I was visiting that repository of all wisdom and knowledge over the weekend.
The Internet.

No one calls it the World Wide Web except Al Gore.
But then he invented it.

Anyway, there was a picture of a dial phone.

Remember them?

I still have one – somewhere in a box in the garage.

It’s part of my stuff.
Those are the things men need around them, just in case.

Given enough time I can probably pull just about any wonderful thing from a box – somewhere in the garage.

And to think the wife wants me to throw those out.
Perish the thought.

Anyway, I started to ponder some stuff.

If you’re over 50 then there was most likely one these phones in your house when you were a kid.
Only one.

Probably close to where everybody was always hanging out.

You had to use it in front of your parents to speak to your friends.

That’s why teenagers back then mumbled.
Everybody got frustrated because it was hard to overhear what you were saying.

That’s when your mother started nagging at the dinner table about how you need to speak up.

And you had like 5 minutes before someone started yelling at you to get off the phone.

People on the party line were probably listening.
I did that as a kid but never heard much of interest.

We did stupid things like call random numbers and ask the person, “Is your water running?”

“Yes.”

“Well you better catch it before it gets away.”
<click>
Giggle.

God were we stupid.

And you actually had to actually remember everyone’s phone number.

I remember 39-137.
I have no idea who it belong to back then.

Since cell phones weren’t invented yet, there was probably more than once your friend was going to be late meeting you, but couldn’t let you know because you were out waiting for them already.

Then when you took a picture you had to wait to finish the roll of film and send it off somewhere to be developed before you could see it days later.

And then half of them would turn out to be junk.

And if you liked music videos, you just had to sit and wait until MTV happened to play it.

It was easy to tell when the batteries were dying on your Walkman because the music started to get weirdly slow.

You had to buy an actual magazine to find out what was on TV.

If there was nothing good on channels 2-13, there was simply nothing.

You couldn’t settle arguments by Googling to prove you were right.

Who says things were better in the good ‘ol days?

I’m still grumpy though.

I speak for all husbands.

We can’t win.

When the wife wants to know the absolute truth about something – she talks to her girlfriends.

Apparently a husband is an unreliable source.

I have seen the light.
We are good only for changing bulbs and mowing the grass.

In the wife’s mind her girlfriends know more about any and everything than the Pope, the President or I do.
Combined.

Nothing will ever change that.

Case in point…

If a girlfriend tells the wife that spreading dead fish and tea leaves on top of her computer will protect it from viruses it’s as if it came from God’s lips to her ears.

As an IT and anti-terrorism professional I tell her “Hogwash”.

“Yea, but my girlfriend says…”

“I’m sorry my dear that’s not correct.”

“Well, my girlfriend says it works.”

“It won’t. Trust me.”

I might as well be talking to the wall.

Sometime in the next 24 hours dead fish and tea leaves will show up in a little platter on top her computer.

When she’s not around I update her anti-virus protection.

No husband will ever understand the relationship between a wife and her girlfriends.
No husband will ever replace them.
No husband will ever get between them.

And that’s the way it is.

Women need their girlfriends to give them someone to chat with for hours at a time.

That sure won’t be me.

The wife can spend an hour describing the lunch she had today.

They’ll discuss everything in-depth from the color of the napkins, how many ice cubes in their water glass to the salad.

If she’s asking me – “Cheeseburger and a soda.”
End of conversation.

They need their girlfriends to have someone they can relate and vent to.

Of course I wonder how much my name may have come up.
That makes me grumpy.

…pissed off.

I live in a nice neighborhood.

For the most part people take care of their homes and yards.

There’s a couple of slobs, but those of us that care about out investments ignore them.

On the main street to my neighborhood there’s a condo/apartment complex.

They take good care of the place.
If they didn’t, no one would rent or buy.

Then they allow this to happen.

Nice, huh?
Looks like a flea market.

Bulky item pickup is the second Wednesday of the month.

That works out to January 14th.
Stuff isn’t supposed to be put curbside until the night before.

This crap pile has been building for two weeks.
Each day it spreads out a bit further and gets a bit higher.

Want to come visit me?
You’ll have to pass this on the way.

Here’s what’s happening.

A lot of military live in this complex.
They are good people and no different from you and me.

But they live under rules where they sometimes have to move by a certain date.
They have to throw stuff out.

There’s really no option unless they go to the dump.

The property management apparently shrugs and wanders off.
My neighborhood starts to look like hell.

Happens every month.
What you see is about usual.

Good grief – how about setting a space aside on the property where this stuff can go until it’s time for pickup?
Is that too advanced an idea to grasp?

Apparently so.

I have no interest in being a little old geezer that becomes a pain-in-the-butt by sending pictures to the city every month demanding action.

I do have interest in not making my neighborhood look like a third world country.

Stay tuned as the Night Raider plots his revenge.