As occasionally happens, a myriad of unexpressed thoughts jumble my mind until a substance resembling guacamole begins oozing from my ears. So I’ll utilize my release valve known as the Powell Trib. Let’s begin:
• Does anyone wash their ears anymore? I can only speak for myself, but it never even crosses my mind and no one has said to me, “Are you raising potatoes in those ears?” I wonder if ear-washing wasn’t just something uninformed mothers insisted upon back in the old days?
Many irrational traditions just die out over time. Heck, in our grandfather’s day, I think it was illegal to smile in a photograph. That’s why every family photo looks like an angry mob.
• One of my biggest pet peeves (and please, have your pet peeve spayed or neutered) is starting up my car and hearing the final stanza of a favorite old song I haven’t heard for years playing on the radio.
Similarly maddening is pulling up to an appointment I’m late for just as “Sylvia’s mother says … Sylvia’s busy; too busy to …” begins. THAT is when I wish life was set up like my DVR. I’d simply hit Pause for when I returned and Rewind when getting in too late.
• I couldn’t register to vote, because at the last minute, I realized I had lost my driver’s license and couldn’t find my birth certificate. Days later I told my old neighbor couple I was rushing to get to the DMV since I still hadn’t found my license. He actually asked, “Did you check your wallet?”
He’s known for asking repetitive, silly questions and I suppose if someone lost their car he’d ask, “Have you checked your garage?”
• Anti-Trump protesters who didn’t even vote (hear me out, Kaepernick) are like guys who never watched a Cubs game in their lives burning down the city in celebration.
• I can see public hope for the economy and for killing ISIS under Trump, but the “look at the wonderful family he’s raised; that says a lot” logic turns me cold. I never remember which came from which marriage, but they sure don’t make me miss The Waltons.
A thumbs-up to lovely Ivanka, but those two strategically programmed robots, Donnie and Eric, don’t make me giddy. Sure, they’re loyal to Pop, and if my billionaire dad set me up for life, I’d publicly gush as well. But every time they talk breathlessly without moving their lips and no hint of a smile, I shudder like Homer Simpson rubbing sister-in-law Selma’s grotesque feet.
Instead of using daddy’s money traveling to exotic locales to kill rare, exotic animals, use your riches to save animals, ya little brats.
• My ever-decreasing memory troubles me greatly. I was trying to remember the name “Bischoff” while driving home from Powell and was almost to Cody before it finally came to me.
Then I remembered the memory tapes my brother ordered years ago and loaned me (which I never completed because I forgot where I put them; true story). Recalling the name association they taught, I decided if I run into Hal Bischoff, I’ll picture him with the head of a fish. Get it? Fish … Bish … off?
But if I can’t remember a name, why would I have any better luck remembering which bizarre image I’m associating it with? Even if I do, might I blurt out, “How you doing, Big Mouth Bass?” Nope, I may as well just accept my senility gracefully.
• There are only two things certain in this world. No, not death and taxes, but that if President Trump really does make America great, Democrats will insist it’s only because Obama’s policies finally kicked in. And if Trump courts disaster, Limbaugh will declare it only because Obama’s flawed policies finally kicked in. Those things are certain.
You remember Bill Clinton’s great economy because of delayed Reagonomics, don’t you? How about Obama’s failures only because of what Bush left behind? Heck, maybe German chancellor Merkel is only popular because Hitler’s policies took decades to flourish.
• Please join me in celebrating that most wonderful November holiday. Yes, “Gabriel Independence Day” is upon us. It’s been one year since the best $150 I ever spent released a super-intelligent, old border collie from the chain he called home for over a decade. Gabe is the first blessing I’ll be giving thanks for every Nov. 24th for as many years as we have left together. Alright, three things are certain.