1283 Ban-handler

When I was at the airshow not long ago, I met this really annoying guy. Well I didn’t actually meet him, I did my best to avoid him.
Because he was one of those guys who are always pushing a ban. Ban this, or ban that, usually some form of ban taxes. A ban-handler if you will. A profession initiative signature gatherer. I could tell he was a pro because he sounded like a street hawker in Las Vegas.
He’d get your attention by asking if you were a registered voter. If you looked his way he’d say, “Good then I need a couple of signatures to ban the new tax and ban state-run liquor sales.”
If you even twitched in his direction, he’d swoop in. Your best defense against him was to have some other poor schmuck swept in first. The ban-handler only had one aggressive personality to use at a time.
Now understand. None of us likes taxes. But what we really hate is tax waste. And it’s scammers like this guy confusing the two that can cause trouble.
The irony was, every time the guy said repeal taxes, he was standing on a tax-paid-for road, at a tax-paid-for airport. At one point he was thrusting his petition while three people who were paid for with taxes were innocently standing nearby. They were army guys from Fort Lewis.
Our tax dollars at work.
Used to be, people went out and got initiatives signed because they believed in the cause. This guy was just a reformed street bum. Using every method he’d learned bumming money for cigarettes and booze and turning them loose for signature bounty money.
They ban aggressive panhandling, why can’t they ban aggressive ban-handling too?
America, ya gotta love it.

1282 Landscape Lingo

It’s interesting how different endeavors develop their own lingo. The inside words and phrases aficionados speak to each other. Like boaters and their “ports” and “starboards” for left and right. And their “ladders” for stairs and “sheets” for ropes.
Don’t ever ask a boater to put sheets on your bed. It makes for a very uncomfortable night’s sleep in your berth.
I saw a presentation the other day on a park that was being done by a “landscape architect.” I wasn’t really sure what a landscape architect was. My experience in landscape design is limited to deciding which to pluck first, chickweed or dandelion.
I guess the difference between a landscape contractor and a landscape architect is that landscape contractors plant stuff. The landscape architect said they “installed plants.” Sounds cool, I guess, but a little insensitive to the organic versus inorganic aspects of said plants.
There’s a subtle distinction in the “is it a living thing” category between “planting” a tree and “installing” a tree. The latter sounds more like it’s a light fixture, or a muffler.
The landscape architect also talked about the soil he was installing at a particular site and the consequences when an inopportune rainfall saturated said soil before a beauty bark berm had been erected. He said what resulted was a “fine-graded muck.” Well yeah. If you’re going to have muck, it darn well better be fine-graded.
I liked the juxtaposition of such opposite terms as fine-graded and muck. Or the implication that anyone was serious enough about dirt, mud, and such-like that they would even apply some sort of grading system to it.
Especially since most of the mucking I’ve done is in horse stalls.
Fine graded muck. Those are some premium barn apples dude.
America, ya gotta love it.

1281 Fashion Check

I think the Fashion Police have simply given up. Beaten down by the relentless assault of poor taste infecting America today. They fought the good fight but just didn’t have the wear-withal to even keep up appearances.
They were simply overwhelmed.
At least so it seemed recently when I was at a great local event. Now maybe it was because it was Fathers Day and an airshow, so all the Fathers were entitled to dress however they felt, but I don’t know.
Assuming men are intrinsically poor dressers is too easy. Some of the fashion-don’ts were almost flagrantly applied. Like a late hit to a blind-sided quarterback.
One guy had on red and white striped pants. Except the stripes were wide, like on Betsy Ross’s famous creation. He had matching Old Glory shoes too, as well as a blue t-shirt with white stars on it.
He was also directing traffic. I had to conclude he had answered a temporary job ad for a flagman. And they hired him anyhow. “Well, I was expecting a bright orange vest, but I guess you’ll have to do...”
The other flagrant foul I saw was a guy who had on four different kinds of camo clothing. Five technically. He had on fuzzy fleece camo pants, which must have been marsh-type camo because they were two inches high-watered. Another type of leaf camo vest. A desert camo cap. And camo shoes of course. All of it pretty much green and tan and chaotic-leafy patterned.
But underneath the camo vest he had on a red and black buffalo check flannel shirt.
Which was camo in a sense¾but only if he laid down on a checkerboard!
Take that fashion police!
Check and Mate and game over.
America, ya gotta love it.