Cluttering my San Anselmo desk — in addition to Post-its galore — are often-illegible scribbles on crumpled napkins and torn notepad pages.
Haphazard odds ‘n’ ends.
Brainstorms worthy of repeating immediately — even if most of them are self-indulgent, first-person one- or two-liners.
Or, perhaps, brainstorms unworthy of being repeated to any living human being ever.
What follows, mostly, are the former.
Which will prove I still can tell the difference.
• There must be something terribly wrong with me: I’ve never taken a selfie.
• Yes, I’m clearly a social misfit: I’ve never pierced any part of my body, subjected myself to tattooing or worn a hoodie.
• Although I’ve zero reasons to be paranoid, I still worry about governmental alphabet soup. Whenever I see a black van parked in the Ross Valley with no lettering on its sides and no windows, I envision a FBI, CIA or NSA agent crouched inside with state-of-the-art snooping equipment.
• A waggish Fairfax friend asked me this: If a deaf child signs curse words, should his mom wash out his hands with soap?
• No matter how often pals urge me not to be that way, I’m judgmental. I figure God gave me the capability and who are I to argue with Him (or, as my wife contends, Her)?
• I probably won’t get my mojo back — at least until I figure out what that phrase means.
• In spite of pundits swearing the U.S. economy has recovered, a stroll down San Anselmo Avenue reveals vacant stores, proving that small town retail is still hurting — and I’d bet local restaurants will be in even deeper doo-doo when Amazon perfects hot-meal deliveries by drone.
• My nine-year-old granddaughter made me a trinket that says, “Grandpa rocks.” I love that view, even if mistaken.
• Words and phrases I’m unlikely to slip into a column: kerfuffle, just sayin’, hyper-hyperbolic, mythomaniac, peripheral hearing, tongue-in-chic. Now, let’s see a show of hands: How many believe in turning the other chic? OK, you’re allowed to insert a groan here — or a yawn.
• Some folks wear their emotions on their sleeves; some nouveau riche in Ross wear their wallets on their sleeves.
• Janet Yellen and her Fed may think inflation is moving unhurriedly, but I think otherwise: The only thing you can get nowadays for a $10 bill is ten ones.
• A sleek, brown-and-white bobcat recently loped through our San Anselmo yard. He/she/it was gorgeous. Hey, I wonder — maybe because it’s suddenly trendy — if there really are any tranny cougars.
• Hooray! El Niño turned into greenery our San Anselmo yard’s former brownery.
• I’m hereby boycotting anything written by Paul Krassner, a founding Yippie, a founder of “The Realist” (a free-thought zine before the word was coined) and a member of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters — unless he fesses up to having worked in a New York Post “boiler-room” peddling subscriptions (in the same space as the weekly newspaper for which I labored).
• I’m also hereby boycotting any words by Phil Bronstein, ex-Chronicle editor, until he owns that he toiled at The Jewish Bulletin in San Francisco (before I did).
• Too many Marin geezers I know aren’t hard of hearing, they’re hard of listening.
• Will I ever be able to approach any cactus plant on my hilly San Anselmo property without getting pricked? Dubious.
• One of my warmest memories: My late grandmother inevitably saying as she gave a gift, “Use it in good health.”
• I not long ago left an East Bay drama at intermission not because the play was bad but because my seat was totally unsittable (don’t write: I know that’s not a word).
• Half a century after I escaped the area, I’m still a recovering New Yawker.
• Some artworks in my San Anselmo home have hung so long they’re invisible — ‘cept when they get crooked and my obsessive-compulsiveness demands I straighten them.
• I still find “The Big Bang Theory” a major giggle-athon (despite its irritating laugh-track), but my wife avers it’s downright unfunny (she thinks it starts out slowly, then grinds to a dead-end).
• My handwriting has become as legible as that of a stoned centipede.
• Whadda ya mean I’m talking in riddles? You must be listening in riddles.
• Everything in my life is grist for the mill (or, more accurately, grist for this column — which sometimes bugs my wife, whom I apparently quote quite often when she’s not looking).