I turned on my TV at about nine-thirty Tuesday night. I wanted to see what the paid liars were saying about the fiasco of an election, and which of the “choices” offered them our ill-informed voters had chosen to “lead” them. Normally, the only time I turn the device (CRT, mind you) on is to watch the occasional DVD movie that I have purchased from Mr. Bezos. I canceled the satellite outfit back in 2011, when the “platter” people lied to me about the monthly cost. I don’t miss it at all.
Now, television reception here in the land of third-rate range and libertaryans is hit-and-miss. Last night, the weather conditions must have been ideal. When I made the TV do a scan, it turned out that ABC, NBC, Faux, and PBS, plus one or two independents were broadcasting loud and clear. NBC hardly ever comes in, CBS never; and PBS would be loud and clear even if I held up a length of bailing wire (still used by hay farmers at times) for an antenna.
That said, after hearing about the pitiful showing made by the pitiful bunch that calls themselves democrats, I turned the thing off and prepared for bed. I had already verified (on the computer; yes we have them in flyover country, too!) that the municipal election in the small metropolis of 650 souls that I call home had an outcome pleasing to me. The mayoralty and council positions were won by the very candidates I had voted for a few weeks ago. Thus I slept well, and deeply, not awakening until around 10 Wednesday morning, save for a couple of trips to the bathroom, normal for one my age.
Clad in my most masculine underwear, I proceeded to the living room and sat down, noting that the day was mostly overcast and the temperature was near freezing. About then the telephone (land line) rang. It was a return call from the California Department of Public Health returning my call concerning my request for a certified birth certificate from the land of my birth. The fellow was helpful and entertaining as we chatted about the situation.
You see, my driver license is up for renewal in January. Now the instructions in the letter sent me by the equivalent of your DMV stated that I would have to appear in person to renew since I had renewed by mail four years ago, and that I would need to bring my old license for ID. Fine. It had always been that way. There were a couple of attachments, one a list of locations where the renewal could be made, and another with a list of IDs needed when APPLYING for a license. Nevertheless, I began to wonder.
I checked and learned that in fact the same IDs were required for renewals as well, which resulted in me having need for a “state-certified” birth certificate. A passport would have sufficed, but I have never, ever applied for one, since I have never, ever left the beloved country of my birth, save for a couple of short excursions into Mexico as a teenager, in the days when the border cops simply asked your city of birth, that is to say before the current state of national paranoia set it in. I was also told that my old official birth certificate copy, issued to my mother in 1983 (33 years following my birth), embossed with the great seal of the County of Alameda, and signed and dated by the Alameda County Clerk, would not suffice, odd since the state gets its information from the counties! But such is paranoia.
Having completed my telephone conversation – with a most polite and helpful CA Public Health Department employee, I then walked to the kitchen for a drink of water. On my return to the living room, I noticed a fellow removing the only political sign (for a mayoralty candidate) that I had planted in my front yard. Lowering my visual rating from R to PG by clever placement of the front door, I hollered out at the guy to leave the sign alone and that I would come out as soon as I had donned more suitable attire.
Retiring back to the bedroom, I pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt, as well as slippers. I forgot to pull up the zipper of the pants in my haste. Happily, I also failed to tuck in the shirt, so the first omission was not obvious. Then, I blasted outside, full of fire that would put the Comptche crowd to shame. Fortunately the thought of arming myself did not come to mind, probably because I felt no real threat to life or property, the latter being of more concern here in the land where we supposedly have no classes.
By the time I got outside, the sign was in the back of the pickup and apparently the duo was ready to drive off. I stormed up to the vehicle and demanded they return the sign, which I planned, perhaps, to use in the next election if the candidate ran again and I was satisfied with his first performance. Then, I recognized the driver, at whom I directed the rest of my tirade, reminding him that they were trespassing and that the proper procedure in such an instance was to knock on the door and ask permission. I also added that as a lifelong resident of Wyoming he should know better than to pull such a stunt. For once, he had little to say. The sign was returned, and I haven’t felt so satisfied and pleased in a coon’s age. My next-door neighbor, in his mid 70s, who was outside too, also had a good laugh with me over the whole episode.
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