Street Parking

You know what will get an old man mad? Parking in front of his house when there's plenty of other spaces available.

In my neighborhood there are almost no driveways, as the bulk of the houses were built prior to the motorcar taking dominion over the roads. There are some homes with garages, yet even they are relatively few. That leaves street parking, which can limit options quickly itself. And the streets are public, so anyone can park anywhere. 

I get that. I really do, and accept that it is what it is. Still, I see neighbors across the street who will park in front of my house when there are spaces in front of theirs. I mean, don't you want to park in front of your own dwelling? Don't you want fewer steps with packages or whatever in tow? Don't you want to save a couple of steps the next morning when you're heading to work? And here's where the old curmudgeon steps in: don't you want to be courteous towards me? I am towards you. I won't park in front of your place outside of abject necessity. Is it that hard to drive down the block and loop around when you get home?

So park in front of your own place. Is it that much to ask? Can you see me wagging my finger sarcastically as I ask that?

Mister Son

Me son Frank and I had a nice, long phone talk this past Sunday, around three hours. Man, that boy can talk. Or, more truthfully, listen.

Somewhere along the line he and I began talking about the loss of courtesies such as honorifics. I feel that when introducing someone to someone else, they ought to be called by whatever title they might merit. "This is Mr. Smith," for example. Mr. Smith may then allow the person to call him by a familiar if he's fine with it.

Immediately after saying that I remarked, "Of course, for some reason I don't apply this rule with my children. If while out and about we run into a friend I'll say, "Hi, Cloyce! Oh, this is my son Frank."

"So the next time that happens, Frank, I'll say to Cloyce: "How are you? Oh, and this is my son, Mr. Cosgriff.'" I promised him. Then we each roared with laughter.

When that had died down Frank drolly added, "And the next time someone calls you Mr. Cosgriff, Dad, you can respond, 'Hey, I'm just Marty. Mr. Cosgriff is my son.'"

I don't know about you, but I find the entire concept hilarious.