Thoughts from Friday July 4th.

I like living near train tracks. 

The soothing sound and repetitive refrain as the train rumbles by reminds me of travel and excitement. It makes me feel alive. Also knowing the sound may be emanating from a freight convoy hauling toxic waste, ammunition, or fuel that could spill or explode any minute reminds me of life's uncertainty.

Fifty-years ago I listened to whistling airplanes that were sure to drop, what I thought, would be a bomb, killing us all. These many years later I'm concerned with train wrecks.

Living near train tracks also keeps me grounded. I've traveled from one end of this country to the other by way of train so trust me on this, the routes are not through the richest neighborhoods. You will see a dump or auto dismantler, which is the politically correct version of junk yard, several times an hour.

Back in the days of the old west, on the Lone Ranger anyway, men coveted land on the train routes. Property like ours was worth something. We are half-mile from the tracks. There's a depot stop ten miles away both east and west. Now the wealthy get as far from the tracks as possible.

And so today is July 4, the birthday of our nation. It also happens to be a boyhood best friend's birthday. Happy Birthday Bob.

In addition to incinerated, possession of cherry bombs, M-80's, sparklers and even black ash snake pellets can get the owner incarcerated. Fireworks of any kind are illegal. California is in the midst of the worst drought in recorded history. The land is dry as a bone that's been in the desert for a century and a half and stupid neighbors around here are already celebrating.

This is wild guess. With the exception of the Will Smith movie my neighbors don't know (or care about) the difference between Independence Day and New Year's Eve. If it can be celebrated with loud and dangerous things, they're in. At 11:55 last night we were subjected to noise reaching ear bleed levels. I heard window rattling and saw bright flashing colored lights. The noise sent Steve and Sparky running for cover under the beds. The lights sent me to 1967. Those flash-backs can be miserable.

Bilbo Baggins would call these pyrotechnics "wiz-poppers." I call them what they are, trips to the ER and property danger. When the neighbors set off their last sky-rocket a large smoking pile of ash was slowly blowing down the street shedding hot red sparks as it went.

Our area has little water but still people risk using what we have to put out grass fires. I still see them using hoses to wash their cars and trucks. We're bathing twice a week and these fuckers have nice clean cars. Soon they won't be able to drive them due to the cost of gas, but they will be shiny.

Years ago someone gave me this excellent advice; if you don't have positive and constructive suggestions to improve something don't complain about it. I'd like to give the person credit but I can't remember who it was. After all, it was a long time ago.

I don't know what to do, or how to go about changing the ways of other's. I wish I had a ray gun that would zap them from here to North Dakota but I don't. All I can do is try to minimize their impact on me and continue to bitch and moan. It does make me feel so much better.

What I don't understand is why some people think rules or standard behavior for the good of all does not apply to them. I'm not referring to psychopaths but to normal every day insensitive people.

I'm talking about the noise polluters I can hear six blocks away. The people who have loud all day and evening yard parties and drive cars that send out bass sounds that rival sonic booms. The citizens who wash their cars, soak their lawns, and dump their garbage on city streets at 3 a.m.

Now it's 12:21 pm. The weather is beautiful, it's 83 degrees. There's a slight breeze to cool things down and tinkle the wind chimes in the backyard. It's so quiet I can hear a distant mockingbird singing and hummingbirds clicking and buzzing through the lantana and lavender. It's so peaceful and pleasant and I'll enjoy it while I can. It'll be dark in nine hours.

The annual showing of Yankee Doodle Dandy begins in thirty-minutes. I've seen Cagney do his George M. Cohan impressions more than enough times over the years. Today I'm deferring to Wanda's viewing desires. I always miss another holiday staple, the 1972 smash hit 1776. It's the story of our founding fathers and early independence presented in song and dance. I'll need to put than on my things to watch list. Oh wait, I don't have a things to watch list.

I haven't seen the first episode of Breaking Bad or Orange is the New Black yet.

I don't have long flowing locks of luxuriant hair cascading down my shoulders so why, I wondered, do I have my back to the shower fixture. Factoring at least three per week I have taken four-hundred-fifty seven showers in this bathroom. I always face the same way and it's toward the rear. I suppose I can relate this stance to a surrender of my alpha status. Or more likely it's the placement of my shower toiletries. My shampoo is housed on the shelf closest to the back wall.

Am I  a typical male?

The new shower surround has six shelves; I have one for my shampoo. I have a luffa and liquid soap on a command strip on the wall. I don't use extra soap, scrubs, conditioner or skin products. I also have two drawers in the vanity. I have my every day drawer and my once a week or so drawer. My every day drawer contains a toothbrush, deodorant and razor. Wanda has every other square meter of space in the front bathroom and the entire half-bath in the back.

Now I know why I face the rear of the shower. Now I know my place.