At A Time
Wednesday. Another story in the paper this morning about the 59 year old father and his 29 year old son who were attacked last Friday (I said Sunday, but it turns out to have been Friday) by two teenagers who are now in custody. This particular area, right next to the Fox theater on a Friday afternoon, is not an area where you'd expect this kind of thing to happen, although it obviously does happen if you look at any of the local crime compilation web sites.
For this incident a father is dead, never recovering from his coma, the father's family is in deep shock and mourning and the two teenagers lives, whatever lives they may have had to look forward to last week, are now essentially over. Jail time and then whatever lives they'll have after jail, two violent kids put into prison to learn the tips and tricks of how to become really unpleasant, eventually released to do what? More of the same? Great.
This seems to have gotten under your skin.
Too much time on my hands for reflection maybe, now that I'm retired.
Another better night's sleep with the knee. Still walk like a cripple, but the leg and the knee are now able to bend in more directions without much pain, progress obviously made. Takes time, though, when you bang your knee, even when you can't remember the incident. Seems odd. Something that happens more often to old guys who no longer pay the required attention? Forget to duck? Weaker knees? Who knows? I have something I want to photograph in the city this weekend, I hope the knee is able. Only three more days to go, though. Though.
A trip to breakfast before seven, a decent breakfast (the Wednesday morning business group meets later on third Wednesdays of the month and they hadn't arrived yet to add to the babble), home now before eight. Pretty exciting stuff, don't you think?
Later. I've been sitting here practicing the pronunciation of the volcano Eyjafjallajokull (ah-yah-FYAH-lah-yer-kuhl), writing out the phonetics from an article posted on the Huffington Post. Why am I sitting here practicing the pronunciation of Eyjafjallajokull on a Wednesday here in Oakland? If I could answer that, well, if I could answer that I could take the place of the man up on the mountain.
You want to be the old coot on the mountain?
Not with a gimp knee, let me tell you.
Later still. I realized I'd somewhat stupidly run out of my inhaler prescription so I called in a renewal and drove downtown to pick it up at the pharmacy this afternoon. Yes, the knee is better, but boy did it take time for me to shuffle two short blocks to and from the space I found for the car. No way I was getting on a bus with this knee, not so much for any pain, there might well not have been any, but the embarrassment of creeping up the the entry door stairs at two-tenths of a mile an hour. I know, silly, but we're allowing ourself to be silly now that we've reached a certain age.
The lungs are still acting up?
I'm thinking not so much, but I've been submerged in all this knee wailing this last week, so let's see how they settle out after the knee turns around and I've been back on this inhaler stuff for a while. I can only handle one malady at a time.
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