On the Pill

I am getting to the age when things have started to fall apart. My hair is thinning. My eyesight is failing. My finger nails have deep ridges in them. I have osteoarthritis in my right hip, and my eye brows are beginning to look like the broom in my shop. I became a little concerned when my doctor told me earlier this year that my cholesterol was too high. He also said that my blood pressure was too high and asked if I smoked, drank alcohol, worked in a stressful environment, lacked physical activity or suffered from obesity. I answered no to all of the above. Being relatively inventive, I asked him would it help if I took up drinking and smoking, got a stressful job, stayed up late, quit riding my bike, gained 50 lbs and then quit. The only response I got was that doe in the headlight look. He suggested I watch what I eat and see if both could be lowered by diet alone. So, I went on a no fat, no taste diet that simply consisted of my usual food but without the following: butter, red meat, cheese, ice cream and anything else that might taste good. I have eaten so much chicken I cluck when I try to speak.


Recently I went back in for a bloodletting and the results came back exactly the same. BP too high and cholesterol level way to high. He now has me taking two BP pills, a cholesterol pill, a vitamin, an aspirin, and an anti-inflammatory for the arthritis in my hip.

Friends are very helpful and often suggest home remedies or a collection of natural health products, none of which are any good. My wife’s aunt and her husband were once convinced that if they purchased a juicer they could have all the benefits of fresh fruits and vegetables in liquid form. They bought the juicer, two cartons of carrots and made a gallon of fresh carrot juice. Three days later they both looked like they had been spray painted with safety orange. Another friend decided that he could lose a ton of weight by taking chromium tablets. He lost the weight but threw his blood chemistry off so badly he had to spend a few days in the hospital on dialysis. One of my oldest friends suggested I tape some magnets to the areas where I have the most pain. He guaranteed I would see improvement almost immediately. The magnets didn’t work and I quit when I got stuck to the refrigerator door when I got up in the middle of the night to get a snack.

Another well meaning friend gave me a bunch of sticky back holograms. I was told if I stuck them on the area where I experienced pain, the pain would go away. It seems that the holograms would redirect the forces of the universe for a realignment of my cosmic construction. All I got out of it was a temporary tattoo of a goat.

Speaking of goats. I did see an interesting product in my local Walgreens. It’s Epimedium, also known as Rowdy Lamb Herb, Barrenwort, Bishop's Hat, Fairy Wings, Yin Yang Huo (Chinese: 淫羊藿), or my favorite, Horny Goat Weed, It is suppose to be a natural alternative to Viagra. I wonder if it has the same four hour warning.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Ever Wonder Why I Hate To Shop?

When I was a kid the only time you got new clothes was a few things at Christmas and the majority when school started in the fall. The routine was something like this. We would get in the car and head to JC Penny where after what seems like many hours we went home with exactly the same stuff we bought last year, except newer. The list was always the same. Six pairs of briefs, six pairs of socks, two pairs of Levi’s (never the Levi brand because they were too much money) one pair of shoes and a few t-shirts. None of the clothes ever fit, nor were they designed to. As I look back on it now, the rationale was that anything that fit today would be too small tomorrow. Never mind that the pants legs were six inches too long. You were expected to grow into it. Just as I was getting to the point where things were suppose to fit, they wore out and/or fell off. I always had two pair of shoes; one for everyday and one for Sunday best. When the every days wore out they got resoled or a new heel put on and a little polish made them fit for formal wear. When they finally fell apart, the old ones got tossed and the Sunday best became the everydays. It was then time to go buy new shoes. I always enjoyed the process of the shoes because our store had an x-ray machine you could put your feet into and see where the bones were in relation to the shape of the shoes. Someone finally found a relationship between too much x-ray exposure and death and the machines disappeared from the stores.


Last week I went into a Red Wing Shoe store in West Valley Utah to buy a new pair of shoes. There were three construction workers already there trying on a variety of work boots. They had a job at Kennecott Copper mine and were turned away from the work site because they didn’t have the proper safety footwear. Their employer gave them a purchase order and off they went to the shoe store. The scene took me back to my childhood. Boy were they excited. They tried different boots, traded what they thought was good with the co-workers, raved about how comfortable the boots were, traded again. One big guy got so excited he had to use the restroom three times. The only thing missing from the scene was the Back to School sign in the window.

I remember when I was no longer excited about buying clothes, and for that matter shopping period. When I entered junior high school, my mother took us to JC Penny’s for the annual event. An event I might add, that turned out to be the last time I ever went shopping with either parent. My mother denies the circumstances of the events, but total recall of the day is so burned into my memory that there can be no error in the telling. My 13 year old brother, who had already been to junior high school, had been dating since the age of 11 and could grow full beard over a weekend, reminded my mother that since I was going to be taking PE I would need certain equipment.

My mother spotted a clerk twelve rows over, and in the loudest voice I ever remember my mother using, and pointing directly at me, shouted “Hey! We need a jockey strap for this boy right here. And you better make it an extra small”. No hint of ever growing into this piece of clothing. From that day forward I did my own shopping for clothes.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Watch Out For The Bikes

I recently was a volunteer with the Tour of Utah. This is a pro bicycle event known as a stage race. Every day during the event the racers show up at a different place and follow a prescribed route to the finish. The Tour of Utah is considered a very difficult event because of all the mountain routes. For example, the last day started in Park City, went to Camus, Midway and down Provo canyon. From there the route goes over the Alpine Loop, past Sundance and down American Fork Canyon. It then proceeds over the Skyline Road into Salt Lake Valley. The final indignity of the day is that it concludes at Snowbird Ski Resort at the head of Little Cottonwood Canyon. The total route is a little over 100 miles. The rider with the lowest time at the end of the week wins.

Most of the time I was busy being a Race Marshal. It simply means that I wore an official orange shirt and told people where to go. I like telling people where to go.For example: There were Two Older Women with lots of hanging jewelry and other parts at the Criterium in Park City. I shall refer to them simple as TOW. I had just closed the street crossing to Main Street because the racers were practicing and riding past at about 45mph. TOW said, “How do we get across the street. We have reservations at the Gold Spoon and our other rich friends are already there.” Me: “I am sorry ladies but the course is now closed for safety reasons.” Tow: “Well you just don’t seem to understand. We have money and therefore are entitled to special privileges.” Me: “I am sorry ladies but the road will be closed until after the race. At that time you will be able to cross. Oh and by the way the racers will be going around this city block as fast as they can for the next hour and forty five minutes.” Tow: “But that young man is out in the street. Why can’t we go there too?” Me: “Ladies, that young man is Levi Leipheimer, a professional bike racer. You can tell because he has a racing bike strapped to his @ss. At that point l avoided any further eye contact, turned my back and pretended that I had suffered a major hearing loss. There were 15,000 people watching the race is Park City that day. I did not hear or see from TOW after the initial encounter.

On day two I was assigned to a right hand turn into the city of Goshen. My job was to stop all vehicle traffic at the approach of the Highway Patrol and not let anyone proceed until the last racer had passed the intersection. I was dropped off by the shuttle van about an hour before the racers were to pass so I swept the rocks out of the street, ate my sack lunch and drank two liters of water. Then I looked around for a restroom. Goshen is what you find when you look up “End of the Earth” in the dictionary. The one lane streets are wide enough for four lanes in each direction but there are no stores, gas stations churches, or portable toilets in the entire town. I did manage to locate what turned out to be city hall and when I explained my situation to Foghorn Leghorn he said he understood completely since he too was the proud owner of a 68 year old bladder.

When I returned to the intersection I saw the flashing lights of the police coming into town and I dutifully stepped into the middle of the intersection and stopped all traffic. In less than three minutes the entire peloton had passed from one end of town to the other. When I was sure there were no riders who had been spit out the back of the group, I allowed traffic (50 pickup trucks) to continue. As I waived them through, many of the drivers waved back. Sort of. I had a great week.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

Eat Out Once In A While

I spent an hour on a recent sunny day having lunch at the JC Diner in Tremonton Utah. It’s an older place built in 1950. It is surrounded by field corn on three sides and parking lot full of pickups and tractor trailers. It is for sale and is described as a “well established country restaurant”. I walked in and immediately felt out of place. I was the only patron not wearing bib overalls. This fine dining hall has eight stools and six booths. The Formica counter top has been wiped clean so many times the pattern has completely disappeared. My waitress approach and I braced myself for the greeting. “You want coffee Hon, or do you want to see the menu?” Cindy must have been born in the place. She knew everyone who came in by their first name. She said she works from 5:30 am to 2:30 pm everyday but Sunday and has done so ever since her husband grew up and left home. That must have been some time ago. The specialty of the house is chicken fried anything or a hot roast beef sandwich. The soup of the day was straight out of the Campbell Soup can. I thought I was 14 again.


As I sat at the counter I recalled going to work for my grandfather, Charles R Snelgrove, when I was 14. He was the founder and chief potentate of the Snelgrove Ice Cream Company. My initial duties were to clean milk cans and make popsicles, assorted ice cream novelties and scrub the floors at the end of the day. I worked full time during the summers. Since I was a man of money (I made 90cents/hr), I bought my lunch every day at Hubbard’s Diner in Sugerhouse. My typical lunch was a hot roast beef sandwich followed by a piece of homemade apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese on top. I would then go into the retail part of the ice cream store and have the counter help make me double caramel fudge malt with a scoop of caramel and a banana mixed it. I gained one pound one summer and blamed it on the hot roast beef sandwiches.

 The conversationat the JC Diner ran from the price of corn to immigration. I was wearing a US Border Patrol hat and when one the locals noticed it, the conversation turned from Mexican farm help to the weather. At one point the local constable came in for coffee. He was typical small town law enforcement. You know the kind; average height, balding, addicted to greasy food, overweight, always gets his man, or woman or an occasional transvestite. His name was Bob. I think all cops from northern Utah to the Canadian border are named Bob. He asked me how long I had worked for the Border Patrol and I ignored the question and just told him I was retired. An hour later, well fed and more importantly well entertained, I went on my way, thinking I had stepped back into another time.

If you travel the country, get off the interstate and find a local café. You may find Bob or Cindy or a whole bunch of folks who look just like them and you will be glad you did.
Thanks for listening I feel much better.

The Van

My daughter, her husband and their four small children just moved back from South America. They are currently staying at a local motel and have borrowed his father’s old van for transportation. I offered them my Rav4 but someone would have to sit on the roof rack. They had their Dodge pickup shipped to Columbia when they moved there four years ago but they sold it when they left. Something about not enough room or no home entertainment system I suppose. They have spent the last couple of days test driving vans. They finally settled on a Toyota. I guess it looked nice, drove well, had a sound proof barrier between the driver and the passenger, and thirteen cup-holders. With that many kids and that many cup-holders it should also include full-body child restraint systems and a port-a-potty.


My experience with the car industry over the years has been interesting. When I taught school, and had summers off, I would do dealer trades for a couple of local car dealers. I made a lot of trips to the Seattle car auctions to pick up used cars one summer, but that little money making venture ended when eight of us went to the auction and found out we only had four dealer plates with us. We drove the four cars without tags anyway. As luck would have it, all four cars were pulled over near Tacoma by the highway patrol. We all went to court along with the car dealer, who in the meantime had received a nice visit at his place of business from the cops. For some reason the regular traffic court was overbooked and we all ended up in the criminal court. We appeared last on the docket after all the criminal arraignments had been done.

Criminal arraignments allow the recently arrested and not so recently stupid to stand before the judge and hear the charges and plead guilty or not guilty. It they plead not guilty, they most often ask for a public defender because not only are they stupid but they are too poor to hire an attorney on their own. One young man had been arrested at the B&I store. He was accused of mooning the gorilla. There was actually a live, full grown gorilla in the back corner of the store for many years and it appeared this kid had been drinking, dropped his trousers and pressed his bare but up against the glass enclosure. When the charges were read there was some laughter in the courtroom. Before this idiot could respond, I said to the guy seated next to me, “I think he should plead not guilty. The gorilla will never be able to identify him." I didn’t think I said it very loud, but the judge heard it and threatened me with a contempt of court citation. The car dealer paid a hefty fine. I quit transporting cars.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Off to the Gym

The photo on the left is a great commentary on the American diet, junk food and general lack of restraint. The Italians loaned Michelangelo’s “David” to an American gallery for a year and this is how he returned.


The other day, as I got out of the shower, I saw my reflection in the mirror and said to myself as I have on many previous occasions, “Johnston, your wife better outlive you because this is not dating material.” My solution was to join a gym. You have to understand that my experiences with gyms and health clubs have been unsatisfactory ventures. It’s not because I have not lost weight or improved my physical conditioning; it’s because the last three gyms I joined went out of business. The first one mysteriously turned into a dog food store. The owner of the second one packed up a U-Haul one Sunday, locked the doors and left town. The owner of the last one ran off with a dental hygienist from Humptulips and went bankrupt when his wife divorced him and fleeced him to the point his total net worth consisted of one pair of Fruit of the Looms and a Starbucks card. He was forced to live on his boat.

She Who Must Be Obeyed suggested I join her gym. I figured why not. People are always asking me what gym I go to. I figured, even if I don’t go, I will be able to tell them I belong to one. I went to the desk and told the girls that my wife sent me and I was suppose to sign up. It was all taken care of in less time than it takes to sign a will. A few days later the owner of the gym called to say that my wife had won third prize in their referral contest. It seems that anyone who referred someone who actually joined the gym was eligible for a drawing. Turns out she actually won third prize because she referred me. I think they got three referrals. She never wins anything so I figured this was a good omen. I suggested she run right out and buy me a Power Ball lottery ticket. Her reply was, “Listen Skippy……but I forget the rest. The major award was a helicopter ride provided by Larry’s Helicopter, Tire Store and Funeral Services. Not bad for a lady who does not like looking down from great heights, who won’t even look down those metal cattle crossings you find in Montana and Idaho. Come to think of it, she won’t look down at the fake ones that are just painted on the road either. I’ll tell you about the ride another time.

I went to the gym this morning and as I walked up to use one of the machines I was abruptly moved to the side by a woman of vast proportions. She said it was her favorite machine and did I mind. I never argue with anything that outweighs me and could potentially humiliate me with a quick shot to the head. Sometimes obtaining the body of Adonis just has to give way to survival. The only real benefit of the encounter is that I am no longer a candidate for laxatives.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

Rails To Trails

Here in Thurston County we are fortunate to have a series of paved trails that in the past were part of a regional railroad system. Over time, the right- of- ways have been acquired by cities and the county. With the help of a number of grants they have been turned into a great place to ride a bike, roller skate, walk or whatever else you want to do on the trail. Statistically, anyone who rides a bike on a public road will eventually be hit by a car or truck. Riding on a trail significantly lowers the risk.


The trails are not without hazards however. On the trail between 14th Ave in Lacey and Indian Summer Golf Course you are likely to encounter lots of older people walking their yappy little dogs. There are signs indicating that all dogs have to be on a leash but that it often ignored. Some dogs are leashed, but on extremely long tethers which makes the leash useless. No thrill is greater than running over a dog while traveling 15 mph on a bike. Come to think of it, getting a rabbit caught in your spokes comes in a close second. Absolutely nothing, however,compares with an old lady going into cardiac arrest when you run over her little fluffy poo.

One day I encountered a couple out walking their dogs. She had three and he was grappling with another four. I slowed down to a crawl and when I passed them I said. “Wow! This looks like a Korean buffet.” He laughed. She didn’t. . Little yappy dogs or “rats on a rope” as I like to call them, are still the biggest hazard.

When I pass people walking the trail, I always pass on the left. I always give fair warning by saying in a firm voice, “On your left”. People with normal brain matter move to the right, but those whose latest brain test scored “oblivious” or lower always move to the left. I have considered yelling “Move your @$$ to the right” but I don’t think it would do any good. I have also considered putting a bell on my handlebar but then I would have to put a pink basket above the front wheel.

I once settled an insurance claim where a 14 yr old boy ran over a 92 year old man who was walking on the Burke Gillman Trail in Seattle. The kid was watching his gears change instead of watching where his bike was going. If I recall, the total settlement was in the neighborhood of $17,000. Because Washington is a strict liability state where dogs are concerned, I pity any dog owner whose dog might drag me off the trail and into the bushes. My motto is…”All Dogs Should Be Eaten”

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Death By Salad

Every morning check the local obituaries to see if I am listed and if I don't find myself listed, go about my day. I saw a grave marker the other day that said “ See, I told you I was sick”. It’s one of my favorites. I am afraid that my gravestone will say… “Death by salad”. By the way, the frog in the package of salad pictured at the left is alive and well. But he hasn't eaten the salad yet.


Men, left to their own resources would live strictly on mac and cheese. burgers, french fries, soda pop and Twinkies. Those who are not Mormons would add beer and cheese whiz to the list. Women on the other hand require at least one and preferably two salads per meal whether they are Mormons or not.

She who must be obeyed has decided that no day shall pass without at least two salads on the table. I get to choose. I choose not to have salad at breakfast.

 Miraculously there will appear a green salad, a tan salad (macaroni), a taco salad, a fruit salad, oriental noodle salad, three bean salad with at least two different kinds of beans, or some kind of salad with nuts in it at lunch and dinner. Or a whole list of other things which can be loosely considered salad in some obscure culture. There are at least twelve different salad dressings in the fridge along with a couple of homemade varieties. Women go to great lengths to come up with the perfect dressing for each salad. Men are less inventive and will settle for a mixture of catsup and Miracle Whip.

Most of the fruit salads are made from the peaches and pears put up last fall with a few grapes imported from Chile and then frozen into a slush which can only be served if the temperature outside is at least minus 12 degrees Fahrenheit. Frozen fruit salad never appears on hot days. I am beginning to think that she may have misunderstood the “green” movement and thinks it means salads.

As a defense I have decided that the sauerkraut and onion on my Costco hotdog qualifies as salad and I can skip the large bowl at dinner. There are ways around most things.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

TO ROLL OR SPRAY, THAT IS THE QUESTION

An unknown author once said “The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think.” Moderation is a good thing but we have all seen the consequences of overdoing a good thing. Most of us have come across a woman at one time or another who dared not smile for fear of causing her makeup to crack, flake off and land in her vichyoise.


I am not sure what posses some women to go to that extreme but as a kid we use to joke at home about the women who looked like they used a paint roller to apply their disguise. It always seemed a bit wasteful since none of the beautiful women in my life were ever prone to overdue the war paint. Come to think of it, my grandma Tessie never wore any makeup of any kind. Without it she was most elegant. She Who Must Be Obeyed has been known to judiciously apply the paint from time to time but not to the extent that it would rub off on the phone or the chin rest of her violin. None of the women of my life have ever used much camouflage, i.e. the over use of foundations, colorants, fake eye lashes, pancake makeup etc. It just wasn’t necessary.

But for those of you who strive for utter and complete pore eliminating coverage there is really good news. L’Oreal has come out with a new makeup that you actually apply with a roller. No doubt it will take some practice to get it to roll on smoothly without any overlap lines or holidays. (painting terms). I worked once for a commercial painter and it took some practice to apply the latex evenly to a wall and they were always flat. I never once however, painted a wall that had a large nose in the center. Good luck putting a roller over your honker and have it look smooth.

I think it makes better sense to spray it on instead. For approximately $50.00 at the local Home Despot you can purchase a Wagner sprayer and a gallon of latex color matched to whatever shade you want to be that day. You could place a cone over your face to prevent overspray onto the neighbor’s car and pull the trigger. It would take a little touch up around the edges but it would certainly be more even than the roller. You may have to tape off your eyebrows and lashes and plug up your nostrils but what a finish. A little blue tape on the lips would certainly be in order.

Where lipstick is concerned, the important thing is not color, but to accept God's final word on where your lips end according to Jerry Sienfield.

Thankfully, beauty is easier to remove than apply, and a swipe of a wash cloth in the right direction and you are you once again.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better

The Early Termination Fee

I was watching an ad for a cell phone service company and read the fine print that appears for a brief second during the ad. It turned out to be a disclaimer that if the buyer cancelled the contract before the 200th year as stipulated in the contract there would be a $175 dollar early termination fee. Who in the name of all Wall Street Greed thought up the concept of “the early termination fee”? I began to think out loud and said to myself “Wow I hope this doesn’t catch on.”

I can see it now. I have been going to the same $6.00 haircut place for a number of years and if I were to move or just go down the street to the $5.00 place, I could get a bill from my old barber simply for not coming back. “Sorry you no longer want us to give you a crappy haircut. Please remit $175 as an early termination fee”. If Hollywood Video found out I switched to Netflix they might send me a $175 bill for not coming in anymore too. If the concept really gets some wheels I could get billed for changing the tv channel before the program is officially over, which in actuality means the show plus 28 minutes of moronic commercials. Computers could keep track and add the fee to my monthly cable bill. It would certainly make me think twice about cancelling my subscriptions to Skateboarder and Creative Knitting magazine.

Come to think of it, early termination fees have been around as long as people have been borrowing money. I seem to recall a fee if I paid off a loan on a car or the house earlier than the contract indicated. Come to think of it, even if you make it through life physically and emotional unscathed, your family is billed a termination fee by the mortuary chosen to fleece your survivors.

The ultimate insult would be to die as the result of an accident in the prime of life and get to the gate in Heaven only to be told that, I since I showed up before my time, I would have to return to the world as the greeter at Wal-Mart as an early termination fee.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

OH POOH !

This is a bit of writing I did before I starting the blog. I recently submitted it to the Tacoma Tribune for consideration as a guest columnist, but unfortunately was not selected. Enjoy.

Everywhere I turned the last two days I was stepping in it. I mean literally up to my ankles in pooh. I stopped by my daughter Sarah’s yesterday, after going to the dump, to get a little starter for the compost pile. The heifer was in a stall in the barn and Mercy Cow, its mother, was in the front pasture so I backed the truck into the cattle shed where these two poop machines had made generous deposits. I drove home and unloaded the treasure. It mixed well in my compost heap but I found that for the rest of the day everything smelled and tasted like pooh.
Today I went back to Sarah’s to watch the demise of their heifer, only to find myself up to my ankles in pooh. Keith (of Keith’s Custom Slaughter, Tire Store and Funeral Home) had shot the poor critter and dragged it from the stall. About twenty minutes into the removal of the beast’s leather coat it began to rain and I stepped into the stall but forgot to look down. The term “pooped” is a nautical one that refers to water coming over the gunnels of a boat and onto the deck or into the hold. I had on low cut shoes and got pooped in the stall.
I drove home to find that Larry from the septic sucking service was draining the last remains from my septic tank. Larry said it was quite full. I am guessing it was the result of my preparation for a recent colonoscopy. There is never good news when you have a septic system, so I was not surprised to hear Larry say solids had leaked into the liquid portion of the double tank. It seems there was a crack at the bottom of the wall that separates the two halves. He said he could fix it for a mere $700.00. I immediately found my shoes soiled again. He applied the defibulator all septic sucking services must carry in their trucks and when I regained consciousness he said I could fix it myself. It would entail climbing into the tank with a bucket of concrete and shoving the concrete into the void between the two tanks. Being no dummy and already finding myself unfit to associate with most of the human race, I decided to do the deed myself.
I obtained the required premixed concrete from the Home Despot. The clerk at the checkout made a funny face when I paid so I spoke to her in French. She seemed to understand completely. I got home and attempted to climb into the tank only to find the ladder I was using took up most of the room. (That’s another ways of saying my ass was too big to fit in the hole). I quickly built a skinnier ladder and climbed into the tank only to find the septic sucking service leaves about ten percent of the waste in the bottom of the tank. Its starter poop. Yea just like sourdough. Pooped again!
You have to understand I am, under some situations, quite claustrophobic. It all stems from my youth when my older brother used to torment me by holding my wrists and sitting on my chest while dripping slobber onto my forehead. Climbing into the tank took a lot of effort but the repair was successfully completed. Barbara threw away all my clothes.
When A.A. Milne wrote the adventures of Winnie the Pooh, he should have talked to me first. He would have chosen a different name for the bear.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

The Most Effective Birth Control...Nudity

Barbara and I recently spent a couple of weeks on vacation in South America. My daughter and her family live on one of the upper floors of a high rise in Cartagena Columbia. The front of the building faces Cartagena Bay. Between the building and the bay is a busy street and walking path that goes all the way from the end of the spit to the naval base near town. Lots of people use the path, from early in the morning to late at night. No matter what time of day you will find walkers, joggers, skateboarders and any number of maids out walking the family snack (dog). The climate is tropical, which means it is warm all year. Most people dress casually; some are more casual than others. One of the regulars on the path was an older man who wore no shoes, no hat, and no shirt.

Yes, it was EL SPEEDO. This man has proven my theory that the best form of birth control over the age of 40 is nudity. El Speedo obviously thought he was the most alluring specimen on the path. Distracting yes, alluring no. The man should have been cited for failing to maintain his property. Perhaps you have seen the website about the people at Wal-Mart. This guy would have made the hall of fame. He came in way ahead of the two old guys I saw at Playa Blanca who were wearing thongs. Most people think thongs are modern swimwear attire. We had them when I was a kid. You could get one anytime an older and larger kid or brother pulled your whitey tighteys up over your shoulders. We called them wedgees. Let’s hope El Speedo doesn’t buy a thong. Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

The Best Way To Get Around

Cartagena Colombia is a city of about a million people. Paved roads appear to be an after thought which are crowded with all kinds of public transportion; being driven by hundreds of people who have never had a driving lesson. Traffic laws appear to be actually traffic suggestions. Stop signs exist to help the guy selling coffee and gum have some place to lean against. Honking is a way of life. The taxis honk to let you know they are available. The following photos are an overview of the way people get around.

Taxis are everywhere. I think that perhaps at one time there were lanes actually painted onto the pavement but since no one pays any attention to them they were never repainted when they wore out. There is a beggar on one of the streets who has dug a hole and patches it with sand from a small bucket and then asks the cars stopped at the light to pay him for patching he hole he dug.

Motor cycles are a major form of transportation. If a cyclist has a vest with a number on the back he is actually operating a motor cycle taxi.
The burro is a common version on the American pickup truck. I have seen the pathetic burros pulling a cart load of rebar, paint and cement along with four or five Colombians
Water taxis take people from the city to a nearby island. They park just offshore (no dock) and a crew member give the rider a piggy back ride to the boat.

This is a taxi motor cycle and a city bus. The guy standing in the doorway yells at people on the sidewalk telling them where the bus is going. There are no real bus stops. You wave at a bus and it will stop, even if its on an inside lane. The bus driver honks continually letting people know he will stop and pick them up.