Inscrutable

Midday yesterday in CA's Southbay was drizzly, the pleasant kind of drizzle because it was a Sunday, because it was a change from the seemingly imperturbable January summer, because a change in weather especially where it doesn't change as much as other places can't help but make Nature a little more noticeable.  Perched on a telephone line just before the stoplight I was approaching on the one-way drizzled on street was a hawk.  I noticed him/her at the same time that I had to navigate a curve, and I was instantly too late to stop and take a picture.  So, I did what any reliable blogger would do, I sat at the one-way light and then circled back through the neighborhood, all the while multi-tasking to get my camera on some sort of wildlife insta-lens.  No dice.  The hawk had departed for more inconspicuous perches.

Hawks, man...hawks can't help but look dignified.  Sure, they're perhaps the most notorious of birds of prey, so that's a pretty dignified moniker to begin with, but something about their beaks lends itself to a totally dignified countenance.  They are utterly inscrutable.  Hawks, could they grip playing cards in their talons or nestle them against their feathery vest, would probably make really good poker players.

Alright, alright.  I don't even have a good poker-face from my invisible blogging perch; obviously, I've got games on my mind.  Dominoes in particular.  It's superfluous to get into the details, but, truly/madly/dangerously, I thought that I was kind of royalty when it comes to skills with those ever recognizable black and ivory tiles (referred to by the pros and their proteges as "bones").

So, it is with supremely/royally/dangerously negative capacity that I admit to having perhaps slipped a notch or two from my throne.  Again, let's leave the details to the birds, but I lost pretty significantly last night in what should have been a routine round of 7's.  I'll keep left of unsportsmanlike behavior (that's where this ruleless blog draws the line), but my opponent's strategy seemed to consist of predicting which tile numbers I was sure to be short of and then playing those tile numbers end to end, thus leaving me with no option but to take a much dreaded, much unfamiliar trip to the dregs of the bone yard.  My opponent seemed to not only revel in this effective (albeit, shiesty) strategy but also revel in my lack of self control.  I was informed that a line creases my forehead, a proverbial shadow seems to cast itself upon the resident sparkle in my eye; in other words, I am completely readable when I have no tile to play; I am sans poker-face (or domino-face as the case surely is).  It is times like these, when I suffer perhaps brief tumbles down the thorny hillsides of domino matches against the ruthless moves of scheming competitors that being a hawk would be especially advantageous.  In addition to the dignified and utterly expressionless face, a beak could certainly come in useful.  (It would, after all, be so tacky to wear brass knuckles to a domino match.)

Life sometimes can be inscrutable.

Inscrutable: –adjective

  incapable of being investigated, analyzed, or scrutinized; impenetrable

Travesty

Rabbit Hole was probably an excellent theater production, and probably warranted the interest to adapt it into a screenplay, thus resulting in the current film of the same name featuring excellently solid performances by each Nicole Kidman, Aaron Eckhart and Dianne Wiest, as well as the ensemble itself.  There are some disappointing pencil lines still visible on this finished painting though, and the sketch marks are mostly aesthetic crutches that should have either been removed or replaced. 

The film implements socio-economics to convey the disparity between several of the main characters in a way that is very transparent making it feel like the viewer can see how the writer(s) needed to kickstart a beginning by dividing characters into different buckets according to the kinds of cars they might drive which brings me to the initial transparency of this film that loosened the boulder of its trite visual and characterization aesthetics. 

Kidman and Eckhart's characters are married and seemingly well to do in a classic Ethan Allen white picket fence sense; ok, I can accept that as this couple's circumstances until it becomes a blatant imposition on the plot, as in, trying to convey their socio-economics actually pulls me out of the story.  The latter is especially egregious when it does so unconvincingly.  My first clue: the couple owns two new'ish model vehicles, hers a Mercedes Benz SUV and his a Saab sedan.  (The movie having been released in 2010 this is before Spyker obtained Saab), so I'm not buying that this upper middle class, apparently discerning (because they read and they utilize the iPhone) couple would have in the same garage a vehicle of German engineering and the other fairly hot off the GMC press.  Be that as it may (and I'm sure there is some couple who actually suffers this vehicular mismarriage), I felt like this was the hangnail to irritate my sense of disbelief.  The story was strong; the plot was well-executed (although I think the drama is more akin to its original theatrical setting because the subtleties innate to film bland it out a bit); the acting was all around excellent.  It was the visual aesthetics which were trite. 

Once becoming conflagrated over the vehicle misappropriation, it irked me that "they" tried so hard to get Eckhart into Banana Republic sweaters and over-design the kitchen set to drip Pottery Barn, and this all the more wasp-y white in sharp contrast to the overt chain link fence and African American token character in order to distribute an "other side of the tracks" feel to the other half of the caste (pun intended).  Not necessary.  Demographics can be entirely relevant to a story in which they legitimately augment it and/or perpetuate the storyline, but demographics was a shortcut that this production used to get at plot points, and it could have stood very well without those pencil lines.  Rabbit Hole the film is a lot like a delicious homemade cherry pie still sitting in its pan with the Le Creuset label pointedly facing the audience, as if to say maybe the guest will think the pie is good because it was baked in this known to be nice form, but the pie would have been better left to stand alone on any old plate.  I didn't want to see this film's panty lines, and when they come in the form of automotive incongruency, I have to holler.

Life sometimes can be travesty.
Travesty: –noun 

  a literary or artistic burlesque of a serious work or subject, characterized by grotesque or ludicrous incongruity of style, treatment, or subject matter

Lyrical

No shame in this blogger's game; I will fully admit, readily confess that "Down On Me" by Jeremih featuring 50 Cent has been on serious repeat, like OCD style/the neighbors think I have an iPod with one song only on it.  However, that is simply not the case.  In fact, until "Down On Me" hijacked them, my sweet at-home-by-myself dance moves were pretty keen on Mumford & Sons' "Little Lion Man".  

I was doing dishes, and I couldn't hit the repeat button again on "Down On Me", and "Little Lion Man" came on.  I like this song, but it pissed me off, not because it interrupted the Jeremih/50 marathon, but because I realized that Mumford kinda wusses out and actually seems to be pretty self-serving and then deigns to get romantic about it and made all of that sound good.  The vast majority of songs ever written (no secret being exposed here) are love songs.  So, even though Mumford tries to be enigmatic and say they won't say what the song is about, I'm gonna go with love 'cause Mumford says (i.e., whines really well): "But it was not your fault but mine/And it was your heart on the line/I really fucked it up this time/Didn't I, my dear?/Didn't I, my...".  He can't even squeak out another "dear".  This guy.  I wouldn't date this guy.  Nope, definitely not.  The contemporary man of this song manages to write off his romantic shortcomings in a catchy melody that exposes his failure, and by throwing in "f*ck" his negative capacity is suddenly simultaneously irresitable--attractive (to the girls) and relatable (to the guys).  Sorry, Mumford; I'm not playing.  I dig the song, but this song is all about a punk move.

In a lyrical rubber-match, I'm taking Jeremih & 50 over Mumford & Sons.  There is no hidden wuss agenda for J & 50; "Down On Me" is as straight up as it gets:  "I love the way you grind with that booty on me/shorty you a dime why you looking lonely/we’ll buy another round and it’s all on me/as long as I’m around put it down on me".  No glorifying f*ucking things up, just plain old glorifying f*cking.  J & 50 even throw a compliment "her" way, call her a 10, use a little classic sweet talk to cajole "her" to put it down.  So, you got Mumford dripping self serving tears into his whiskey at the bar, or you got 50 who's gonna buy the whole next round.  Yup, the odds of this blog are unanimous: the "lyrics from a real man match-up" do not go to Mumford & Sons.  (But I still like them (for their accent (and because who the heck knows what a "mumford" is--points for mystery meat)).

Life sometimes can be lyrical.
Lyrical: –adjective
  having the form and musical quality of a song, and esp. the character of a songlike outpouring of the poet's own thoughts and feelings

Poisonous

It is approximately 2,907.8 miles that separate Illinois and the Galapagos Islands; or, for those sailors with white sailboats, that is approximately 2,525.1 nautical miles; or, for those who would fly, it would take approximately 6 hours and 2 minutes to get from one to the other location (although, if a rocket pack were employed, this blog suspects the time would be considerably less, but that's an inquiry for another post).  So, Illinois and the Galapagos Islands are not exactly proximate.  What then, is their relation?

Scientific American reported that the rat population on the Galapagos is utterly out of control, so out of control, in fact, that $1 million worth of specialized rat poison will be dropped not once, but twice on the island(s) via helicopter.  The poison itself is contained in light blue colored boxes that all other island wildlife (i.e., sea lions and birds (ala, Darwin (his finches))) will not be enticed to partake in.  Whatever extermination conglomerate is at the helm remains determined and optimistic that after two poison dumps, the rats will be entirely eradicated.  (Apparently, at some time in the past history of the Islands, someone messed with the cat population, hence, no cats = lots o' rats which now = lots o' blue poison cubes.)

Death by lethal injection is a three chemical cocktail.  Sodium thiopental is administered first to induce a coma.  Sodium thiopental has long been manufactured by a drug company located in Lake Forest, IL.  S.T. has been used less and less in recent history, and the company decided this year to stop manufacturing it altogether.  So Pentobarbital is the replacement drug of choice.  It happens to be manufactured by only one company which happens to be located in Deerfield, IL.

In 2009, Matt Damon starred in The Informant which told the story of an entrenched price-fixing scheme taking place at Archer Daniels Midland.  ADM is a huge agricultural company responsible for oil and meal derivatives of soybeans, cottonseed and sunflowers, and is perhaps most notably responsible for high fructose corn sweetening syrups and ethanol (corn by-products being nearly impossible to avoid in any mass produced food product).  ADM is located in Decatur, IL.  There is absolutely no correlation between ADM and any of the drug manufacturing companies (that this blog is aware of or posing).  However, were there to be only two relocation locales presented and they be between Illinois and the Galapagos, despite rat infestation and seeming isolation, the Galapagos sounds like a tastier option to this blogger.

Life sometimes can be poisonous.
Poisonous: –adjective 
 full of or containing poison; harmful; destructive

Limbic

Sometimes WE (in the universal sense) seem to be waiting for something to happen.  I'm only an expert when it comes to frozen yogurt, but I suspect that the ability to anticipate is linked to our fight or flight mechanisms, and in terms of behavioral concepts this isn't necessarily a bad thing.  When we're waiting for that next technological buzz, I think it is.  I find myself to be some of my best company, so it doesn't bother me to spend copious amounts of time with myself (I'd say this is an undeniable blessing since I'm stuck with none other than myself.)  Still, I'm guilty on occasion, or oft, to be waiting to hear from...whomever...to be wondering what other people are "doing"...to want to know what the "plan is" and where the fun is popping off.

This social anticipation is surely not always augmented by the multitude of communication technology constantly at fingertip grip and eye roving span.  That little red light on my Blackberry is my best and worst friend, (and one of these days I have got to kick him out of bed).  I separated from my too handy, too [mostly] reliable technological communication monster device for a couple hours today and found myself sprawled on my back giving my ankles a serious workout as I bopped along to a bevy of my favorite classic rock songs.  It's not like I'd forgotten Scorpion, Cinderella, Whitesnake, Def Leppard...(just some of my favs), but they'd accumulated a bit of dust.

Something about the instantaneous gratification of classic rock's innate propensity for perfect combination of blood dripping from heart on [leather] sleeve all the way down the arm to well worn brass knuckles that gives just as good, if not better (a couple more rounds of this hair metal playlist, and I'm willing to wager my Blackberry on it) of a rush/buzz satisfaction.  The classic rock hypothesis challenge: next time YOU (and I refer again to the universal sense of) are waiting for that phone call, or anticipating an email, hankering for a text or instant message, put your "device" in the time-out corner and crank "Nobody's Fool".  I'm just sayin'...before there was technology there was classic rock.

Life sometimes can be limbic.
Limbic: –adjective
  The limbic system (or Paleomammalian brain) is a set of brain structures including the hippocampus, amygdala, anterior thalamic nuclei, septum, limbic cortex and fornix, which seemingly support a variety of functions including emotion, behavior, long term memory, and olfaction. Some scientists have suggested that the concept of the limbic system should be abandoned as obsolete, as it is grounded more in transient tradition than in facts. 

Reductive

I was reminded today, as I waited impatiently outside the one stall bathroom at my favorite Sbux, that the signs for the men's and women's bathroom, respectively, are somewhat surprisingly uniform and unimaginative yet simultaneously manage to be symbolically accurate.  The ubiquitous "MEN" sign is nine toes for every ten a triangle which, forgive where I'm headed, is pretty phallic, especially when compared to the ubiquitous "WOMEN" sign that in similar frequency is always expressed by the same shape, a circle, which is pretty...mmmm...vessel'ish.

So, I have an array of questions, but I'd mostly like to know the basic who/when/where of the origin of these signs and if the initial intention was to make them shapes that corresponded to the sex traits for which they divide discerning public toilet patrons.  In addition, I wonder why no one somewhere has attempted to revamp these symbols.  For example, I think perhaps a parallelogram would actually be more appropriate for the Women's sign, and it would be easier to mass produce because it's always easier to cut straight lines than circles and would be a more efficient use of the plastic sheet from which each is cut. 

If I were a man, I'd almost be offended at being limited to the triangle.  It only has three edges, and it's not even like they mix up the kinds of triangles; it's always equilateral as if to suggest that when it comes to men the angles are all the same, we already know what to expect from you.  This is in no way this Blogger's opinion necessarily (I like men, a lot), but frankly, I'd feel a bit like a second rate citizen if I could be summed up in three lines whose sole purpose is to make a single pointy tip.  If I ever have reason to have public restrooms, I'm changing up the signage--big time.

Life sometimes can be reductive.
Reductive: –adjective 
  of, pertaining to, characterized by, or producing reduction or abridgment

Serendipitous

Cruising down Jefferson, as I have countless times before, in order to get to where I was going (of course), my newly tsunami sign trained eye glimpsed the counterpart signage to Hermosa's warnings.  Jefferson, Fiji and Mindinao are lined with "Evacuation Route" signs bearing the same [friendly looking] wave graphic.  Ok, coincidental as it was that I found the better half to Hermosa's signs, I have several problems right off the bat...

#1)  Shouldn't the tsunami wave graphic be a bit more akin to the disaster and less like a Disneyland ride ad?  I'm just saying...most heads-up-it's-a-hazard sort of signs are yellow and black.  Maybe blue and white should be reserved for friendly skies and Portuguese ceramics.  Also, I think the waves look pretty soft and, in fact, to be honest, inviting.  This graphic may as well be saying, "jump in and let's play".  I think if the sign artist wanted to throw in a kid with a broken arm and a dog with a bloody head (or a kid with a bloody head and a dog with a broken arm, either way) that might be a bit more effective.

Which brings me to my second point.  #2)  If the signs were more noticeably noticeable and honestly representative of the threat they're professing to warn against, I would have noticed them about five years ago.  I'm driving; obviously my eyes are open, and I've never before noticed these signs, never mind been aware that I have to go all the way to the marina for my relief route.  #3)  If these signs really do lead those fleeing [inescapable] natural disaster, they sure as heck better end up at the marina's El Torito.  (Ever been to the marina El Torito on a Tuesday night (not that disaster will necessarily strike on a Tuesday)?  That place goes off like the Pope's pager in the catacombs.)

Life sometimes can be serendipitous.
Serendipitous: –adjective
  come upon or found by accident; fortuitous

Monochromatic

I was in Marina del Rey last March in a building overlooking the, yes, marina.  The office I was in belonged to a mediator, so I was there for, yes, a mediation.  As is par for the legal course of mediation, it was s-l-o-w moving, so I had time to ponder the world.  More specifically, I had time to ponder the world's sailboats.  With a view of the marina and all her boats-a-docked, I mused aloud to the attorney in the room that I wondered why all sailboats were always white.

The attorney echoed my inquiry and then did what attorneys do so well, he asked someone else for the answer.  He asked the boat owning, justice toting mediator.  Needless to say, as this inquiry stands on terra firma (albeit virtual) and continues to plague me nearly a year later, he did not have an answer either.  If you took the same picture of any parking lot anywhere, you'd have a gumball array of different colored vehicles, so why only white sailboats?

So, I poked an electronic spade into my virtual terra firma and did some mild digging.  A certain Captain Herreshoff was once to have said, "There are only two colors to paint a boat, black or white, and only a fool would paint a boat black." (http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Why_are_sailboats_white#ixzz1CB9RgmqO)  Be that as it may or may not be, that still doesn't explain why; I mean I can speculate, but Nature doesn't seem to harbor the same fool mentality towards black.  Take the all black penguin, one of my favorite all time monochromatic examples.  Have his one in a billion genes made a fool of him, Captain H?  Personally, I find him quite handsome and unique, to which I will conclude that sailors have no sense of individuality, and, furthermore, they probably share the opinion that all cats are grey in the night (and anyone who's been to San Francisco's Castro can well attest that cats come in a rainbow of colors, just like cars, and just like sailboats should.)

Life sometimes can be monochromatic.
monochromatic: –adjective

  of or having one color

Symbiotic

Charlie Rose had Henry Kissinger on last week regarding Hu Jintao's visit to the US, and having my perpetual sticky paw at the ready for compelling words, I adhered to "bilateral".  Despite distinct personal perspectives, this blog is going to refrain from jumping into the dark abyss of politics, but I got to thinking about two sides being simultaneously affected/influenced/involved, and then my sticky paw grabbed onto Borneo's bats.

So, get this, the bat population in Borneo has been reported as roosting in carnivorous pitcher plants.  I don't really even like "Little Shop of Horrors", but if there really were a human sized meat eating plant (like a Venus fly trap or a pitcher plant), no I wouldn't be caught dead (and, therefore previously alive) making my habitat in it.  Thus, the Borneo bats didn't consult with their real estate agent ahead of time, and yet...it seems to be working.  In fact, it's working really well, apparently.  It's working to the point of "mutualism".  Ah yes, another word which means two parties (specifically two species) are benefiting.  To summarize this unusual arrangement, the pitcher plants don't just chow down on the bats because the bats' excrement provides attractive nutrition on a consistent basis, and the bats can bunker down unseen in the folds of the pitchers' leaves.

My stickiness wondered what's the difference between symbiosis and mutualism.  Well, mutualism is actually a category of symbiosis.  So, whether or not the US and China have a symbiotic relationship is not a question I'm explicitly posing, but disparate pairings do happen.  Case in point: it does appear that Borneo's bats and pitcher plants are getting along swimmingly and may even in fact exchange Valentines.

Life sometimes can be symbiotic.
symbiotic: -adjective

  the living together of two dissimilar organisms, as in mutualism, commensalism, amensalism, or parasitism

Karmic

So, to blow the lid off this big secret: bloggers are often inclined to spend grossly extended periods of time at coffeeshops.  So, hypothetically, if this Blogger confessed to be hanging out at a local Starbucks on a gloriously beautiful sunny Friday morning that wouldn't necessarily be a shocker; let's go with that.  Said Blogger, hypothetically, had a chance encounter with a real Character who would turn out to be a real Jacka**.  Said Character strolls into said Starbucks like he owns the place, and it's immediately funny and entertaining.  Character approaches Blogger and after a short series of tits for tats exacts that which he wants which is to use Blogger's computer momentarily to check email.  Blogger feels comfortable with this request since neither Blogger nor computer are leaving the existing premises.  Character checks his gmail and within moments has snatched the wallet of Blogger off the table and proceeds to leaf through it proclaiming he can guess the age of Blogger and consults with Blogger's I.D. to confirm his [lack] of psychic ability.  Blogger is beginning to think that Character is really a Jacka**.

To cut a bit from Chase to Conclusion, Blogger later that weekend visits a local grocery store; hypothetically, the neighborhood Vons only to discover that Blogger's Vons Club Card is missing from aforementioned wallet.  Perhaps this doesn't seem like a major thorn in the Blogger's side in the eyes of Reader.  However, there are two contributing factors which really miff the Blogger.  #1, Blogger gave a phony phone number to set up Vons Club Card account, so it is impossible for Blogger to utilize the benefits as a Club member since Blogger has no recollection of phony phone number digits.  This still may not seem like a big deal, but the last time said Blogger cashed in a Vons receipt for Club Card savings, Blogger saved $8+ dollars; that may seem like chump change, but so be it then this Blogger is a chump with $8+ change.  #2, Blogger is full blown pissed that Character turned Jacka** pulled a fast one; no doubt, it could have been worse, but the principle of it is enraging.  (In addition, Blogger's frequent Pinkberry eater card which was almost full is also among missing nonentities.  This boils Blogger's blood.)

On Monday morning, Blogger returns to laptop to find that in a haste to leave Starbucks and exit the company of Jacka** expediently, Blogger did not close programs and shut down/log off.  So, Jacka**'s gmail account is still up when Blogger opens laptop that morning.  Blogger considers the karmic parameters of Universe and determines that revenge shall be virtually exacted.  Blogger wastes no further time and enters Jacka**'s Contacts folder.  Blogger "selects all" contacts, and Blogger says "delete".

Life sometimes can be karmic.
Karmic: –noun

  action, seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad

  the cosmic principle according to which each person is rewarded or punished in one incarnation according to that person's deeds in the previous incarnation

Catastrophic

Inevitably, somewhere, right now, the sky is falling, and Chicken Little is, well, running around like a chicken with his, yup, head cut off.  Personally, if the apocalypse (or, for you die-hards (no pun intended) who prefer the formal version, Apocalypse) strikes I want to be among the first to be taken out.  The people who make it through the obstacle course of any apocalyptic story always seem to ultimately suffer the worst and the most for it at the end.  So, count me out, right away.  I don't have a rope ladder; I don't have a back-up supply of food and water; I don't think my CPR skills are up to snuff; and, I don't have the fire department on speed dial (ok, actually I do, but not for emergency sake).

If you're not the Chicken Little variety, it's very likely you know a Chicken Little.  I do, and my Chicken Little was very (albeit, seemingly randomly) worried about tsunamis as of late.  CL asked me (and there is no good reason to ask me because I am, as previously professed, not an expert (nor do I care to be) on disaster preparedness, but the mind of a CL does not discriminate in seeking reassurance or refute alike) if I thought the block of Manhattan Beach where I currently reside would be taken out if a tsunami struck.

Without hesitation, I took full advantage of this CL's vulnerability.  I replied in full-blown affirmative that I absolutely had no doubt that a tsunami would wipe out the 11th Street block of Manhattan Beach.  CL took my opinion as conclusive and inquired what one should do during said tsunami.  Oh, how I couldn't resist; again, without hesitation, I said that in the event of a Manhattan Beach tsunami it would be best to "hold on".  CL accepted this advice.

About a week ago I ventured down the Strand into Hermosa Beach territory.  Much to my untrained for signs of potential disaster's eyes, I beheld tsunami warning signs.  I am currently in the process of determining the best after hours time to return, retrieve them and post them along the 11th Street block of Manhattan Beach--just for kicks of course.

Life sometimes can be catastrophic.
Catastrophic: –adjective

  a sudden and widespread disaster;

  any misfortune, mishap, or failure; fiasco

Sensitive

The first headline that I saw upon opening my preferred online news source, BBC.com, read "Moscow bombing: Carnage at Russia's Domodedovo airport".  

I'm sure the article was a simulacrum of all other reports out of most any other news source.  It wasn't just the content that was disturbing so much as the ability to sympathize.  This isn't, obviously, the first time an airport has been a targeted locale, and it's not the first time a suicide bomber has successfully taken not just his own life but others' as well.  I think what struck me today was the airport factor.  For the most part, I love airports. 

Airports mean relentless people watching (which I am a fan of), and airports mean travel (which I am a fan of).  Today, my best friend was returning from Las Vegas (which I am a fan of...for the first 24 hours...I think), and the instant message I sent today included the newsflash of the incident.  To my friend's credit, he's pretty up to speed with the world even when he's crawling back from Sin City, so he'd already heard.  It was the airport factor--this need to share this news.  Hypothetically, we could all be at the airport; we all go to airports.  I know I'm not at the mosque.

So, in short, the incident left me thinking not about my own potential peril, or that of anyone I know because I'm not a paranoid apocalypse predictor, but about the fact that tragedy resounds most eminently when you can put yourself in it.  Obvious?  Sure, but it made me second guess my sensitivity, and that wasn't necessarily as obvious.

Life sometimes can be sensitive.
Sensitive: –adjective

  endowed with sensation; having perception through the senses;

  readily or excessively affected by external agencies or influences

Perverted

He is blue, he is fuzzy, he looks like a bear.  In fact...he looks like a blue Carebear because that's what he is.  No doubt.

It is miniature, it has two big wheels in back and two small wheels in front, it is intended for the handicapped.  In fact, it is a wheelchair.  A toy wheelchair.

BLUE CAREBEAR + TOY WHEELCHAIR = BLUE CAREBEAR IN TOY WHEELCHAIR.  This is the scene I survey from beyond the steam of my Tall drip coffee outside the Starbucks where I've taken to posting myself like a resident owl; I'm always on the watch, eyes open and wondering "who? who? who?...who are these people?"

I send an instant message to my best friend describing the hilarity of a little girl enthusiastically pushing her blue companion in the plastic wheelchair that came from...(I can't even imagine where a seven year old girl procures a plastic toy wheelchair that is the perfect size for a stuffed animal).  I send this message with one eye fixed on the apparently, but still disturbingly happy, disabled orsine, and my inner eye fixed on...well, something else, clearly...because the message I send describes the blue careBARE--as in bare a**, as in bare a** naked because you're having sex.  Poor Carebear--not only is he (or she, to make an attempt at being PC) disabled, (and blue to boot which may qualify him as a minority), but now I've perverted his name (although, maybe not without merit because he does look pretty damn naked to me because that tattoo on his chest does not qualify as clothing).

Life sometimes can be perverted. 
Perverted:  –adjective

1. changed to or being of an unnatural or abnormal kind;

2. turned from what is right; wicked; misguided; distorted