The Buck Stops Here
I have no central theme to dwell on this week, so it’s time for some old-fashion, three-dot column writing.
I hate to spoil what looks like obvious fun, but I’m for the young people I see in Louisiana who are driving around on scooters in shorts with no helmets.
I know, I know, it’s legal because the scooters are under 50 cc, lucky to hit 30 mph, and therefore not subject to Missouri motorcycle helmet laws.
However, those who have ridden on two wheels in their lives know this axiom. “If you own one, you’ll drop one.”
Sure, dropping a Harley at 60 mph is different than dumping over on your scooter at 25 mph, but the pavement is still as hard and the physics are there for severe injury or worse.
I also understand that those who wear helmets while riding scooters will be villified by their peers for looking like nerds. But guess what, there is no cool quotient involved in a trip to the emergency room.
People on bicycles wear helmets for good reason. I wish I would see more helmets on scooter riders before I end up writing about one taking an ambulance ride.
Our dog, Stanley Frank Musial — affectionately known as Stanley — has taken to eating corn out of the field in front of the house.
Instead of finding different bizarre bits of carcass in the lawn, the family is now picking up corn stalks and gnarled cobs.
My wife probably prefers this canine vegan turn in events, but I’m starting to worry about the landlord’s yield, even though the corn is plentiful and looks terrific.
Owning a dog in the country is like having a two-year-old kid, everything ends up in the mouth.
Grandpa Moller used to say “Don’t worry, the Cardinals never start playing until the Fourth of July.”
I wish he was still here so I could rib him and say, “This year, it looks like they got it in reverse.”
My son and I went to a recent game when the Cardinals were still beating up on National League pitching. We had good seats a relative had won in a drawing.
Although we were only 20 rows off the field, the box seats along the right field line don’t point towards home plate and aren’t pitched very high. Subsequently, people in the aisle are constantly blocking your view.
I’d much rather sit in the nosebleeds and see the game like I do when I actually pay to get in.
And then there was the drunken Kenyan.
I could tell because it said “I’m From Kenya” on the back of his t-shirt as he half-fell into the seat in front of us.
He quickly figured out we were father and son. That caused him to emote a slurred lecture to my son about how he should never cross his father, sprinkled with choice expletives.
Just about the time we thought about calling the usher because he was now clawing us, his woman took charge and dragged him out of there, again, sprinkled with expletives.
“I’ve seen a lot of things at the ball game in St. Louis in three different stadiums in my life,” I said to my son. “But never a drunken Kenyan.”