The Saga Continues

This post, I'll admit up front, is something of a throwaway. Facebook has been at it again, refusing to allow my blog, The Sublime to the Ridiculous (this very one you're reading) to stay on my own personal Facebook page. It calls my blog spam. Well if it is, then everything everyone or anyone posts is spam, because we're all trying to gets hits whenever we post anything on our Facebook.

Interestingly, Facebook assures me that my page is in good standing, with no violations ever against it. Go figure.

So I'll not waste my brilliance (or obvious lack thereof) and anything laugh out loud, inspiring, thought provoking, or reminiscent today. I'll just write and post it, and see what happens. Enjoy.

Everyone Needs a Getaway

While picking up a few things at a local store in Hessel, a tiny village in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, I engaged the cashier is a little conversation. "I'm up here from Detroit, doing a few things with our cabin," I said at one point.

"Yeah," the cashier, a local, replied, "I have to get down to Harrison and work on our place there."

Harrison is just about smack in the middle of the mitten, or lower peninsula, of Michigan. "It's so quiet and peaceful," the man continued.

Though I didn't pursue it, I couldn't help but think, 'Quiet and peaceful there? You're in the sparsely populated UP. How could it possibly be quieter downstate (downstate is generally frowned upon by us Yoopers, folks from da UP) than Hessel?' 

We all need a getaway, I suppose. I just can't see what he's getting away from in Hessel by going two hours south. No offense, Harrison, because I've been there and you're cool. But escaping Hessel at all...I can't wrap my head around that.

Securely Upset

I wasn't going to write about this, but now I am. Inspiration is the greatest muse.

I sat down at the kitchen table to 'pen' my blog this morning. But I'm using my laptop rather than my desktop computer, where I normally type out the drivel which passes as profound thought and high entertainment. Yet because I've never logged into my Blogger account from the laptop, I was notified that a message had been sent to my cell phone, which is in the next room on the charger. Immediately the phone dinged that I had a message.

Getting up, I hurried (relatively speaking) the few steps and saw a message which said, in short, click yes to verify it's you. I did so. I went back to the computer.

At that point my laptop, exactly as the phone called to me again, asked me through a new window which of three numbers it had just sent to my phone to make absolutely sure I was me. I went back to the phone, pressing on the right number. Then I could finally set to work.

It's a first world problem I know, and how were the powers that be at Blogger to know my cell wasn't right with me? But does all this security, for my protection I'm assured, really help? Or does it merely angry up an old man who just wants to display to the world his writing skills? Either way, it's mild acrobatics which I don't care to do.

Not in the Cards

An old buddy of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, really wanted to play cards. "Come on, Marty, we can play two handed Euchre," he said.

"I don't think so, Cloyce."

"Why not? It'll be fun," he insisted.

I responded, "Not now, man, I got a lot on my mind. I can't deal with cards today."

Would you believe Cloyce hasn't asked me to play since?

Water For Safekeeping

Me brother Phil is going through a degree of organizing lately. He's taking it quite seriously too. Last Saturday he was showing me a few new containers he had bought for storage. "They're just what I need," he explained. "They're thirty gallon size."

"That is plenty large," I agreed. "But why thirty gallons? You don't need to store water. In comes in from the tap."

I'll show myself out. Just like he showed me out of his house last weekend.

Armenians

Me brother Ed was having a bit of a rant the other day. He become so worked up by current events that he spouted, "Our media won't pursue anything!" 

That's what he meant to say, anyway. It sounded like, "Armenians won't pursue anything!"

Naturally, I called him on that. "Yep, you can't trust Armenians either."

The conversation then devolved into farce about how Armenia actually runs everything and how we should be wary of that former Soviet Republic.

You had to be there.

More Time

I read this morning where there were once societies with eight day weeks. How would that work?

Would we get three day weekends all the time? Or would the work week become six days? Holiday weekends should at least be four days, I would think.

Vacations would be longer. Maybe.

Would we be younger? I mean, longer weeks would be fewer years, right? The years would be longer too.

But that would also make life expectancies lower. Hmmm.

Ah, this is all just a bunch of nothing. But it's what you get when its Saturday and I have a blog deadline.