At last!

After years of seeing rent-a-scooters parked in random places like at the crest of bridges or on a corner nowhere near a residence or store, we finally had someone park one in the street in front of our house. No idea who, or why, but there it is. Be interesting to see how long it stays there.

Update: Unlike the bridge scooters which will sit there for days, ours was gone in just over two hours.

New conversations.

One satirical line used to be having two executives talking and one saying, 'I'll have my people talk to your people.'

Well, in the age of artificial stupidity killing human jobs, it's no surprise when The Wall Street Journal can trumpet Young adults now let AI do their talking.

So, ladies and gentlemen, update your 'Business Protocol Phrase Book' to 'I'll have my AI talk to your AI.'

Are these still things?

non-fungible tokens, or NFTs
air fryers
spin classes and/or Pelotons
jetted, Jacuzzi-style tubs.

On the flip side, hacky-sacks are once again a thing.

Shout at, not out.

And speaking of AS, let's look at the OG AS for a moment. My relationship with Siri has been, let us say, fractious. I asked her to do something simple. She refused. So I stopped asking. Siri doesn't like to be ignored, apparently, because she then popped up randomly, unbidden, freezing activity until she was dismissed.

Finally I had enough, and decided it was time for 'Siri-enasia,' and shut it down. But all is not calm and bright, as a window sometimes pops up, unbidden, asking if I want to turn Siri back on.

I think we all know the answer to that. All, that is, except Siri.

Things I did not know.

The line Be afraid. Be very afraid (which I use semi-regularly) is from the 1986 remake of The Fly.

Questions, we get questions.

Like this one: Brittany, the teenage babysitter from next door, watches our two daughters two nights a week while I work at my third, 'making ends meet' job. Recently she said her rates were going up due to 'increased fuel costs.' I have three questions: 1) Am I being scammed? 2) Do I now have to file a 1099 with the IRS? 3) Is there someplace I can recapture or get a rebate for increased fuel costs?

I said we get questions. Didn't say I answered them.

Disasters redefined.

We recently passed the tenth anniversary of the mass carnage at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, where 49 people were killed. It was just one of many mass shootings where dozens of people lost their lives.

Most occurred pre-pandemic. Sandy Hook. Virginia Beach. Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School. Las Vegas. Uvalde is one exception, having occurred 'only' four years ago.

I find it interesting how many of the 'perps' cite Columbine as a model or inspiration. I wonder if part of our problem is continued publicity about events, and not so much the event itself.

Still, we receive regular reports of 'mass casualty incidents,' but as often as not, there are often barely enough people killed and wounded to qualify as a mass event. Oddly enough though, we should count this as good news. For whatever reason–better preparation, better safeguards, more education, earlier warnings, fewer people are dying in these events. Also, the decrease in size of mass events seems to parallel decreases in violent crime.

No reason to decrease vigilance, but still heartening.

Is that all you got?

A headline in the Wall Street Journal reports The stock market's fear gauge is faulty.

Of course it is. Anything built on a combinatIon of the Chicken Little Index and the 'wolf-crying boy' predictor is guaranteed to be faulty. What is surprising is someone applying The Emperor's Wardrobe Observation to it.

What I want to know is if there are any other gauges Wall Street employs, specifically, is there anything not built on fear, bad news, doom, at at least something that recognizes there are rays of sunshine out there peeking through the ominous dark gray clouds. There used to be one–the hemline height predictor–but I haven't heard that one mentioned in a long time.

Grapefruit.

I don't know if I'm just not paying attention, but beyond eating it raw, juicing it, or broiling it, there's not much you seem to be able to do with grapefruit. Other fruits go into pies, cakes, muffins, preserves, dried, and even fruit congeals and jello molds. Except for preserves, nobody seems to do much with grapefruit. It's ignored.

But there is one area where grapefruit has achieved recognition, and that's in the area of 'medication avoidance.' Advertisements for certain anti-depression medications often specify users 'should not eat grapefruit.'

Every time, I wonder 'why grapefruit?' Why is grapefruit the only citrus fruit singled out? Is there something about grapefruit that makes it more attractive to those suffering from depression?

But I haven't seen those advertisements recently. Did they tweak the medication to remove the conflict? Did they bioengineer the grapefruit to remove the offending compounds? Or did they just switch to advertising newer, more profitable drugs?

In memoriam.

On August 11, my father, John Sr., will have been dead 50 years. Decorated war veteran, husband, and proud father of five, he lived a post-World War II middle class dream life—house, family, good job, friends. For most of his life, he worked as a salesman. He had his own hobbies and interests, which included cooking (especially after-church brunch, and baked goods), puttering around the house, and later in life, paint-by-number art work.

Mostly what I remember was the time he spent with me on or encouraging activities like Cub Scouts, Little League baseball, and picking me up from high school when I had to to miss the bus, usually after debate practice. Although I liked being with my Dad, I can't remember we did any special bonding, but it was just his presence.

Family came first. He worked hard. For a long time he had a second job as a butcher in a local grocery run by an Italian family. As always, he was more than a part-time employee. The family had an annual feast, to which Dad (and I) was invited.

He always had time for family, both his original family (:mother, sisters, and brothers) as well as us.

He threw himself into whatever he was working on, be it one of his hobbies, home repairs, or working with me on various projects like practicing pitching for little league, creating a pinewood derby car for the Cub Scout competition (he also helped build the track), or helping with other projects. Sometimes he took me and my other friends to an opening day baseball game. His own dad died when he was eight, and I sometimes wonder now if he was living his childhood through me/us.

One of the great honors I had was accompanying him when had made sales calls on his route. I could hear pride in his voice as he introduced me. I had something to live up to. But I was already known at most of the places– they would tell me that my dad would talk about me. I later realized that many of these people were much more than customers. I was especially honored when Dad took me along with him to a couple of meetings at the regional headquarters in Buffalo, where I would be cut loose in downtown to explore, go to movies and the library, generally look around and then find my way to his office for the ride home. For a couple of years, I helped him before Thanksgiving to inventory turkeys in the cold-storage locker. I was very proud to help out.

I remember twice traveling by air with him—the first time to Washington, D.C., as a graduation present. We did usual touristy things, like the Lincoln Memorial, the Smithsonian, Congress, and had a nice celebratory meal. Oddly, the moment I remember most was on the first night. We were walking around, surrounded by closed government buildings. But then we saw one building, unmarked, that was open. We decided to give it a try, and found ourselves in the National Gallery. It was wonderful-—relatively empty, and we could spend time with individual paintings. I had a great time. My father was there. I don't recall if he enjoyed that part of the trip. I'd like to think he did.

During our travels on the Mall, we stopped at the Washington Monument. The line was long. I suggested the steps. Dad said he would wait. He wasn't that interested. I liked the walk up, seeing all the memorial stones contributed by states and other organizations. A good trip, but not much talk as I recall.

The second trip was to New York City for a cousin's wedding. We had to work around the wedding (the receptIon was at Tavern on the Green, which was supposed to be a big deal, but which I didn't get), and I don't remember where we ate. I do remember the Empire Sate Building, and a tourist bus tour through parts of Manhattan, including Greenwich Village. We both remarked on how quiet it was. I never figured out of that was a usual Saturday morning, or if everybody was up in Woodstock.

I don't recall him talking about himself talking about events in his life, when he was growing up, or even saying anything about wants, likes, or desires. Unless prodded, he never talked about what he did in the war, and even then he talked only about travel, and eating in China (not good) and Italy (where a local family adopted him). We never saw his uniform or ribbons, and it was only through a browned newspaper clipping that we learned he had been awarded a silver star and two oak leaf clusters.

I don't remember ever touching him, or being touched, except the odd handshake, pat on the shoulder, or lifting me up when I was younger. We were not a demonstrative people.

He wasn't perfect. He smoked. He drank. He was (rarely) quick to anger. He had racist tendencies. But he was funny, quick with a hearty laugh, consistent, dedicated to church and job, family and friends.

And he loved us in his own quiet way.

God, I miss him.