The storm may not have landed yet, but the fine flying folks at LAX aren’t taking any chances. In the four months I’ve been watching jets land and take off from my 10th floor Westchester office today is the first time I’ve seen outbound planes taking off heading inland instead of the usual route out over the ocean. And I’ve not seen a single inbound plane, meaning they’re probably coming in for landings from over the water. Kinda trippy to see things so turned around.
Just observing and reporting.
This is as frivolicious as it is lame (though that hasn’t stopped me before!), but ever since I discovered the east/west passage offered my bike and I by Washington Boulevard for our crosstown commutes I chuckle each time I pass this store on the corner of National and Washington, imagining the phone calls.
Never mind the 300-inspired “This! Is! Spartan!! Roofing Materials, how may I help you?” that one might conjure. Instead, I’m thinking more along the lines of how limited their actual inventory of roofing materials might be. After all they are “Spartan Supply.”
Hello, Spartan Supply.
Is. This. Spartan!?
Yep. That’s us. What can I help you with today?
I want to redo my roof with gray slate tiles.
Gray slate, eh? Right now we only have brown.
All right, brown will do
Brown it is then. How much tile do you need?
1,500 square feet should cover it.
Oh, I’m sorry. We only have 45 square feet in stock.
Really? Why so little?
Because we’re Spartan Supply!
It’s been a looooong stretch since Susan left to catch a 6 a.m. flight to Chicago Saturday for a conference there. But yay! She’s coming home today!!
This is the longest we’ve ever been apart since…. well, last month when I went to Orlando. But before that I think the longest we’ve ever been in two different places has been like any given workday.
I miss my Bay-bee!
And so do the animalz. Except maybe Buster.
Phone rings at 11: 53 a.m. I answer on the second ring.
Me: Hello, this is Will.
Silence, only backgrounding telemarketing bullpen sounds are heard through the phone.
Me (after a pause): Hello. This is Will.
Her: Uh yes, may I speak to a Willy Campbell please?
Silence from me this time.
Her: I’m trying to reach a Willy Campbell?
Her: Yes sir. Do I have the incorrect number?
Me: Indeed. There is no Willy here.
Her: Thank you.
A year ago last month for various reasons and excuses I posted about a semi-ffrivolous desire to adopt the nickname “Dub,” and I was subsequently surprised and humored by the various comments from my friends and blog pals who pretty much summarily rejected or pfffft’d or chuckled at the idea.
So I let sleeping Dubs lie.
Thirteen months later I find an email in my inbox this morning alerting me to a new comment on the matter from a gentleman from the great state of Tennessee who — through the timeless wonders of the internest –Â found my post and has signaled his time-tested approval of the idea.
His name? If you haven’t guessed it by now, read on:
Well, Dub, I say go for it! Â It’s worked fine for me for almost 60 years. Â It’s a tried and true name that is extremely hip and I highly recommend it to anyone who is not squeamish and who’s first name being replaced begins with the letter W. Â And Dubby was ok for me as a kid but I don’t recommend handing it down to young offspring, as my own parents did to me. Â I said bye to the “by” in Dubby right around the same time I lost my virginity. Â Good luck to you!
Thanks Dub! I do like the sound of it but have to say while I’d still be keen on the moniker, I’d need special dispensation from the proper authorities in order to violate the unwritten rule of self-bestowing a nickname.
My baby got a trio of packages today. Just anybody might stack them up biggest to smallest or heaviest to lightest, but not me. I decided to arrange them a bit more creatively, just so:
There I go again, making something outta nothing.
I’m thinking it’s time to retire these fine fellas:
They’ve served proud and done me well, but it’s time to say so long.