Picture Perfect Soccer

So today, I woke up and as usual began my morning routine operating pretty much on remote control because, for me, active brain function doesn’t begin until after the first cup of coffee. Part of my routine involves turning on the TV which is already tuned in to the morning news (Newsmax). I know, I just lost the CNN crowd but then, did I really have them?-)

Again, operating on remote control, I sat down to eat my simple breakfast, an everything-bagel with a schmear and a ten-ounce mug of coffee (high-test). Just as I was about to get up from the table and get my second mug, dormant brain function started to kick in and remote control setting gave way to actual awareness. Suddenly, the low drone of random garble, you know, the noise that the CNN audience (aka progressives) hears whenever a conservative tries to express an opinion. Well, suddenly that noise congealed into a report on the recent activities of our women’s Olympic soccer team in Tokyo.

Apparently, there are preliminary competitions that occur prior to the opening of the Olympic Games. I didn’t get all the particulars on that aspect of the report but before these competitions, as is tradition, the national anthem of each team is played. Our illustrious women’s soccer team chose to endear themselves to Middle America (the heartbeat of America) by taking a knee during our National Anthem. Newsmax showed the picture.

The report focused on the overall image this type of behavior portrays, not only in the United States but also, around the world. A truly valid point but that wasn’t where my mind went on the issue and here’s why.

The picture shows the team of highly trained and dedicated young women on an open soccer field taking a knee during the anthem. My eye focused on one girl in particular. She’s the one located middle-right in the picture and not only is she taking a knee but her head is lowered in subjugation.

Even though I wasn’t behind the wheel of my bus, I had a random (sarcastic) bus driver thought; how proud must her parents be. After all these years of sacrifice, both time and money, there’s our daughter on the world stage, standing up for what she believes in, or in this case, taking a knee. Then I made another bus driver mental leap.

Training for the Olympics and making the team is obviously a time-consuming endeavor that makes holding down a full-time job virtually impossible. Therefore, the likelihood that more than a few of these athletes might still live at home with Mom and Dad isn’t inconceivable, and may even be true of the woman in the middle.

If this young lady were my daughter I’d have a busy day ahead of me. First, I would have to cancel my Tokyo reservations, but only mine, not my wife’s. Then, I would order a storage container to be delivered ASAP. Next, I’d go shopping to pick up the boxes and packing supplies I needed. I would do this all without saying a word to my wife; because by now, after all these years, she knows not to expect one.

Having known me, and loved me, for longer than she would ever know or love our adult daughter, my wife would have a very important decision to make. She’d have to make it on her own and my prayers would be that she makes the right one. She knows the truth, our truth, because she lived it.

We spent a good portion of our lives doing the best job we could with one goal in mind, raise our daughter right. If we had succeeded, our daughter would’ve taken a knee with her teammates just as the others did to show solidarity. But as the Star-Spangled Banner began to play, our daughter would pick up her head; she would survey the field of players and realizing that she’d be alone, she would rise to her feet. Our daughter, my daughter, would stand at attention the way her father taught her to do. She would put her hand over her heart and with tears of honor for those in the past, duty for those in the present, and as an example for those in the future, she would not just mouth the words, she would sing the Star-Spangled Banner loud and clear.

At that moment, our adult daughter, no matter the outcome of the games, would come home to her father a Champion. Instead, her homecoming would happen at the end of a driveway in front of a fully packed storage container……  And people wonder why soccer, at least for men of my generation, remains an insignificant recreational activity.

Attention: NFL, MLB, NHL, and yes the NBA, their affiliates, and advertisers: our talk is coming soon. In the meantime, try to learn something from the Olympics that I won’t be watching.

Why is the Bus Late? – I had to pick up this guy…

Now for something that hits a little closer to home. Maybe it’ll give you some insight into what we bus drivers have to deal with on a daily and oftentimes, hourly basis.

So I was on my fourth or fifth loop last Wednesday when I stopped to pick this guy up.

Just kidding.

Actually, this guy is probably OK and not a total asshole, unlike the passenger who’s the inspiration for this post.

So I picked up a guy who gets on the bus and whips out his ID. We have full-fare routes and we have ID routes that passengers who live in certain areas can ride for free with a picture ID. I drive both, but this was a full-fare route so I asked:

“Sir, why are you showing me that?”

He barked, “Isn’t the bus free?”

“No this is a full-fare bus.” He was already a few steps down the aisle but backtracked to the farebox and put in a dollar. The fare is $1.50.

“Sir, do you have fifty cents?

            “Why? I ride the bus all the time and it’s always a dollar.”

            “No sir. It’s always a dollar-fifty.”

            He pulls out some cash and says, “The smallest bill I have is a five. You got change?”

            “No.”

Keep in mind: the bus stop is about twenty-five feet from a major convenience store where he just bought a super-large soft drink (which may or may not be soft anymore); he is by his own admission a frequent rider yet he didn’t know that this wasn’t a free bus; he didn’t know the fare was a buck-fifty, and he didn’t know I don’t make change. Something doesn’t add up.

           

He turned towards the passengers and announces, “Does anyone have change for a five?”

            “Sir, you aren’t allowed to solicit on the bus.” Passengers know that soliciting on the bus is strictly prohibited.

            He exploded into a tirade. I’m not soliciting, I’m asking for change. Don’t you know the difference between soliciting and asking? You should be careful before you use four-syllable words.”

Other highly intelligent passengers started to join in. “Yeah, don’t you know the difference between soliciting and asking?” “Yeah, you should be careful using big words.” There was sarcastic chuckling as the mob mentality started to set in.

            Just to gauge this guy’s grasp of the English language I said, “Fine, stop panhandling.”

            “There he goes again, using big words with four or more syllables. I’m not begging, I’m asking for change. Panhandling is begging. What an idiot.” There were more chuckles and remarks.

Obviously, this passenger and the others thought I didn’t know the difference in meaning between the words ask and solicit (which is nothing, they mean the same thing) or solicit and panhandling (which with certain nuances is only location-specific). But that was beside the point because our star passenger sensing that he had an audience continued on.

           

Someone finally gave him fifty cents and he came to the front of the bus to feed the fare-box. As he went back to his seat he proudly (and loudly) proclaimed, “I have a college degree in English and I used to be a professor. I taught English in college. I also have a degree in math.

I thought to myself, you must have missed the lecture on counting syllables.

            He went on. “I know the definition of soliciting and people shouldn’t use big words they don’t know the meaning of.”

            I finally had enough of this idiot, so after biting my tongue for what seemed like an eternity, I fired back. “So you have a degree in English and used to teach in college?”

            “Yes. And I have a degree in math too.”

            “That’s awesome. Hey, how many books have you written?”

            “I’m reading Tolstoy.”

            “Wow. But I didn’t ask you what books you’re reading; I asked you how many books you wrote as a college professor.” The bus quieted down a bit and as our star performer looked around, he realized that he had better come up with an answer because everyone was waiting.

            “I wrote a book last week. Actually, I wrote two.”

Being a writer myself I know that writing a book, even a bad book, takes longer than a week. Writing two just means he’s more full of shit than if he only claimed to write one. His voice was starting to lose some of its confidence and I went in for the kill. But I didn’t take the obvious course of action by asking him about the title of his books or what the subject matter was.

            Instead, I asked, “Since you were a college professor in English you should be able to answer a question for me. Would you please tell me, because I don’t know, what is a dangling participle? And would you please use multisyllabic words in the process so I can understand your explanation?” The bus went stone-cold quiet. The all-to-eager chucklers were now looking down trying to hide their faces.

We were approaching a bus stop and the bell rang. As soon as I stopped the bus and opened the door today’s star performer jumped out of his seat and made a beeline for the door. After he got off the bus he yelled a few profanities for my benefit. It didn’t bother me though; I simply closed the door—it was my turn to chuckle.

As I got underway I said to the rest of the passengers, “Pity he got off so soon. I didn’t get a chance to ask him my second question about the difference between quadratic and differential equations.” There were a handful of college students in the back of the bus, I heard them laugh.

And people wonder why the bus is late…

Bilateral Biden

Yeah! I know what you’re thinking. Policy. Liberal policy.

And if you are then there’s plenty for you to lament about. But that isn’t the real story here. First, for those residing in Reo Linda (to borrow a term from the late great Rush), bilateral means both sides, right and left.

So if I’m not talking about Biden’s policy, which is far left and by definition cannot be bilateral, then what am I talking about. Well, back in 1988, then-Senator Joe Biden had what can only be described in layman’s terms as a modern-day Bilateral Frontal Lobotomy. It was a procedure to correct aneurysms in arteries supplying blood to his brain. In February of that year doctors operated on Biden’s left side, in May they did the right.

We can argue how effective these procedures actually were later on. But what needs to be addressed now (and what no one is talking about) are the long-term side effects. I think the questions need to be asked. Is senility a side effect of his surgeries? If so, when was it detected?

My point is this. Even if Joe’s impaired mental health is not caused by the surgeries, it’s still an ever-increasing fact that his family knew about or should have known about. His first six months in office is all the evidence a casual observer needs. Subjecting him to a presidential race was not only detrimental to his well-being; it represents a clear and present danger to the well-being of this country, and the world. His family and all those working closely with the campaign need to be brought up on charges of elder abuse and federal charges of treason.

Mowing, Writing, USA

So it’s July 4th, 2021 and like many who think it’s necessary to express their opinion, I too, planned on writing a tribute to this great nation of ours. But then, I looked out my window and saw the jungle I call a backyard and realized priorities might need adjusting. The decision was made. If I wait until my next day off, I’ll need a bulldozer, not a mower. Yet here I am, writing a post when I should be outside mowing pubescent jungle. Why? Because inspiration to a writer is like an urge to procreate is to rabbits. No more be said.

Where did such a powerful inspiration come from? In a vain attempt to acquire the motivation to mow, I drank two cups of coffee in succession. It wasn’t working so I had another. During the process, I turned on the TV and Kudlow: America the Great, came on. It was a random morning thing, just background noise while I drank java. But Larry (Kudlow) kept reiterating during the show that there were levels of priority for our founding fathers.

The first level: God and the inalienable rights given to all men and women (whether stated or implied).

The second: People, who by their nature of being; receive, pursue, and exercise these rights to the best of their given ability whether they believe in God or not.

The third: A limited representative government, given only enough authority by consent of the people, to establish and maintain the order necessary to promote the first two priorities.

Powerful inspiration indeed: the government works for the people.

This is the America we need to get back to. There is no guarantee of equal income. There is no guarantee of equal success. I should know: I’m a writer making a living as a bus driver. Yet, I still spend a lot of time writing.

If I lived under a socialist or communist (the grown-up version) government, I would expect to be satisfied with my station as a bus driver because it would be a requirement. Pursuit of any other vocation is a waste of time: those jobs belong to others, and everybody works for the government. Why write?

I write because I don’t live under a socialist or communist government, at least not yet. Only in the United States of America can a writer who makes a living as a bus driver, express his thoughts with constitutional authority.  I write because I dream of being a writer knowing full well that achievement is not guaranteed. The only guarantee is the inalienable right, regardless of probability, to someday make my dream my reality.

God bless America.

Now I gotta mow 😦

Thought I was exaggerating ?

If you’re from the Algemeiner

A Little about me…

I’m a college-educated, divorced, middle-aged, white guy, whose squandered potential has been reduced to that of a simple bus driver trying to find …

Oh—you probably didn’t mean that stuff.

You want to know why I write; what I’ve written in the past; what I plan to write further down the road, and it wouldn’t hurt for me to give a few good reasons why you should let me submit in the first place.

First, let’s address the elephant in the room. NO! I didn’t major in journalism or even English literature. If you call what I do writing, then I learned how to do it the old-fashioned way, by doing. Quaint isn’t it?

I’ve written and published two books (there’s a ton of stuff I haven’t published). For more insight into these, you can visit my website, www.LDavydPollack.com . As for what I’ll write in the future—this can best be described as random bus driver thoughts regarding current events. Examples of these pontifications can be found on my blog, www.Davydsblog.com .

Now, a reason or two for letting me submit my intellectual dribble. Driving a bus has exposed me to a side of humanity, most of which is blissfully ignorant to what’s going on in the world unless of course, it means free money. Knowing that the homeless exist is one thing, interacting with them on a daily basis is quite another. As impactful as it is, they rarely change my opinion on topics, but they do, on occasion, provide detours in thought that influence my posts. Also, allowing me to submit on a regular basis gives me a really good reason to renew my expired Grammarly subscription.

In closing, facebook has made it clear that if I want to express my opinions, I should do it somewhere else. That somewhere is my blog. But I’m a nobody with virtually no exposure. If you find my posts relevant, thought-provoking and entertaining, your invitation to submit would be an honor.

Sincerely.

L. Davyd Pollack

What’s an Abortion, Anyway?

It sounds like a simple question, but I think there’s an underlying designed to aggravate and agitate. Semantics aside, it is a deliberate act resulting in death that is not an act of self-defense. It is perpetrated against the most innocent and by any other name, is 1st-degree murder.

Hewww! That was rough for me and I’m an adult. Imagine telling this to a six or seven-year-old child; you know, the thing we call survivors of abortion. Well. There’s a children’s book invading our public libraries, and soon your child’s school library, that has a stated claim of creating a world where abortion is normalized for children and adults.

It’s titled, “What’s an Abortion Anyway?” and in all honesty, if I have to explain to you the inappropriateness of an endeavor such as this, you’re lost beyond the point that my mere words can remedy. So I won’t even try. I’ll use their words:

“What’s an Abortion, Anyway?”

Is a medically accurate, non-

judgmental, and gender-

inclusive resource for young folks

about abortion care. In this book,

you’ll learn about what an abortion is,

some of the reasons people have

abortions and a few of the ways people

might feel about their abortions.

The last sentence in their blurb begs the question, what about people who share my definition and feelings about the subject? Do you think non-judgmental and gender-inclusive refers to us?

This reminds me of a conversation I had with a fellow Bus Drive about a month ago. He was very adamant and succinct when he described a woman becoming pregnant as a contract. Regardless of whether you believe in God or not, a woman has the sole gift to bring forth life and therefore the responsibility to follow through on her contract with that life. Birth control happens before pregnancy and again, is largely but not exclusively, the responsibility of the one charged with giving life. If you want to argue that a man has to assume equal responsibility, then he should be afforded equal rights in the contract, including the right to defend the life of his baby at all costs.

Where has the sense of responsibility in our society gone? We are supposed to feel and be responsible for everyone else, “It takes a village (to raise a child)” I think somebody with a vagina originally said that. I guess she forgot the qualifier, as long as you’ve passed through the birth canal or were removed by cesarean section.

If this isn’t a wake-up call to the deviance and soulless destruction the woke-left is leading us towards, I don’t know what is.