The Trampoline House

      There's a house in my neighborhood that I walk by on the way to the grocery store. I've been walking by this house for years, twenty-five at least. 
      There's a trampoline in the front yard and from time to time I'll see kids playing on it. I can't help but look over at it and watch them play. They're usually screaming and laughing, having a good time.
      The funny thing about the kids is they never seem to age. Ever since I could remember they've always looked the same. These kids are about seven or eight years old, nine tops. I've never seen their mother pregnant. She looks the same as well. She drives a Subaru wagon, and the car hasn't changed much either.
      I can't figure it out. Maybe the kids are foster kids, or extended family. What gives? Ageless kids that's what. The reality is that they're really thirty-five years old. Or a generation slipped by me without me knowing it. 

Candy

      I was putting gas in the tank when I saw a kid holding a cardboard box filled with candy. Chocolate bars I presumed. He was selling the candy for an "organization," it's common in Los Angeles.
      I did my best to make myself small, and for a time it was working. But the kid was making his rounds, and I was his next target. I tried to think of what to say to him when he finally did get to me. I was bored with my standard answer, no thank you. 
      I know! I'll tell him I'm a diabetic! Genius.
      The kid and I made eye contact, and he moved toward me. I was staring at the cardboard box under his arm as walked.
      Sir, would you like to buy some candy? The kid asked. 
      I'm sorry I'm a diabetic, I said with a sad face.
      The kid didn't blink an eye. Well, you can buy one for your mother, your aunt, your girlfriend, your kids. 
      I wasn't expecting such a quick-witted answer. I stood dumbfounded. It was obvious the kid had heard the diabetic line before. 
      You've heard that excuse before I said to the kid. Let me get back to you when I think of something else to say. 

The Why Me Movement

     
      I was in line at my local taco stand when a lady wearing a lime green sweat suit and two of her male counterparts walked up. They ignored the line altogether and instead stepped to the side and were talking. I kept my eye on them, curious as to what they were doing. I saw one man slide a bindle of contraband to the other man, and their meeting began to make more sense to me.    
      The lady in the lime green sweat suit was pacing back and forth and I gathered she was on an upper of some kind based on the limited information that I had. At one point the lady moved behind me and was standing way too close to me. I could feel my hackles stand up. She wasn't all that attractive or likable from what could tell. 
      Then she moved to a stool and sat down next to me. She was facing me with her legs extended. She kept opening and closing her legs in a suggestive manner while she sat there staring at me. 
      I thought to myself "why me?"
      And that's when I became the founder and CEO of the Why Me Movement? 

Teddy Bear

   
      Back in the day, when I was delivering flowers, I used to see a young woman walking the streets holding a teddy bear. She was in her twenties, with short blond hair, and wore dresses that reminded me of the girls I knew in the first grade. She was an attractive woman, but it was obvious that she was missing a few screws.  
      The teddy bear she carried was worn out from being held too much. It was a white teddy bear, but it had become ragged and soiled. 
      I'd see the girl walking in random places. Sometimes I'd see her in the neighborhoods near the mountains, and other times I'd see her closer to Colorado Boulevard. She had a blank expression on her face as she walked.
      The pervert in me thought of trying to talk to her, but I never did for fear of something. 
      I hadn't seen the girl in a while. I wondered what happened to her. Then, one day as I was driving near Washington boulevard I saw her walking toward Colorado boulevard. She had the teddy bear under her arm as usual, but this time I noticed something different. There was a bulge coming from her skirt. I had to look twice to make sure, but sure enough she was pregnant. 
      Huh? Someone took advantage of my little girl. 

Crazy Bird

   
      When I was a kid there was a man we called Crazy Bird. Crazy Bird had turned his backyard into a vegetable garden, and in my mind, because of the way he dressed and how he carried himself, he was a farmer.
      He was a an older man who wore white button-down shirts and beige khaki pants. His shirts were finely pressed and tucked into his pants. He always wore a hat. Sometimes it was a straw hat and other times it was a more formal hat like a Philadelphia.
      The thing about Crazy Bird was he didn't like us kids walking on his lawn. There was a stretch of grass that was sandwiched by sidewalk. That stretch of grass was Crazy Bird's. We kids would walk on the sidewalk and then hit Crazy Bird's grass to get to the sidewalk on the other side.
      If Crazy Bird happened to catch you walking on his grass he'd grab the water hose and chase you down. "Get off my grass!!" he'd yell.
      He was a tall lanky man. He looked a lot like William Burrows. Try to imagine a man that looked like William Burrows chasing you with a water hose. That was Crazy Bird. 

War Robots

      My last three blogs have been on the negative side. I was going through a funk where outside forces were getting the better of me. I suppose there are people who aren't tuned in to world events, but I am. The news cycle has been bizarre to say the least, and it's been enough to bring me down at times. I wouldn't say all hope is lost, but I do wonder if others understand how they're been manipulated. 
      I'm not a war robot, so I notice the scale of manipulation. It's constant. It's so constant it has reached the point of being unrecognizable.
      I don't want to be the guy whose constantly complaining, but part of being alive is making observations. Observations in some instances are a matter of life and death. The mere process of asking questions and wondering can cause internal frustrations. I have many questions and I'm constantly wondering, which contributes to my daily agitation. Sometimes I wonder why others don't wonder, that in itself can cause me agitation, especially, when their lack of curiosity contributes to what I deem as poor choices. 
      Poor choices are a killer. Poor choices destroy the environment, people, and the process of tranquil living. So do us all a favor, read, read, read, and make informed choices so we don't have to suffer from poor choices. 
      This has been a public service announcement from the ninety-nine point nine percent. 

Beer

Even beer farts.