A Faint Hope

For several months now there’s been rumors going back and forth about how yoga guy is planning to move to another town, leaving Nutjob Hills in literal peace.

Of course these rumors have been flying in both directions. Some insist that he’s definitely moving, others claim that the appearance of moving is all part of some nefarious plan that will end in hideous noise that none in our small but fair city can escape.

I try not to pay much attention to the rumors or the various and sundry discussions about which of them is true. Instead I rely on my own observations. Frankly there’s not been much to observe. Yoga guy has been about his usual routine for most of this time. However this morning I saw a truck in front of his house.

This in and of itself is not all that remarkable. He’s frequently taking delivery of assorted musical gear. His account at www.guitarcenter.com is quite probably one of the most active they’ve got.

The thing that was different this time however is that instead of offloading stuff from the truck, he was supervising as some workers loaded several large crates onto the truck.

Could this be a sign he’s leaving? Or is something else going on here?

I Don’t Dance. Ever

Anyone who knows me should know full well that dancing is something that I simply don’t do. Ever. For no reason. It’s just not my thing. I’m not coordinated in the right ways, I’m ultra self-concious when attempting it and finally, I just plain don’t want to.

So all of a sudden recently a guy started showing up at the Nutjob Hills Diner trying to convince everybody that they should all take wedding dance lessons from the Dance Doctor. When he came around to me I’d already heard his schpiel while he was at the table next to mine.

I told him that I wasn’t interested and all I wanted to do was enjoy my morning coffee in peace.

An intelligent person would have taken that as enough of a hint that they should simply move on.

This dimwit who shall remain nameless continued to pester me about something that I told him six times I was not interested in until finally I’d had it. I got up, paid for my coffee, said something to the waitress about how they should do something about the pest problem and left.

The Missing credit

They year was 1977. It was my senior year in high school. Classes had finally gotten to the point where everything was pretty easy and all one was expected to do was continue to show up, put in a modicum of effort and at the end of the school year graduation would happen and that would be the end of one’s days in public school.

I was looking forward to that because I’ve always hated school. Mind you I didn’t mind learning in the least. In fact I’ve always enjoyed learning new stuff. I just didn’t like the setting, the crowds of people and the fact that no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was always kind of an outsider.

Then a counselor pulled me in for a talk. Somehow I was half a credit short and because of this I would not be able to graduate with the rest of the class of ’77. Instead I was going to have to take one semester of classes the next year.

I didn’t mind that everybody else was checking out all of the best high school class rings or deciding on what the formal wear for the senior prom, heck, I didn’t ever expect to go in the first place. One doesn’t go to such things alone after all.

What I minded the most is the fact that I had to do another half year and that nobody seemed to be able to explain to me just exactly where that half credit went.

Then again, It shouldn’t have surprised me. That kind of thing had been happening to me all my life… and has continued to happen since then too.