Brittle plastic on a sprinkler head and a stubbed toe make for ticky tack fouls in life unequal to starvation and the Bubonic plague, yet they’re pretty close. I’d like to enjoy the remaining moments I have on Earth, but there’s so muchticky…mucht icky… Mutt…much Ricky…much ticky tack that crawls up from the underground, and bends you over backwards. See. Even getting out this last line found me fumbling and bumbling, stymied either by iPad technology or else by App wordplay that would rather redirect me rather than work with me. Yeah, I know. It’s my own fault. Why? Cuz I’m living.
More from the ticky tack front: this afternoon, my wife and I shopped at Target, imagining we could find brake pads for those worn out ones for my bicycle. They had everything else but brake pads. (Are we that much of a slow-moving society that we no longer need brakes? Maybe.) From computerized and multi-functional gadgets to helmets of all shapes and colors, and even a spare kickstand. Since when does a bike manufacturer not include a kickstand for every bike coming off the assembly line? And once a kickstand is off, why replace it? The annoyance it provides during a bike ride – slowly dropping with each bump along the trail and rubbing against the peddle – overshadows it’s usefulness.
Speaking of bikes. While at Target, my wife mentioned getting another bike, a bike rack, and going to places where we could go biking along bike trails – when we have the time. I told her we’d be too old by then and not interested in making the effort. I suggested the time is now. I now suggest that the town of Hackensack is calling us, to come ride that town’s piece of the Paul Bunyan Trail. Tedious upgrades. Cross winds filled with hot air. Low hanging branches like monkey arms to slap our faces. Nothing like it. Ticky tack on the fly.