that I’m eating the wrong things.
Wal*Mart does have giant bags of salt-laden Cheetos, breakfast of champions.

About 200 yards ahead Granny is pulled off in her baby-blue metallic Chevy Malibu, four-way flashers on.
She’s waiting for soccer-mom to pull her giant navy Montana minivan out onto Ontario St.
I proceed.
About 50 yards in front of me, soccer-mom completes her move.
I’m doing about 35 mph, the speed-limit.
Suddenly, about 20 yards in front of me, Granny pulls out, four-ways off.
Did she even look? Not that I could see — I almost hit her.
Apparently her sign to pull out was soccer-mom; I didn’t exist.
Sorry chillen; no Dubya-sticker.

“The Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.

We live on “State Route 65” in West Bloomfield, N.Y., near the village of Honeoye Falls.

“The funky food-market” is Lori’s Natural Foods, south of Rochester in Henrietta — a source for salt-free cereal, sauce, etc.

“Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua. Tops is a large supermarket-chain based in Buffalo; and also has a store in Canandaigua.

I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office.

RE: “I was noisily accused of lining the pockets of Rochester-Colonial........” —My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston asserted I was being fleeced — that his window-replacement cost about one-third what we paid. Although I doubt he did as many windows, and probably didn’t do equal quality. He also wasn’t replacing exterior doors.

RE: “Noisily accused of poor engineering.....” —My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston claimed the reason there was water-damage, was because I had designed the house — which is WRONG. All I designed is the floorplan and appearance. We had an architect, and house-construction was per the experience of the builder. So it was the builder’s mistake; that is, his crew. —My brother claims I am entirely clueless regarding construction; that he has superior knowledge, because he was trained as an engineer at LeTourneau University in Texas.

Our building-contractor had only built a few houses before ours, and had never built a nuclear generating station; therefore making him “small-time” to my blowhard macho brother-in-Boston.

My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston claims to have “saved the day” hundreds of times; and spends an inordinate amount of time fiddling our family’s web-site while at work. (“Here I am to save the day......”)

RE: “Pumped concrete into the stratosphere.....” —For some reason my blowhard macho brother-in-Boston used a concrete-pump over his house to pour the floor-slab for a garage-addition. Probably so he could take a picture and boast he wasn’t doing “small-time” construction.

RE: “set” (“pour,” “place,” WHATEVER....) —My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston excoriates me for using the wrong terminology for concrete-placement. The kerreck terminology is “place;” although our concrete-contractor “poured” the floor-slab for our shed.

My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston keeps his restored classic 1971 454 Chevelle in a heated garage he calls his “museum.”

RE: “Tree-crushing LeTourneau lackey....” —LeTourneau University in Texas was founded by R.G. LeTourneau, who has among his inventions a giant tree-crusher. (“Ain’t nuthin’ ya can’t do with the faith of a mustard-seed and a tanker-load of diesel!” His solution to the ozone-hole was giant ducts to pump surface ozone up to the stratosphere.)

At Houghton College in western New York, I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college. I majored in History; therefore making me inferior.

RE: “Contrary to the strident bellerings of all on this here site, mighty Wal*Mart doesn’t have everything.....” —All my siblings are confirmed Wal*Mart shoppers, and claim “Wal*Mart has everything;” and that I should agree that Wal*Mart is the greatest store in the entire universe, and blessed by God. “This here site” refers to our family’s web-site; on which I am disgusting; worse yet a “liberial Democrat” instead of REPUBLICAN, like them. “Liberial” is my brother’s misspelling of “liberal,” which he claims is kerreck.

My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston is a Cheeto junkie.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

Glowering-intimidator sighting

I’m on the way home from the so-called elitist country-club after running yesterday morning (Thursday, July 31, 2008); Linda is with me and the new dog.
I did pretty good — not a new personal-record, but faster than last time (Wednesday), and still under 23 minutes.
23 minutes seems to have become the new average. Not too long ago it was 24; and some time ago it was 30.
It’s the old waazoo: as long as I can I’ll keep running. Used to be it was Tuesday and Thursday, and the Y Monday-Wednesday-Friday. I’ve switched to running Monday-Wednesday-Friday, and YMCA Tuesday-Thursday. (Yesterday was running instead because I had a Urology appointment — I’ll hit the YMCA today [Friday, August 1, 2008].)
Boughton Park is about four miles from our house; a jog through Ionia, County-Road 14, State Highway 64, then County-Road 39 and Boughton Road.
State Highway 64 was rebuilt about 35 years ago; total rebuild, regrading, the whole kabosh. It was built to expressway standards: expressway gradients, expressway curvature; good for about 140 mph. If ya dare. Still a two-lane, and there’s side-roads that intersect, and cross-roads.
The head of the Rochester Ducatisti used to wind out his 900SS on it in the early ‘80s.
His name was Peter. One day we were riding bicycle on it and Peter blew by screwed to the wall.
A 900SS at full song (any Ducati, for that matter), has a gorgeous sound. It sounds like a Chevy Small-block wound to the roof. Not a V8 — just a V-Twin — but 90° separation just like a Small-Block.
I used to wind out my Ducati just to hear it; but usually only in first or second gear. It had five speeds — doubt I ever exceeded 100.
So here I am cruising down County Road 39 (west), approaching State Route 64. I turn right onto State Route 64 (north), and a black Toyota Tacoma pickup falls in behind.
Suddenly Mr. Tacoma is right on my tail; glowering angrily.
“Uh-oh.......” I think. I’m only on 64 a short stretch, so usually I only crank up to about 50; but instead I cranked it up to 60.
My short section on 64 is only the stretch between 39 and 14, where I turn left.
“Someone must be pushing us,” Linda says, turning around to look.
Yep; I’ve wicked up my speed so Mr. Tacoma doesn’t attempt to pass where I turn left.
Looks like he won’t, although he’s glowering at me angrily, thumping his steering-wheel, and still right on my bumper.
I’ve flicked on my turn-signal way early before to keep glowering-intimidators from passing where I turn left; but it looks like I can hold off.
At County Road 14, 64 adds a right lane so followers can pass left-turners.
I slow to make the turn, and Mr. Tacoma blasts by on my right, giving me the finger.
Sorry chillen; I couldn’t see if it had a Dubya-sticker, but I did see the faded Confederate flag behind the AK47 on the window gun-rack, and the rear window-decal of Calvin peeing on the Ford-oval.

A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

“The Y” is the Canandaigua YMCA, where I work out in their exercise-gym.

“Ducatisti” are those that own Ducati motorcycles, an equal to Ferrari made in Italy. I had one in the ‘80s; also a 900SS.

The Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first at 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured. The Chevrolet “Big-Block” V8 was introduced in the 1965 model-year at 396 cubic-inches, and was unrelated to the Small-Block. It was made in various displacements: 402, 427 and 454 cubic inches. It’s still made as a truck-motor, but not installed in cars any more; although you can get it as a crate-motor, for self-installation. Since the Big-Blocks could be so powerful, they were often raced. The Small-Blocks were powerful too, enough to be raced.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

No Dubya-stickers

—1) (This is weeks go, but it was worth writing up then, but I’ve forgotten it until now — not that memorable.)
We are returning from Buffalo with our new dog.
We are almost home, navigating Ontario St. southeast out of Honeoye Falls, Route 65, the road we live on, the road to our house.
A loud unmuffled GeezerGlide is ahead, slowing to make a right turn.
But no turnsignals. A classic scoot; devoid of anything that might detract from the macho image.
He extends his left arm, hand up to signal a right turn.
Well great! A biker willing to express himself to surrounding traffic; a class act. (In contrast to the usual sullen Sonny wannabees.)
I used to do that on the Ducati, even though it had turn-signals. I wanted everyone to know my intent.
The biker makes his right turn, and I fall in behind Grandpop in a faded dark-green Chrysler minivan.
The minivan slows, and suddenly arrows left into a driveway.
Totally unsignaled of course — and 65 is a main highway.
Sorry chillen; no Dubya-sticker.

—2) We are returning from the so-called elitist country-club.
We are on Baker Road, a rural back-country road between Ionia and Route 65.
Suddenly a shiny red stepside Colorado lurches to a stop where a driveway enters Baker Road.
I had tapped the brakes, because it looked like macho-dude was gonna cut in front of me.
But he stopped, thankfully. Probably already late to the Tastee-Freeze, and I was gonna make him five seconds later.
I pass and macho-dude suddenly blasts onto Baker Road behind me, spinning his unladen rear inside tire in the gravel and laying down a stripe.
The speedlimit on Baker is 40, and it’s double-yellow a long way, so I speed up to about 45.
But macho-dude is climbing all over my rear bumper, glowering angrily in my mirror.
Before 65, Baker flattens into a short straight section that can allow passing.
I hear a sudden roaring behind me, and macho-dude is suddenly passing, giving me the finger.
“I thought you were going faster than normally,” Linda observes.
That passing section is very short, so macho-dude suddenly cuts in front of me.
On his rear window, in front of the faded Confederate flag, is an upside-down decal. It says “If you can read this, turn me over.”

A “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

A “GeezerGlide” is a laid-back cruiser motorcycle, usually made by Harley-Davidson, who makes a motorcycle known as the ElectraGlide. My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, has a Harley-Davidson ElectraGlide Classic, which I call his “GeezerGlide.”

“Sonny” is Sonny Barger (“BAR-grrr”), the ultimate Hells Angel motorcyclist.

I long ago had a Ducati 900SS motorcycle; a motorcycle Ferrari — made in Italy.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns.

“Colorado” is the Chevrolet’s current small pickup-truck.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

Not a phenomenal avoidance

Last Sunday (May 11, 2008) I decided to hit mighty Weggers that day, lest I have to take the dog to the vet the next day (Monday, May 12, 2008).
I usually go Monday afternoons after hitting the YMCA, since they’re both in Canandaigua.
So here I am traveling east on Routes 5&20 toward Canandaigua in the CR-V, and I turn south on the vaunted Bypass that was built long ago to avoid downtown Canandaigua. It also avoids a low-clearance railroad bridge that decapitates trailers. It’s only 10-foot six-inches.
At the bottom of a long grade, the Bypass intersects with State Route 332, the main drag through Canandaigua, and also with Eastern Boulevard, a four-lane divided road built years ago to take traffic off nearby Lake Shore Blvd., which goes by the lake.
The intersection of 332 and Eastern with the Bypass is gigantic. It’s protected by traffic-lights, and the Bypass goes straight across into Eastern.
So much traffic is going through it, and turning, the traffic-lights have five possible cycles.
Southbound traffic on 332 gets its own light — northbound traffic onto 332 has to be stopped. Most southbound cars on 332 are turning left onto Eastern.
The northbound traffic across the intersection onto 332 also gets its own signal. So many are turning left onto the Bypass, the southbound traffic from 332 has to be stopped.
East and westbound can move together (two lanes each); since not that many are turning left.
But separately signaled left-turn lanes had to be installed (totaling three lanes each way).
If only the eastbound left-turn lane is occupied, left and straight eastbound are signaled together.
Conversely, if only the westbound left-turn lane is occupied, left and straight westbound are signaled together.
If both left-turn lanes are occupied, only the left-turn lanes are signaled. All straight-through traffic is stopped.
So here I am driving eastbound on the Bypass (it turns east) toward Weggers on Eastern Blvd.
I approach the intersection, and am stopped. At least two cars per lane are ahead of me — a noisy GeezerGlide with a grizzled cigarette-smoking macho-thug is idling loudly in the adjacent left-turn lane.
Both left-turn lanes are occupied, so they will get signaled first. Us straight-drivers will have to wait.
The left-turn signals change to green, but of course not our straight-lane signals.
Suddenly a beige Buick LeSabre lunges into the intersection, but slams on her brakes, having almost hit the car turning left from the opposing left-turn lane.
Straight-driving LeSabre’s light is still red, of course; and won’t change until the opposing left-turn traffic clears.
So here’s the Buick, still sitting in the middle of the intersection; brake-lights glowing brightly.
She waits until the opposing left-turn traffic clears, and then blasts through the red-light.
Sorry chillen; too far away to see if it had a Dubya-sticker. Sure drove like a Dubya supporter.

“Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

Our dog is “Killian;” a rescue Irish-Setter. He has lymphatic cancer, and is being treated for it with chemo. —He’s over 10; we don’t know his birthdate.

“Routes 5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“GeezerGlide” is what I call all Harley Davidson ElectraGlide cruiser-bikes. My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston has a very laid back Harley Davidson cruiser-bike, and, like most Harley Davidson riders, is 50 years old. So I call it his GeezerGlide.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

Forgot to look......

(USUALLY SOONER-OR-LATER SOME ANGRY GIT-R-DUN REPUBLICAN DOES THIS TO ME! (All I hafta do is wait.)

So here I am motoring placidly in our CR-V, back from leaving Linda off at Strong Hospital to get a Rituxan® treatment at Wilmot.
I am driving east into Honeoye Falls on the Honeoye Falls-Number Six Road.
Honeoye Falls-Number Six Road comes to a traffic-light in the center of town where State Route 65 comes in from the left, and turns left onto the road I’m on.
The road immediately crosses Honeoye Creek, and State Route 65 immediately turns right.
I turn right to continue on State Route 65, which in about four miles passes our house.
Right after turning right I see a young REPUBLICAN hottie in a baby-blue Toyota Matrix lunge out of a driveway across my path.
I slam on the brakes, crossing up the CR-V since it has poor balance (it locked the rear-end).
Seeing I’m coming, REPUBLICAN hottie continues across my path and into a driveway across the street. After all, I shouldn’t be there, since she voted for the greatest prez who ever was, whose administration is sadly petering out, and the horribly misguided American electorate might now elect the antichrist.
She waves a happy birthday salute to me as I start up again.
Probably that toothpaste I use, or my ISP.

RE: “Forgot to look......” —For a Dubya-sticker. “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“Linda” is my wife of 40 years. She has lymphatic cancer. It’s treatable — she will survive. “Wilmot” is Wilmot Cancer Center. Rituxan® is part of the R-CHOP chemo regimen; the R.

The little town of “Honeoye Falls” is about four miles from our house.

A loud famblee argument has surfaced about “hottie.” I follow the old definition where “hottie” equaled a slut. But all my Christian-zealot relatives loudly declare that “hottie” has become a symbol of Christian virtue and attractiveness.

“The greatest prez who ever was” is of course George Dubya Bush; and my sister in south Floridy loudly declared Barack Obama is the antichrist.

Today (February 5, 2008) is my 64th birthday.

RE: “Probably that toothpaste I use, or my ISP........” —ISP equals Internet-Service-Provider; in our case RoadRunner via the cable. Last July my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston visited, and set up a wireless Internet connection to my wireless router. His Internet reception was spotty, so he loudly blamed our Internet-Service-Provider (ISP). Now anything untoward is due to my ISP. —I also am loudly excoriated by my all my siblings for using Colgate toothpaste. A decent person uses Crest.

minor infraction

It is dark, and we are returning from Wilmot yesterday afternoon (Tuesday, December 4, 2007) in the CR-V.
We are on Interstate-390 heading south toward the Rush exit.
Approaching the Rush exit, I flip on my right-turn signal.
Suddenly an Olds Alero rips into the exit ahead of us. No turn-signal: “I don’t need one; I voted for Dubya.”
The Rush exit empties onto U.S. Route 15, so you’re making a left-turn onto 15.
Again, no turn-signal from the Alero; again “I don’t need one; I voted for Dubya.”
We proceed south on Route 15 over I-390, and suddenly the Alero sweeps left across Route 15 onto the I-390 on-ramp.
Again; no turn-signal — no indication whatsoever.
“Musta missed the Thruway,” I observe.
Sorry guys; too dark to see if it had a Dubya-sticker.

“Wilmot” is Wilmot Cancer Center in Rochester. My wife (“Linda”) has lymphatic cancer, which can be beat into remission with chemo-therapy. Her chemo-therapy is at Wilmot Cancer Center. I am the taxi-driver.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“Dubya” is George W. Bush.

“U.S. Route 15” was once the main entrance north into Rochester. Now it’s Interstate-390.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

“Construction-Vehicle: Do Not Follow”

So here I am merrily navigating west on 5&20, returning from mighty Weggers.
I get stopped at Toomey’s Corners, a traffic-light, the intersection of State Route 64 and 5&20.
At Toomey’s Corners, 5&20 widens out to four lanes, so that people can turn right without impeding traffic, or those going straight can go around anyone turning left.
I’m stopped in the left-most lane, the place to stop if no one’s turning left.
All of a sudden a large dump-truck sweeps by on my right, and then moves left where 5&20 goes back to two lanes.
An illegal move — it’s called passing on the right — a county-mounty could pull ya over.
But it’s happened often enough I more-or-less expect it. Once I had to open up the LHMB when a tiny Honda-car tried to do that.
But “Git-R-Dun” and “I voted for Dubya.” “Traffic-law is for wusses — an impediment to my forward progress.” (Once a Ford Fiesta passed me on the sidewalk — I was a good boy; on-the-road.)
The traffic-light was changing when the dump-truck swept by, so I found myself following a large foul-smelling truck with an large orange “Construction-Vehicle: Do Not Follow” sign on the back.
These are the situations that drive Linda crazy. “Now what? The most efficient way to get home is to follow a truck with a ‘Do Not Follow’ sign. What am I supposed to do? Take another route? Arrow into the adjacent pasture?”
So I followed the “Do Not Follow” vehicle home — in utter defiance of the sign.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

“Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

“LHMB” is my 2003 Honda 600-cc CBR/RR crotch-rocket motorcycle. Seeing a picture of it, my sister-in-Floridy declared “Lord-Have-Mercy;” and my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston, a macho Harley-guy, seeing it was yellow, pronounced it a “Banana.” So LHMB equals Lord-Have-Mercy-Banana.

“Dubya” is George W. Bush.

“Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years. She’s “automotively-challenged.”

wash-and-wax

So here we are yesterday (Friday, November 23, 2007) returning from Canandaigua in the CR-V.
We have left the Bucktooth Bathtub with a guy to wash-and-wax it — a job so big we old folks farm it out. (I can wash a car, but waxing it is almost a whole day. The Toy store [where we bought it] did it last Spring, and it looked so great we decided to have someone else do it.)
Returning from Canandaigua was on a rural, back-country road.
It eventually enters nearby Bloomfield, where we turn right (west) onto 5&20.
The turn onto 5&20 is a main intersection in the center of town; no traffic-lights (there should be — I almost got T-boned by Granny there once), only stop-signs.
I approach the intersection, right-turn signal on, wait for an opening, and start into the intersection.
Suddenly about halfway through my turn “PRAAMMMMMMPP!” A silver Cobalt is roaring straight across 5&20; it’s driver angrily glaring at me, and mouthing obscenities.
NOW WHAT? I was already halfway through my turn.
Sorry chillen; couldn’t see if it had a Dubya-sticker. All I saw was the quickly-disappearing right flank of the car, and its angry driver.
He had probably narrowly avoided rearending me, and therefore decided to lash out.
Sorry REPUBLICANS. I can’t make a sharp 10-mph right-turn at 152 mph. (I’ve had similar dramas occur at our driveway.)

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“The Bucktooth-Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub, and appears to have a bucktooth on the grill.

“The Toy store” is LeBrun Toyota in Canandaigua — actually any Toyota dealer is a “Toy store.”

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

RE: “152 mph.....” My brother-in-Delaware bragged that his turbocharged Volvo station-wagon was capable of 152 mph.

PRAAMMMMMPP!

Okay; I’ve left the Union-meeting

It’s about 10 p.m., so here I am motoring blithely out E. Main St. in Rochester.
Our union-hall, actually the Laborer’s union-hall, is in a more-or-less urban area of Rochester, not far from the mainline railroad-tracks of CSX — so if a train passes, you can hear it from the parking-lot.
Main St. goes almost all the way across Rochester; W. Main becomes E. Main at the river, and goes all the way across the eastern side of Rochester; it only goes part-way across the western side, ending at Bull’s Head (“Bull-hyeed”) where it splits into West Ave. and Chili Ave. (“CHEYE-leye;” not like the south American country), which both go west from Bull-hyeed.
I used to drive the Main-St. bus route; and it was a worker. Lotsa passengers (every stop), and never any layover-time. I had to blast through the layovers and change the destination-sign on-the-fly.
So I go down E. Main, past the infamous White-Tower of my former employer (Regional Transit Service), and approach the intersection with Culver Road.
Culver road is a major north-south road in eastern Rochester, that crosses seven bus-routes — one even uses part of it; up north.
So the intersection of E. Main and Culver Road is a major intersection, complete with traffic-lights and individually signaled turn-lanes.
I’m on E. Main and will turn south (right) onto Culver Road. I have a red-light in my face.
Culver has green lights, and a Saturn sedan is in the right-most southbound lane signaling to turn right (west) onto E. Main (toward downtown).
A dark-green Ford Explorer is fast approaching the Saturn. Good golly Miss Molly, am I about the witness a rear-end collision? That Explorer is really moving!
Suddenly the Explorer slams on its brakes and hits the horn. PRAAMMMMMPP!
No contact, and the Saturn drives slowly around the corner.
Finally getting off the horn, the Explorer-driver floors it, and steams across the intersection.
Sorry guys; too dark. Couldn’t see if it had a Dubya-sticker.

“Union” is Local 282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union; the employees’ union at Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y., where I drove transit bus for 16&1/2 years. (See above.)

RE: “at the river.........” —The large Genesee River flows from south to north through downtown Rochester.

“Regional Transit Service’s” main facility was at 1372 E. Main.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

Today........

.........(Tuesday, November 20, 2007) I was proceeding west (north, south, east; WHATEVER; how could I possibly know? Looked west to me) on Jefferson Road in deepest, darkest Henrietta (south of Rochester) in the Bucktooth Bathtub, headed for CompUSA to buy some rewritable CDs.
I had already completed two errands: -A) the drive-up mailboxes at the main Rochester post-office in Henrietta, and -B) the Funky Food Store to pick up a jar of no-salt spaghetti-sauce along with a case of puffed-rice cereal I had ordered.
The post-office was to deposit two return-postage credit-card solicitations — we have taken to sealing up these things with junk inside. If they wanna shower us with junk like that, they can just get junk in return, and pay the postage.
We used to do this, but fell out of it, because doing so ate up precious seconds.
But now we’re retired, so can. Sealing up takes about 30 seconds, and hitting the mailbox is often along-the-way to other errands.
The puffed-rice cereal is one of the things I eat for breakfast. The usual major-mills cereals have way too much salt; and ya notice it.
Same with the spaghetti-sauce. Horror-of-horrors, yaz all ate no-salt spaghetti-sauce and whole-wheat spaghetti with nary a whimper. “Wassa matter wit you guys; doncha believe in salt?” the bluster-boy bellowed. Give him a salt-lick.
Yaz also ate ground-beef that was frozen last April; and it was July, for crying out loud.
So here I am motoring placidly west on Jefferson Road. It goes up and over Route 15 in a jumpover that was built long ago, alleviating a major traffic tie up.
Descending the other side, ya come upon the parking-lot entrance to the minimall where CompUSA is (hard by a colonoscopy clinic). It’s marked one-way as an entrance.
A fortyish dude is arrowing his maroon Corolla toward the entrance from inside the parking-lot, obviously planning to exit. No matter he’s driving the wrong way into a parking-lot entrance.
So here I am on a main highway approaching the entrance, and fortyish dude is planning to exit the entrance.
I slow down, so fortyish-dude accelerates and heads farther into the entrance.
At first it was looking like I should drive around him, but by then I had no choice: come to almost a complete stop on the highway and then turn in before hitting him.
Sorry chillen; couldn’t see if he had a Dubya-sticker. That woulda been on the trunk; and all I could see was the front of the approaching Corolla and the driver.

RE: “west (north, south, east; WHATEVER; how could I possibly know?) —My loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston and I have been having an argument about which way a road goes in northern Delaware, where we grew up; me as a teenager. I say the road goes west-east; he says it goes north-south. Actually it goes northwest-southeast.

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

“The Bucktooth-Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub, and appears to have a bucktooth on the grill.

“The funky food-market” is Lori’s Natural Foods, south of Rochester in Henrietta — a source for salt-free cereal, sauce, etc.

“The bluster-boy” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, Jack, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He visited in July, with many of my other siblings.

RE: “Horror-of-horrors, yaz all ate no-salt spaghetti-sauce and whole-wheat spaghetti with nary a whimper.” My siblings all pig out, and think I’m reprehensible for eating healthy.

RE: “Ground-beef that was frozen last April; and it was July, for crying out loud......” I’ve been noisily badmouthed for not glomming a whole package of ground beef in a single sitting. We hardly ever eat red meat. Ground-beef gets frozen in tiny packages.

U.S. “Route 15” used to be the main north-south road into Rochester. Now it’s Interstate-390. “Jefferson Road” (state Route 251) is the main east-west road through the area.

RE: “Hard by a colonoscopy clinic......” —My blowhard macho brother-in-Boston’s colonoscopy was performed in a suburban mininall clinic, which he noisily claims was far superior to mine, which was performed in a hospital.

“Chillen” are my all-knowing siblings, and they are all tub-thumping REPUBLICANS.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

“Git-R-Dunn”

So here I am serenely motoring west in the CR-V on the roundabout back-country road (Martin Road) we use to get to the vaunted Honeoye Falls MarketPlace supermarket Linda always patronizes.
MarketPlace is not actually in Honeoye Falls. It’s on the western fringe out along a glitz-strip populated by garish minimalls and abandoned bank-branches and colonoscopy places, one mall of which has yet to lease any space despite being brand-new at least 10 years.
Probably built by some REPUBLICAN fat-cat hoping to feed his Mercedes Jones at the expense of rural hicks. But the dreaded rural hicks won’t bow to his self-declared wisdom. (A similar corner is for sale across from Rochester-Thunder at the intersection of U.S. Route 15 and State Route 251. It’s an old house, and has been for sale as long as we’ve been out here — 17 years. Obviously it’s overpriced; some REPUBLICAN fat-cat is hoping to make a killing off the corner location. It begs for a minimart [or a colonoscopy clinic]; but so far no one has bitten.)
Must be our ISP.
I am going to get coleslaw mix and Ensure, as Linda had to abstain from going to the supermarket.
As I motor west I notice Granny slowly approaching from the other direction in her metallic powder-blue Ford Focus station-wagon.
About 200 yards away, her left-turn signal flicks on — she’s planning to turn left across my path onto a side-street.
At 100-150 yards away, she has time to turn left without cutting me off. I’m only doing about 40-45 mph.
(Sorry guys; not 152 mph. It’s a residential road with playing children and dogs. The speed-limit is 40 mph.)
Suddenly, “PRAAMP!”
A glowering intimidator is behind Granny in a towering Z71 4WD Chevy pickup with a chromed brushbar, and a greenish semi-opaque “Git-R-Dunn” visor decal at the top of the windshield.
Young macho-pup is bouncing up-and-down and madly thumping the steering-wheel.
Despite the commotion, Granny waits. She could have made her turn safely, followed by macho-pup, who could then cut me off.
Sorry guys — I didn’t think to look. Don’t know if it had a Dubya-sticker to go with its “lead, follow or get outta the way” license-plate surround, and Calvin peeing on the Ford oval in the rear window.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years. She has lymphatic cancer. (It’s treatable.)

RE: “garish minimalls and abandoned bank-branches and colonoscopy places.......” My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston had a colonoscopy in a clinic in a minimall — mine was in a hospital. He loudly claims he did better.

RE: “Must be our ISP!” ISP equals Internet-Service-Provider; in our case RoadRunner via the cable. Last July my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston visited, and set up a wireless Internet connection to my router. His Internet reception was spotty, so he loudly blamed our Internet-Service-Provider (ISP). Now anything untoward is due to my ISP.

RE: “Sorry guys; not 152 mph......” My brother-in-Delaware bragged that his turbocharged Volvo station-wagon was capable of 152 mph.

A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him by.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

“Calvin” is the nasty little boy in the Calvin & Hobbs cartoon.

Foray

Off again to Wilmot Cancer Center in Rochester; but this time it’s only a doctor-appointment — a so-called “toxicity checkup;” chemo resumes next week.
I gingerly back the Bucktooth Bathtub out of our garage, but there’s a gigantical red Chevy pickup in our driveway, Confederate flag draped in the rear-window, young macho-dude glowering at me.
Perish-the-thought I have the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to want to use my own driveway when it’s being occupied by macho-dude.
Thankfully, macho-dude is just turning around; he backs his pickup out in front of oncoming traffic (which must slow), and then lays about 75 feet of rubber up the street.
He goes about 100 yards and turns right into the driveway he originally intended, left-turn signal flashing.
No Dubya-sticker, but a “Get-R-Dun” bumper-sticker on the tailgate.
Must be REPUBLICAN; he’s sure driving like one. (“Get outta the way!”)
I arrow out my now unoccupied driveway, intending to turn NORTH onto Route 65, and notice an oncoming car far up the road — far enough away for me to think I should pull out (he’s at least a quarter-mile away).
I proceed north on Route 65, and adjacent to the motorcycle-store (about an eighth-mile from our driveway), before I make the sharp turn WEST, I notice a red Firebird in my mirror, driver glowering and thumping his steering-wheel.
“Is this same the guy that was a quarter-mile away?” I think. If so, he sure covered that section in front of our house well over the speed-limit, which is 40.
He must have passed our house at 100+ mph; thank goodness no deeries were crossing. That’s happened — a Ford pickup lost its windshield when we set out for the Aunt Betty birthday. Killed the deerie; tossed it down the road.
The doctor-appointment was at 9:15 a.m.; meaning missing NASCAR rush-hour by about an hour.
“Well, I worry about her,” I said to the doctor; “but she’s in the back-yard tearing out the garden.”

My wife of nearly 40 years, “Linda,” has lymphatic cancer. It’s treatable with chemo-therapy.

“The Bucktooth-Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub, and appears to have a bucktooth on the grill.

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

We live on “Route 65.”

The “Aunt Betty birthday” was my Aunt Betty’s surprise 80th birthday-party in late-2005 in south Jersey, where she lives. We attended.