Time To Pay
I can’t ramble far tonight, because its early evening and it’s already dark outside. Thank you, Daylight Savings Time! I love it when it is dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. And as much as I enjoy that “extra hour’s sleep” in the fall, I know I will pay dearly for it next spring when you come back around like the Grim Reaper to get it back … with interest. You, DST, are like the IRS of time.
You’re like, “Hey, remember that hour I loaned you last fall?”
And when I say, a little warily, “Yessss?”, you say,
“Yeah. Um. I’ll be needing that back.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure. No problem.”
“Well, there’s a little problem,” you say with a sympathetic smile, much like the loan shark who’s about to break your knees with a cudgel.
“What little problem?” I ask naively.
“Well, there’s the interest.”
“Interest? I didn’t know there was interest. I’ll be glad to give you back the hour you loaned me.”
You chuckle. “Well, yes, I’ll be taking that hour back. Along with every hour of your life for the next three weeks.”
“Nooooooo!” I yell, lifting my hands up at camera that’s rapidly panning backwards through the rain and the despair.
The Pilgrims Landing at Galveston Rock
The weather here in Dallas is decidedly un-autumn like. The temperatures are in the 70s and 80s (~ 23-27 C). The sun is bright as hell, requiring the use of sunglasses. The grackles (our local bird of choice) are sleek and healthy looking. The leaves are slowly changing colors and falling, but only out of boredom. The breezes are light and southerly. Flowers are in full bloom.
It makes me think that if the Pilgrims had landed here in Texas rather than Massachusetts, those first winters of theirs may have been much more pleasant. They might have also started saying “y’all” and “fixin’ to” and “dern tootin’“. Although I can’t imagine William Bradford landing at Galveston and saying, “Howdy, Pilgrim. I’m fixin’ to mosey on over there to that big ‘ol rock over there. Y’all tie up them ships and sidle on over there directly and we’ll have us some barbecue and whomp us up some vittles. Dern tootin’!”
The history of America might have turned out a whole lot different if it had actually happened that way. At the very least, we might all be eating wild hog for Thanksgiving, rather than turkey. Or some kind of jerky. Or maybe chili.
I went into Barnes & Noble today to buy a CD for someone as a gift. I was disappointed. CDs have apparently gone the way of the dodo, the woolly mammoth, and the solvent 401K. In the large room in the back that has been chock full of CDs for as long as I can remember, the CD section consisted of some sad little shelves in the back, and offered only “Best of …” CDs and Christmas music. The rest of the thousand or so square feet was dedicated to DVDs and, ironically, vinyl albums.
Those of you who have been reading my humble little blog for a while know that I have written before about how bemused I am that such an archaic and inferior music-delivery system has made a comeback in a big way. But I did not think that CDs would disappear so quickly. I looked for a CD the other day at Target. They don’t even sell CDs any more! What is the world coming to? (Waves my buggy whip in the air angrily.)
So it is official. The age of the CD is over. Time of death: 2017.
Toe tag ’em, boys, and get ’em down to the cooler.