A Rather Boring Experiment

I call McDonald's 'McCrappage' for a reason. I mean: Is there any reason I need to explain myself, people?

No ... I didn't think so.

Still, I'll admit to getting the occasional hankering for a Big Mac. Thankfully, those times are few and far between.

But, a week ago, I did something I wouldn't normally do (I hope you're sitting down): I ventured into a McDonald's and ordered a McRib sandwich.

Truth be told, it was an experiment more than anything else.

The way I figured it, I'd been working my ass off all day and, being McCrappage was the closest thing around, the remainder of the day's physical work would surely burn off any ill effects some McMysteryMeat on a bun might conjure up.

Yes, I've heard the wild tales involving people venturing hundreds of miles to satisfy their McRib cravings when they discover a McDonald's hours away is running the rare promotion. I've read of a few of these folks 'stocking up' on their needed BBQ sauce drowned fix, purchasing dozens at a time. (What in the world do they do with them? Eat them all at one sitting? Munch them continually over the course of days? Freeze'em for later consumption?) I've witnessed the frenzied looks of some overcome by the mere mention of a McRib. Sure, some of these stories are probably true, some fact-based ... and some so fantastical as to be fabricated, a result of hearing a 15-second radio spot for their beloved meal.

So, I decided to check out this sandwich for myself.

Sitting down with my purchase in a crowded Saturday McDonald's, I opened the container and discovered my order was misconstructed to begin with; I requested extra pickles and no onion. I got just the opposite - tons of onion, nary a pickle. (The beginning of my experience wasn't looking on the bright side from the get-go.)


Correcting the mistake in a (surprisingly) short amount of time, I sat down again, looked at the sandwich once more and took it all in: Oozing barbeque sauce dribbled down the sides of the sandwich. I wondered why so much sauce was necessary. Could this have been the work of an over-zealous employee? Or was this how it was supposed to look?

I took a deep breath and dove in. Savoring the flavor (I use the term loosely), I tried to come up with an appropriate adjective or two for the experience .... and couldn't.


You see, the taste I was met with was rather ... underwhelming. There was a hint of porky flavor to the sandwich, but it was overpowered by the abundance of sauce it was slathered in. 'Meh' was the best thing I could come up with. No taste explosion, not even that good, really ... but not in the least bit bad or repulsive, as some people have proffered.

I continued eating. I was hungry, after all. I needed fuel for the remainder of the day. I kept chewing, taking yet another bite, looking for something - anything - that hinted at what others found so enticing about a McRib. For the life of me, I just couldn't come up with a single idea as to its popularity.

Will I order one again? No. There's just nothing at all exciting about it, nothing that left me with an impression. Surely, nothing that would make me order another one down the line.

So, I'm confused: What's all the hoopla about? Why do so many people get whipped into a frothy herd mentality frenzy over this completely unremarkable fast food McBlandwich?

I. Don't. Know.

............... Ruprecht ( STOP )

It's Got That Bad Graphicky Taste, Y'know?

I don't really know how something like this happens.

But it did.

The cup my Coca Cola came in today ... a cup exactly like the one above (and which was the subject of one of my photoblog posts March 10th of this year)?

Well, it tasted exactly like that cup looks. I'm not kidding. It wasn't pleasant.

Imagine that, if you will .....

........................ Ruprecht ( STOP )

Inspiration On-Line

I wasn't necessarily looking for inspiration today.

I just figured it would come from out of the blue somewhere.

Sure enough ..... it did.

Boomer
God Bless America

withthebanned
Land that I love

Zoiks
stand beside her

Darmon
And guide her

Boomer
through the night

Boomerette
with the light from above

Darmon
From the mountains, to the prairies

Zoiks
To the oceans, white with foam

Ruprecht
God Bless America. *Our* home sweet home.

Boomer
nicely done (*second verse, same as the first*)

................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Life Among The Dead

I was at the L.A. County Fair Labor Day.

Admission was a buck ... the weather was gearing up to be picture perfect ... smokey meats and frolickous noise would be wafting in the air ... people everywhere. What's not to like?

I did the things I like to do at the Fair all by my lonesome. It's rather refreshing getting that opportunity. No needs, no hurrys, no unexpected restroom breaks, no doing what you don't want to do. Just the solitude of indulging in your very own whims.

Toward the end of the day, with seven hours under my belt, I thought it was about time to call it quits. I was still pleasantly satisfied at the smoked turkey leg I'd purchased hours earlier, my feet were beginning to get tired and it was beginning to get overly crowded with late afternoon revelers wanting nothing more than to go on carnival rides. But, finding myself passing the grandstands, I eyed an attraction: Our Body: The Universe Within. This was an exhibit I'd passed up in Vegas one year and missed somewhere else another ... but I saw here the chance to finally catch it and in a relaxed atmosphere no less. With the late afternoon sun beating down on everyone milling about at the Fair, this seemed like the perfect opportunity for physical as well as mental refreshment. (I mean, it had to be air-conditioned inside with all those plasticized bodies, right?)

Let it be said the exhibit was fascinating ... strange ... a bit weird ... brilliantly educational. It was a kick to see everyday average Joes and Josephines gawking in wonder at the exhibits, sometimes screwing up their faces in such manners as to be comical.

Questions by kids were directed at their parents. Boyfriends asked their girlfriends if this wasn't the coolest thing they'd ever seen. Old men and old ladies standing with their hands behind their backs contemplating the human form with steely intensity. Everyone gazed at lucite-encased exhibits of the hands and feet, then looked at their own, marveling at all the tendons within that moved their extremities in the unique and myriad ways they do.

For the most part, everyone was relatively quiet and respectful. There was an overall drone in the place; queries and oohs and aahs, even a few eeews and chuckles.

Relatively quiet, that is, until I got over to one particular exhibit showing a man in motion with muscle stripped away and hanging off his bones to show structure and relative positioning.

Each exhibit in the place was accompanied by a signpost that detailed various body parts and structures being showcased. At this particular model of the man with the dangling musculature, there was a rambunctious 4 year-old inside the roped off area around the display, merrily playing a self-absorbed game of Ring Around The Rosy with the pole holding the sign, gleefully screaming his head off. His parents - a young mother with a baby in her arms, a young father with another in his and several other kids milling about (no clue if they were theirs or not) - did nothing to corral the little boy.

I was right there when a fracas broke out. And it all happened in a span of 10 seconds: I saw the signpost begin to sway until it was at a point where it was coming dangerously close to banging against the plasticized man. I had half a mind to grab the little Buster Brown by his Buster Browns, but was patiently waiting for the parents to say or do something ... anything. Just then, a commotion behind me: a uniformed security guard rushed in and yelled at the kid. She saw, as I did, that the sign was perilously close to gouging the exhibit's head. As she climbed between the ropes to nab the child, the mother finally said something:

"Timothy ... don't do that. Come out here." The guard grabbed him by the shoulder; the mother hadn't moved an inch. "There's no need for that ma'am ... I'll take care of him." But ... she remained there while little Timmy ducked and dodged out of the way of the guard. The father just looked on in boredom.

Timmy finally escaped to his mother's side, a bit frightened by the guard who was stopping the sign from swaying. The mother yelled at the guard: "I said I would handle it!"

Words were then exchanged between the two. The mother walked off in a huff, Timmy in one hand, the other child still cradled in her arm. The father motioned the remainder of the children onward.

The guard, flabbergasted and out of breath, glared as the group retreated into another part of the room. She didn't take her eyes off them the remainder of the time they were in the place.

I continued my examination of the plasticized man on display ... and I could have sworn I saw him sigh in relief as little Timmy walked off.

......................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

The Pod People Want My Ass

We're creatures of habit ... creatures of comfort.

You know how you get used to stuff? Little things that make life nice for you ... things you're used to ... stuff you come to expect ... preferences ... you're own little quirks and kinks which keep you calm, cool and collected?

Well, I'm no different. I'm just like you. I have my likes and my dislikes. I prefer my creamer poured into my coffee cup before my coffee ... I shave before I shower ... I fold my shirts a certain way for a reason ... 'Hokay!' is a real word in my book.

And I prefer lots of things hard. I don't like Three Musketeers candy bars. (That gooey soft center is yucky.) My mattress? Make it firm. Chunky peanut butter with lots of crunch, please ... not that wimpy smooth stuff.

And my toilet seat needs to be hard; no soft, foamy cushion for this tush.

But that changed a few days ago. You see, I recently moved out of my house and I am now the guest of friends. And I couldn't ask for more hospitable hosts than the folks I'm with currently.

However ... their bungalow, where I'm currently residing? The restroom toilet seat therein houses one of those foamy, collapsing rings that 'settles' when you sit on it. It feels like your ass is being sucked into the toilet. It's as if the ring is alive. When you sit on it, you feel as if you're slowly sinking into the bowl.

Which naturally spurs the imagination: What it really feels like is that there are Pod People in the toilet and they're trying to suck me into their underground lair, ass first. (All right - so maybe it doesn't spur your imagination as much as it does mine ...)

Rather the frightening thought, not to mention the frightening feeling, right? If you'ven't ever had the 'pleasure' of a cushy toilet seat (and, for the life of me, I have no clue who would), then riddle me this: What would you think if you sat on the pot and suddenly felt as if you were being sucked into its porcelain confines? Creeped out, that's what! It's like Pod People are sucking at your ass ... with the rest of your body to inevitably follow!

Hey, Pod People! There's nothing there you want! Really! It's just ass! Nothing more! You seriously don't want to go there! Trust me! Besides, I always thought it was our minds you wanted to possess ... to turn us into your zombific minions and commit your foul deeds! Right? If that's truly the case, you're working the wrong end of our bodies and you need to head north. You're starting from the bottom of our top and that route is going to take you that much longer to accomplish your dastardly deeds!

Not to mention (and most importantly of all): It's an 'exit', not an 'entrance'! If you want to get at us, that's the wrong orifice! You start violating our derrieres and you'll just have us screaming frantically and ruining any chance you might have in taking total control of us.

Bottom line: Our asses aren't the way to go.

I know ... I know: You Pod People are not of this earth, but believe you me: The majority of us will confirm the fact the ass is not the way to go.

And, while I'm certain the creators of the cushy toilet seat had initial good intentions, I'm not on board with the whole comfort thing when it comes to 'visiting the library'. Get in, get out, get done.

Give me cool, slick, hard ovalness anytime.

And keep the Pod People out of my ass.

........................ Ruprecht ( STOP )

This Is Nobody

Garage Sales.

Some people love them. Some people hate them. Putting a sale together and working one? Some would rather dig a ditch than be subject to such an heinous production.

Now ... I can't say I truly love'em, but they offer the opportunity for fun and frolickry along with the wheeling and dealing. There's a certain thrill to formulating a transaction with someone who must possess your 'stuff'.

But what I want to do here is introduce you to someone in particular, someone named 'Nobody'. Let me explain:

A few weeks ago, I was the hunt for boxes to pack up garage sale items in preparation for the big event. Not only did I come across what I was looking for, but I also stumbled upon a bevy of discards obviously no longer needed or wanted. Among them: A retro vintage fan, in perfect condition, a brand, spankin' new magnetic chore chart for a child, still in it's original shrink wrap and the most awesome, gigantic rolling pin ever seen.

But the true find had to be the saddest, rustiest, most hole-ridden, cobweb-filled and grungiest watering can ever laid eyes on.

When I brought the treasures home and showed them to her, I beamed as I proclaimed "Perfect for the garage sale!" of the watering can.

She looked at the can, she looked at me. In a flat tone, emphasized only by her incredulousness, she noted: "Nobody is going to buy that thing."

Well, I would like to introduce you to 'Nobody'. She's real. She was a breath of fresh air and she was accommodating enough to pose for the picture I snapped below.

'Nobody' purchased that watering can for a mere 50¢. I'd forgotten it was even out there among our wares. I put it on our front stoop with our plants for decoration. When she asked if it was part of the garage sale booty for sale, I lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Of course it is! It's yours for four bits!"

She was delighted. I was delighted.

And I had photographic evidence 'Nobody' exists ...

........................ Ruprecht ( STOP )

Peg And Pete And Me

Something interesting happened at McCabe's Guitar Shop last Friday night.

It was the introduction of Stan Ridgway's new effort "Neon Mirage", run straight through from track #1 to track #12, the same sequence as the album.

100 of my 'closest friends' and I crowded into the small, intimate room that serves as McCabe's performance studio, a terrific little venue perfect for a cramped, personal performance like this.

I counted myself fortunate to sit vulnerably in the front row, a mere 8' from the band. Slightly amazed no one was sitting in the front rows, I positioned myself at an aisle seat and waited for someone to come shoe me away, stating my seat was reserved for some producer, family member or VIP. But, as the minutes went by, that call never came and the staff at McCabe's busily went about their pre-show preparations, never giving me a second look.

When Stan came out - backed by a 3-piece band which included wife and keyboardist Pietra Wexstun, percussionist extraordinaire Joe Berardi (rumor had it Stewart Copeland might appear, but that was the grandest of rumors as it turned out) and a serial-killerish looking guitarist who's name escaped me - he greeted the crowd with a few words of appreciation and admitted he was a little nervous to be on stage. Imagine! This veteran performer, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of shows beneath his belt, nervous and seemingly a bit twitchy at getting the show underway! I had a feeling the night would be more than just a simple telling of the new album.

"This is my period of dignity," Stan revealed to us. Another turn in his storied career. Four songs in, however, he would ceremoniously throw that proclamation out the window by flinging a couple expletives out in the midst of a tale and emphasize such by grabbing his crotch. You gotta love Stan.


I would like to say the performance of the entire album went off without a hitch ... but where would the fun be in that? Midway through the night, at "Like A Wandering Star", the band had to begin the song a second time. The timing didn't mesh during the intial performance. You could tell the band was out of sorts playing it. But they jumped back on the track once they got the thing going again.

Stan paused between songs to introduce Jackie "Teak" Lazar, his ever-present show-biz woodburner, manager, professed "Big Wheel" and foil. It was coming ... we all knew it. Jackie, after all, has been with Stan for years, asshat that the puny punk is.

A few more songs in, "Behind The Mask" began off key and out of sync. Whatever they did to try and correct their flubs at the start just moved them further into chaos. An entire 30 seconds into the song Stan cut the cord, stopped the music, bantered about the unprofessionalism in doing a new album and began again ... this time louder, with more punch and in perfect time. Warts and all, this is what an intimate performance is all about - seeing the true character of a performer come into play and watching how his reaction is handled, seeing how one accommodates a boner. Stan didn't disappoint. The apology he gave and banter resulting from the flub was nothing less than an added bonus to the song, making it more memorable.

With the conclusion of the final song "Day Up In The Sun", Stan thanked the audience for the privilege of having us attend, then launched into an old favorite, "Lonely Town". Some doofus chick behind me annoyingly kept calling out for "Lost Weekend", probably wishing to relive some alcohol-fueled end-of-week jaunt of her past. I heard her 'hurmph' and reposition herself in her chair as "Lonely Town" began.



Stan and band next performed "Mission In Life" and I sat there mesmerized, watching him tell the song's tale without blinking.

An encore saw fan favorites "Call Of The West" and "Ring Of Fire" (complete with acoustical distortion) sonically thrust upon a giddy crowd.

All in all, an absolutely outstanding show, warts and all. Those warts (few that there were) are what made the evening however ...

................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Happy 234th and God Bless America

From the Declaration Of Independence:

"We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states ..."

Happy 234th ... and God Bless America .....

...................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Disability (repost)

I've decided to repost the following from an entry I contributed last year. It's appropriate today.

_______________________

I heard this in church a few months ago .....

Kevin was born with a disability that robbed him of oxygen to his brain.

Nevertheless, he had a pretty good life, a pretty normal life.

When grown, he towered at 6'2". But, at 35 years of age, he still had the mental capacity of a 5 year old. Kevin loved life, however.

He loved getting up in the morning. He did a fantastic job everyday at his work which he loved dearly and he never finished work until he was complete with a project. Kevin met each opportunity with the exuberance of a child. Not surprisingly because he was a child mentally.

Kevin loved macaroni and cheese - his favorite meal - which he ate every single evening.

Kevin prayed every night before he went to bed. He prayed with every fiber of his being.

And he also believed that God lived under his bed.

So ... what if God did live under his bed? Kevin was too much of a child to understand this really couldn't be the case.

But it was the fervor, the "gung-ho" attitude Kevin exhibited in his prayer to God that made me wonder.

You see: I worry about the state of affairs in our country. I worry about what I'm going to say during my meeting tomorrow. I worry about what's for dinner tonight. I worry about how I'm ever going to get through the week with so many things filling up my calendar. So many, many trivial things that just don't make a difference. I worry about future events when I don't have any real control over what the future holds.

So ... I wonder: Who really has the disability?

Is it Kevin?

Or is it me?

...................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

It's The Same Old Routine ... But It Never Gets Old

It’s the same old routine … every road trip.

But it never gets old.

“I don’t like any of these,” she says.

“Yes. You do,” I respond.

“Which one? I don’t recognize any. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m certain. Put on any of the World Party discs and you’ll see. You especially like the songs on 'Egyptology'.”

“I think you’re wrong,” she states emphatically.


In my mind I prepare to start counting as soon as the first tune begins to play. I have a personal goal to meet, you see, as I rarely get to count up to the number 15 before she let’s on she does know what's playing.

The CD is slipped into the player and I begin to count.

At the 11 second mark comes the revelation: “Okay. Maybe you're right. I know this one …” She can't but help break out into a grin.

I look over, smile back at her and tell her I love her.

We'll gladly repeat this routine again in a couple weeks on our next trip .....

................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

The Annual Trek To Jamba Juice

Jamba Juice and I ... we have an understanding.

And it is this: I go and pick something up from that establishment ... and at some point something goes wrong.

This is the way it's gone for as long as I can remember. You want proof? I present my case ...

For the last three years on or about the boss's birthday, "The Tradition" has been to trek over to a local Jamba Juice and pick up the drinks of choice for the entire office staff. Not a frequenter of the place, I've no idea what to get. Truth be told, the place is rather perplexing to me. Energy shots and protein powders and milk-fed wheat weeds and dollops of gordness knows what.

But ... I digress .....

Year One? The orders got all screwed up. Year Two? One hour wait ... and the drinks leaked all over the place on the way back to the office. Year Three .. this year?

Well, things were going rather swimmingly for a bit. The boss was pleased with his refreshment ... his assistant dug the new "5 Fruit Frenzy" she ordered ... and my Tourette's-infused computer operator was enjoying some pomegranate concoction containing "monkey juice" or somesuch.

As I was leaving the office for the day, I spilled my barely-sipped drink all over the building entrance, causing peach flavor to decorate the entry in a drab orange spray pattern that probably would have thrilled a crime scene splatter expert.

Of the few times I've been to a Jamba Juice of my own accord (and when I say this I mean with friends or family) some other mishap has inevitably occurred.

You see: Jamba Juice and I ... we have an understanding:

I go there and the establishment exacts some sort of inexplicable revenge upon me .....

..................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Ladies & Gentlemen: Asshat Of The Week

"When you ask to be ridiculed, it usually happens.
And it will happen here, nationally.”

- University of Virginia political scientist Larry Sabato

"An unscientific poll on the website of the Virginian-Pilot finds that 96 percent of the more than 4,000 people who have taken the survey think Cuccinelli’s decision was a 'bad idea.'"

They didn’t even bother to ask which decision.
- comment by toonguy

..................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Going Deep

click on image to enlarge .....

.................. Ruprecht ( STOP )

Am I Getting Old?

I might just be getting old.

I remember as a kid using the word "kype" all the time.

But today - when I put it in a posting - one of the editors wrote me the following: "Can you tell me what this should say? '... but a thief kypes his tools ...'"

So do you know what "kype" means? I'm curious .....

Dear Word Detective: As a child my father would warn us kids not to "kipe" ("kype") things, meaning "steal." Is this a real word or one made up? -- Pat Benson

Well, the two are not mutually exclusive. Aside from the fact that every word is a human creation, many of the words we use every day were invented by specific individuals. Norman Mailer, for instance, invented "factoid" in his book "Marilyn" published in 1973, and "gobbledygook" was coined by U.S. Rep. Maury Maverick during World War II to describe bureaucratic jargon and doubletalk. Rep. Maverick, incidentally, was the grandson of Samuel Maverick, the Texas cattleman who never branded his cows and whose name became a synonym for "wanderer" or "rebel."

You're absolute correct, however, to wonder about the legitimacy of "kipe," because it seems to be a word that now teeters on the brink of extinction. According to the Dictionary of American Regional English (DARE), "kipe" or "kype" is found mostly in the western U.S., especially the Pacific Northwest, with some scattered usage in the Plains, Midwest and mid-Atlantic states. To judge by a discussion of the term on the American Dialect Society mailing list a few years ago, the variant form "kife" seems more common in the eastern states. To "kipe" (also spelled "kype" and "kipp") means "to steal or pilfer," with the same general sense as "swipe" of casually snatching something of small value (as opposed to robbing a bank, for instance). A citation in DARE from the Saturday Evening Post in 1968 gives a good sense of "kipe": "This typical teen-age shoplifter will brag to her friends about what she has "bagged," "hocked," "kyped" or "snitched," using the particular word that is common to the vernacular of her region." An indication of the fading use of "kipe" is that the later citations in DARE largely come from sources talking about using the word in their childhoods, not today.

The derivation of "kipe" is, as so often the case with slang terms, uncertain, but it may well have arisen as a modification of the now-obsolete English verb "to kip," meaning to take hold of or to snatch." This "kip," which first appeared in English around 1250, was based on the Old Norse verb "kippa," meaning "to snatch, tug or pull."

*sigh* .......................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Oh ... and the photo above? Wrong kype, Sir .....

I Like It

It was necessary to share this.

Click the creature above. Good stuff, Maynard.

...................... Ruprecht ( STOP )
Kudos to David .....

Stated ..... But Not Necessarily Heard

Ruprecht had a satisfying day today.*

*In so stating, Ruprecht in no way suggests you should follow suit. Ruprecht has zero knowledge of what the reader's day was like nor how it went. Ruprecht in no way, shape or form is sticking his good day in the reader's face nor is he flaunting the type of day he had. He is only stating such. Ruprecht cannot begi ....

You know what? ..... never mind .....

.................. Ruprecht ( STOP )

For All The Fools .....

............. Ruprecht ( STOP )

Ganas

"If you don't have the ganas, I will give it to you
because I'm an expert."

Actor Edward James Olmos, left, compares notes
with high school teacher Jaime Escalante
during the filming of 'Stand And Deliver' in Los Angeles.

Jaime Escalante died Tuesday March 30, 2010 in Reno, Nevada. He was 79 years old.

Farewell, good sir.

................................. Ruprecht ( STOP )

Walk To School

So ... what exactly was the mission here?

None, really. Reed and I just decided to hike to Riley's school and pick her up via foot instead of car. (Turn up your speakers and click that link!) Good opportunity to get out in the fresh air and get Bob The Dog exercised as well.

And, while we're at it ..... why not take the camera along? I decided it would make an interesting challenge to snap a shot every 30 to 60 seconds on the way there and on the way back. Get anything I could interesting and worthy of posting, if at all possible. So there was a mission after all.

Did I succeed? That's for you to decide. The results are below. (Click on any of the images to enlarge.)

Bob knew we were headed out. He was rarin' to go.

Mandatory sniffery.

Young tree proppage.

Back of the front.

On the main drag.

Fast moving Mexican on a mission.
(No. Bob did not growl.)

More sniffery.

Lost cat.

The unpacking of the kid.

Christmas lights still hung in the trees.
(Or, more likely, forgotten.)

Alley down there.

Electrical wires up there.

Crossing with care.

Bob's leading the way.

Ducks and rabbits in the shade.

See a penny, pick it up!
All day long you'll have good luck!

Here comes a paramedic.

Pumpkin? Still? Really?

Big dunk, obviously.

It must be margarita - thirty!

Freshly painted crosswalk.

Passing the grocery store.

Midget vehicle in wait.

Discarded.

Approaching the school.

The kids ... they're free!

Not the most conducive time for a delivery.

What in the world ... ?!?

"The Gathering Before The Crossing"

Seriously: What in the world are they wearing ... ?!?!?

Ready to venture home.

Kid throng at 2:45 p.m.

Texting ... waiting.

8th grader in coonskin cap.

There's that midget car again.

Approaching the main crosswalk.

Bob spies a friend.

Waiting.

The other side.

All together, now.

Shoes being moved by feet.

Mom patrol.

Trudging along.

Bob's anxious.

Still going.

Yet another alley entrance.

Time to get the mail
... and the paper ... and the flyers.

On the living room window
or plastered up and down the street,
the cat is still lost.

"Hey! You! With the camera!
Quitcher dilly-dallying and get a move on!"

Sign, sign,
everywhere a sign.

I know, I know ....
you wouldn't know what a road looks like
without this shot.

Nail ... asphalt.

Danger gate.

Thomas The (Entrapped) Train.

Not quite sure
what to do here in the park.

That lamp ... it seems out of place.

Obscure planter.

Type O Negative.

Bob's done.

Fresh water, anyone?

Relief.

..................... Ruprecht ( STOP )