Route 100 - A Commuter's Battleground

Last week, I approached the ramp to route 100 as I headed toward Pasadena. It was a beautiful day with low humidity so I casually rolled down my driver's side window to get some fresh air. As I gradually picked up speed in the right lane, I saw what appeared to be a smoky haze about a quarter mile in front of me. It didn't take long to realize that it was actually road dust being kicked up by the traffic ahead.

I had just ran my car through the car-wash and it was still wet in some places. Traveling through the dust cloud quickly turned my car's exterior from a shiny luster to a depressing gray film. Before long, it looked like I had just taken 2nd Place in a four-wheeling competition. But knowing that this was just one of the occasional drawbacks of commuting, I let it go.

But what came next was not so easy to ignore....

As luck would have it, there was a large pick-up truck directly in  front of me. The double-tires of the truck began to kick up gravel and hurl it violently at the traffic behind. As the projectiles ricocheted off of my hood and windshield, I looked for an opportunity to switch lanes. But there was nowhere to go. I caught a quick glimpse of the driver beside me, He had a firm two-handed grip on the steering wheel as his head bobbed to the left and right. The poor guy looked like Rocky Balboa ducking a punch from Mister T. And although I did feel a bit of sympathy for him, I had my own issues to deal with.

With the road being torn up, it was like driving on an extended rumble strip. So, I decided to turn up the radio to drown out some of the noise. "Gimme Shelter" by the Rolling Stones happened to be playing. Really? The Stones? Right now? Come on....

As the truck in front of us accelerated, the frequency of road shrapnel increased. Pieces of route 100 rained down on us like a summer hail storm. Rocks were coming from all directions. My poor Honda was taking on more abuse than a Baltimore City police cruiser!

Out of nowhere, my elbow, which had been hanging vulnerably outside the window, was met by an oncoming rock. Grimacing, I took the pain like a man. I slowly retracted my stinging arm and rolled up the window. Although I wasn't out of danger quite yet, I did feel a little safer.

Thankfully, the scarred battlefield soon gave way to a freshly paved surface. I eventually exited the expressway and pulled into the safety of a parking lot where I was able to survey the damage. Miraculously, I came out of the onslaught relatively unscathed. My battle wounds were limited to a couple of small nicks in the windshield and a small red welt on my left elbow. I had survived. But how many commuters wouldn't be so lucky?

kw

The Roanoke Shootings - Disregarded Racism

By now, everyone has probably heard about the disgruntled asshole (Vester Flanagan) who murdered the Roanoke news reporter and cameraman on live TV. Initially, as expected, the story was widely covered by almost every media outlet in the country. But as details emerged about the shooting possibly being racially motivated, the media slowly backed away from their coverage.

Hmmm....

So, let me see if I've got this right. If a racist white guy shoots up a black church, we're told that it's due to "systematic racism" and then there's an immediate push to ban the Confederate Flag and any future showing of The Dukes of Hazard. And if a some white cops are suspected in the death a black drug dealer, there's an instant gathering of "protesters" who are given "room to destroy" the city.. But when a racist black man guns down two white news reporters on live TV, there's no outrage over the demographics.

So, what got Flanagan so outraged that he felt the need to gun down 24-year old, Alison Parker and her 27-year-old cameraman? Apparently, the young reporter commonly used the words "swinging" and "field". I understand that these are commonly used words by news reporters as they might "swing by a location" or "go out to the field". But somehow, Flanagan found these terms to be racist. So, he went to his superiors to report it. In the end, common sense prevailed and it was brushed off as nonsense. This didn't sit well with Flanagan and his rage continued to brew until the time of the shootings.

From what I've read, Flanagan liked to accuse people of racism whenever things didn't go his way and he had a history of filing discrimination complaints. This moron even called 7-11 racist because they had watermelon flavored Slurpees.*

In a manifesto that he faxed to ABC News shortly after the shooting, Flanagan mentioned that the recent Charleston church shooting was one of the factors that sent him over the top. So, it kinda sounds like this guy wasn't feeling a whole lot of love for white folks.

So, as we sift through all of the bullshit, it looks like Flanagan's violent outburst was ultimately carried out in retaliation for the June 17 racist attack in Charleston. So, in effect, wouldn't that make Flanagan's targeting of two innocent white people just as racist? Apparently, there's a lot of people who don't see it that way. Or they're just too afraid to talk about it.

Almost everyone, black and white, was outraged and sickened by Dylan Roof's actions in the Charleston church murders. Most people wold agree that he is a racist piece of sh*t. But when it comes to Vester Flanagan, his racial influences are largely ignored. Even President Obama, who usually seizes the opportunity to fan the flames in these situations, blamed guns this time around. I guess blaming the guy who actually pulled the trigger would be too insensitive? By the way, has the term "hate crime" even been mentioned during the course of this event?

kw

* http://nypost.com/2015/08/28/reporters-everyday-comments-deemed-racist-by-on-air-killer/

It's Raining On Eutaw Street

When I venture into the inner city of Baltimore, I never know what oddities await me. Case in point, earlier today I was driving near the "World Famous" Lexington Market. As I began to make a right turn onto Eutaw Street, a disheveled man walked in front of my car. He seemed to be oblivious to anything around him. As the guy took a couple more awkward steps, he appeared to be pissing in the middle of the downtown street. To confirm my suspicion, he turned in my direction with his d*ck firmly planted in hand. Just what I needed to see first thing in the morning, huh?

As the guy continued to relieve his bladder all over Eutaw Street, people casually walked past him without blinking an eye. It was only when the guy started to pee from side to side that people started to give him distance. One guy nearly got his shoes acid-washed. But he was able to jump out of the way just in the nick of time.

Baltimore is not really known for dragons but this guy was definitely draining one!

Meanwhile, an overweight woman near the market entrance was yelling, "Anybody holdin' any loose one's??" (I'm assuming that she was looking to buy some loose cigarettes)

I fought back the urge to yell back, "Hey, I think this guy in front of my car is holding a loose one!"

And just as I start to laugh, the pissing guy does a complete 360 in the middle of the street. The whole time, a steady stream of  piss was flowing abundantly. He looked like some type of urban lawn sprinkler as the urine made a perfect circle around him. Like a stray dog, the guy almost seemed to be marking his territory. I could see the corner street vendor getting really nervous as the guy moved towards the corner. I can certainly understand why. I imagine that it would be kind of tough to sell those multi-color hair weaves after this guy gave them a golden shower.

Overall, the guy didn't appear too healthy. I'm assuming that drugs and alcohol had taken their toll on him. But from the way he was blasting way, I'm pretty sure that he didn't have any prostrate issues. Maybe they should call this guy out to California to fight some of those forest fires. After a few bottles of Knotty Head, he could probably extinguish at least four or five acres. I'm pretty sure he could find some work as a power washer as well.

The guy eventually staggered across the intersection. And fortunately for the street vendor, the guy's bladder was finally empty. On that note, I seized the opportunity to flee the scene. There's no way that I wanted to be around when this guy felt a bowel movement coming on.....

kw

The Baseball - A Life Short Lived

As I sit here and watch tonight's O's game, I'm amazed at the ridiculously short life of a Major League baseball. If the pitcher happen to skip a ball into the dirt on the way to the catcher, the ball is instantly tossed aside. If a batter hits a soft foul ball to the 3rd base coach, the ball immediately becomes a souvenir for a lucky fan sitting in the lower deck. Sometimes, even a brand new ball is tossed out before it's Major League debut. Seems kinda cruel if you ask me...

Is it really necessary to discard so many baseballs? Will a slightly dirty ball really affect the outcome of the game? Ironically, each Major League team uses "Baseball Rubbing Mud" to prepare the ball for their pitchers. So, a little infield dirt ruins the ball but mud from the Delaware River enhances it? I'm still trying to figure that one out.

The official ball of Major Leagues is made by Rawlings. Each one of these balls are hand stitched in Costa Rica. This laborious task is probably performed by some poor guy who's weekly salary doesn't amount to the price of a decent seat at Camden Yards. You would think that a million-dollar ballplayer might consider the tedious work that goes into a baseball before they callously toss it aside.

So, exactly how many baseballs are actually used in a Major League game? Obviously, the number varies. But from what I've read, the average number is 120. That's astounding to me. And with 30 Major League teams, that's an average of 15 games a day. So, this translates into 1800 baseballs for just one day of Major League Baseball! Can you imagine a sweatshop full of Costa Ricans working feverishly to pump out their daily quota? I'll bet carpal tunnel syndrome is a huge problem down there. My wrists are hurting just thinking about it!

Remember those "Real Men of Genius" Budweiser commercials where they give props to the unsung "heroes" of sports? Well, I think if Mr Footlong Hot Dog Inventor and Mr. Basketball Court Sweat Wiper Upper can get a commercial, you gotta give one to the folks who bust their balls making the balls.


kw

Bonus Cards

Have you noticed how you now need a bonus card for almost any purpose these days? Well, technically speaking, I guess you don't need it. But if you want to get the "sale price", you'd better have it. So whether you're going to the supermarket, the gas station or the local watering hole, you have to scan your card to secure the best prices.

The bonus cards outnumber the keys on my key chain 10 to 1. Soon, I'm going to have to buy another key chain just to hold my bonus cards! We're always hearing about how we should conserve water and paper. How about we conserve some plastic?

Of course, some of these cards are called "rewards" cards? Basically, if you spend $10,000, the retailer will send you a gift card for say five bucks. Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating a little. But you still have to spend a helluva a lot of money to get "rewarded".

When bonus cards were first introduced, I thought to myself, "If only they had those things for bars!" Well, low and behold, the Greene Turtle (a local chain of sports bar-type watering holes) introduced their own bonus card. For every $200 you spend, you get a $10 gift voucher. It's actually a pretty good deal. And, as a weekly enhancement to the bonus card, on Thursdays, you receive double points. Nonetheless, it's probably not surprising that I've acquired quite a few of those $10 "Turtle Bucks" over the past couple of years!

One of the big issues that  have with the bonus cards is that after time, from repetitiously getting smacked around on your key chain, they start to wear out. For instance, on my Giant bonus card, the plastic is folded back so bad that it looks like one of those Bloomin' Onions from the Outback. Every time that that I go to check out, I have to flatten it out like I'm laying out the the Dead Sea Scrolls as the cashier tries to shoot it with her barcode scanner. From a distance, it probably looks like she's trying to put it out of it's misery!

Other times, the barcode will wear off of the car to the point where it's illegible. I'm always amazed when the cashiers unsuccessfully shoot at the barcode countless times while fully expecting to get a reading. Realizing that this could go on forever, I usually interrupt by saying, "Um, I don't I think it's gonna work."

This usually brings a blank stare from the less-than-enthusiastic cashier. And before long, a light bulb will go off and she'll ask, "Ok, the scanner's not reading your card. Can you read the number to me?"

So, her sophisticated piece of modern technology can't read the label, but she expects me to do it? First off, the label is so worn that the Six Million Dollar Man couldn't even read it. Plus, even if it wasn't worn, the numbers are written in a number .0005 font. Even if I had 20/20 vision, I would still need an electron microscope to read it!

Of course, when all else fails, the cashier will ask, "Can I have your phone number?"

I always like to have a little fun by replying, "My phone number? Are you hitting on me?"

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, I eventually give up my phone number in exchange for saving a few bucks on my Gatorade and beef jerky. Wouldn't it be easier just to automatically give everyone the discount instead of making us go through this song and dance routine?? My key chain is at it's breaking point!

kw

Dirt Bikes And The City

Several years ago, on a Sunday afternoon, I was standing at a downtown Baltimore intersection. Waiting for the "Walk" sign to illuminate, I made small talk with a few of the tourists who were visiting the city for first time. As I pointed out some of the local attractions and advised the crowd were to get the best crabs, a faint buzz could be heard in the distance. It quickly got louder and, before long, a large group of "disenfranchised youths" on dirt bikes came flying by us. They sounded like a bunch of hornets as they zoomed in and out of stopped traffic. They narrowly missed several pedestrians who were crossing Pratt Street.

All around me, the tourists were shaking their heads in amazement. They couldn't believe the brazen disregard for the law. I, on the other hand, wasn't surprised by it. It was just another day in Baltimore.

Although dirt bikes have been illegal to ride on city streets for as long as I can remember, it doesn't seem to deter the inner city youth from doing it. They will often do wheelies and other stunts, giving little or no thought of the safety of anyone in their path. Ironically, the police have been prohibited from chasing them for this very reason.

Earlier this year, a young woman was hit and killed near the Cold Spring Lane Metro Station by one of these rogue bikers. And back in June, a 5-year-old in Cherry Hill was seriously injured after he was hit by a dirt bike. The hit-and-run bikers were never caught and are likely still out on the street creating havoc.

This past Sunday night, city police were called to a spot on Reisterstown Road that's known for illegal dirt bike races. As the police attempted to disperse the crowd, they were greeted with rocks and bottles. While dodging stray rocks and other projectiles, one cop drew his firearm in an attempt to subdue the angry mob. Fitting right in with the "give them room to destroy" mindset, that cop was abruptly suspended.

Some of the community sympathy for these assholes is mind-boggling. For instance, I was watching a news cast where a woman said something like, "Yeah, I know they're breaking the law. So, what? What else are they supposed to do?"

Really?  Riding dirt bikes illegally in the middle of traffic is the only thing these "kids" can do? Wow, that sounds pretty hopeless to me.

I also hear how there aren't enough recreation centers in the inner city. Hmm, is there an overcrowding problem with the ones that exist? Somehow, I doubt it. But if I were a city taxpayer (and thank God that I'm not!), I'd be willing to call the community's bluff on this one. Let's built x-number of new rec centers and see if it has a significant positive impact on the community.

I have also heard folks saying that the city needs to build a park where the kids can safely ride their dirt bikes. You're shitting me, right? Do you really think that these urban dirt-bikers would give up the thrill of rebellion in exchange for the controlled environment of a government-run bike park? No way. The only people that I see showing up are the 7-8 year olds who want to hone their wheelie skills before they hit the streets with their older brothers.

I just read a WBAL story where Mayor Rawlings-Blake acknowledged that she's taking the illegal dirt bike issue "very seriously".  She also said that she's taking a look at other jurisdictions around the country to see how they're addressing the issue. It's not like this is something that suddenly happened overnight. Illegal dirt bikes have been an issue for at least 15 years in Baltimore. I've seen it with my own two eyes! And now the Mayor and City Council are just starting to look into it? I guess it's the same way they spent years "looking" into the problems with the Baltimore City Jail.

Do rules mean anything anymore? If I want to organize a game of touch football in the middle of Pratt Street during rush hour, can I just do it? And when the police show up, can we angrily pelt them with Gatorade bottles and knee braces? Can we simply spew out a bunch of lame excuses for our total disregard for the law?

Baltimore "leaders" desperately need to get a handle on things soon because it's becoming increasingly clear who's really running the city right now....


kw

Invasion of the Frogs

I'm not sure what's going on with the frogs this year, but I can tell you, at least in my neighborhood, they're everywhere. I'm not kidding, when I'm driving down my driveway, especially at night, I'll see no less than a dozen baby frogs bouncing around like little super balls. It's like the Plagues of Egypt migrated to Pasadena this summer.

Following Tina's advice, I try to avoid running over any of the little critters. However, it's inevitable that one will inescapably bite the dust. Case in point, I ran over one of them the other night. Swerving around several leaping frogs as I drove down the driveway, I eventually heard a faint popping noise. Although I knew what had just happened, I still felt the need to get out investigate. Sure enough, right there in 2-D, was a flat frog. Knowing that Tina would give me an earful if Kermit was still chilling on the asphalt in the morning, I got the hose out and nonchalantly blasted the evidence into the lawn. No body, no crime, right?

These frogs also like to swim in our pool. As a result, Tina has mandated that the pool be regularly checked in case any frogs happen to be in distress. It's getting to be a bit ridiculous. I'm actually thinking about buying one of those tall lifeguard chairs so I can sit out there and keep a watchful eye on the frogs as I drink my morning coffee.

Sometimes there will be several baby frogs scattered around various parts of the pool. They casually swim around the pool like they're vacationing in the Bahamas. And then, when I attempt to skim them out of the water with my net, they swim to the bottom like Michael freggin' Phelps. It's frustrating.

On most mornings, Tina will take the first shift and go out and check the pool skimmer. She'll usually find several frogs taking on water and eager to hit dry land. So, she'll fish them out of the skimmer basket and set them free.

Of course, there's usually a casualty or two. And this really bums Tina out. She'll come into the kitchen as I'm pouring my first cup of morning coffee and say, "I found two dead frogs in the pool. I feel so bad for them."

Still half asleep with my eyes half open, I respond, "Tina, it's a f*cking frog. You gotta let it go."

And it gets better......Back in the spring, I was cutting the grass in the back yard. Tina was reading a book while floating around the pool. As I'm making a pass with the lawn mower, she says, "Ken, I saw a frog near where you're cutting. Try not to hit him."

Well, within a minute, I saw something fly out of the discharge chute of my lawn mower. As I took a closer look, I saw that it was indeed the frog that Tina has just warned me about. Ruh-roh, Rorge! I tried to ignore it and transition back to the lawn cutting. But right on cue, Tina raises her voice, "Please tell me you didn't run over that frog!"

"Ok", I said. "I didn't run over that frog. He ran under my lawn mower."

Of course, Tina doesn't find any humor in it. She immediately starts laying into me as if I had just shot Cecil the Lion. As she was in mid-tirade, I imagined what would have happened if the lawn mower would have flung the expired frog into the pool while Tina was quietly reading her book. I couldn't help but giggle. But I quickly let the thought go as I knew it would have meant dire straits for me.

As the lambasting continued, Tina asked, "Really? How could you not see him?"

"Do I have to remind you that I have to get tested every six months for glaucoma?", I plead. "If the doctor ever prescribes marijuana for me, I'm going to give it to you so you can chill the hell out. Hey, maybe you can offer some to your frogs too!"

I immediately receive a stare that cuts right through me. My "fight or flight" mechanism kicks in and I pushed my lawn mower to the far end of the yard where the environment was much less hostile.

It ain't easy being me.......

kw