Thoughts on a Saturday night.

First, here's a sweet 1949 Buick I saw this morning. It's nice to see that something (slightly) older than me is still cherished and considered worth maintaining...



Sometimes, I read back through what I have written here and can think of this "MrScribbler" person as someone else altogether. I see him making plans, feeling optimistic that some particular thing will work out for him and, with the gift of hindsight, I want to yell "don't do that!" as loudly as I can.

Think of it as being like watching a movie for the second or third time; you know what's going to happen, but the dumb fool on the screen who opens the door into a dark room, or steps out into the street without looking, hasn't got a clue about what will hit him in a moment or two.

And sometimes I see him depressed, unsure of his ability -- or even desire -- to cope with what life has dropped on him.

If there is one overriding trait this "MrScribbler" person has, it's a belief that people will be as good as they seem, that they will be honest and not take advantage of him.

What he doesn't know, not having the ability to look into the archives ahead of time, is that many -- if not most -- will not feel any need to be good, to honor promises or give a happy damn when he needs something from them. He walks a one-way street, this fool, and can never figure out why it should be so.

And if you were to ask him, he would say something like: "well, **** and ****** and ******* didn't play fair, but I can't believe everyone is like them."

In fact, if you ask him about ****, or one or two others, he'll defend them, will tell you that, though they promised much, delivered nothing and ultimately abandoned him, they are essentially good people. They have troubles of their own, he'll say, and will wish he could somehow help them.

Let it be said that I often wish it could be within my power to (figuratively) grab **** and the others by their collars and somehow make them see what they have done to him, and what they have lost from their own lives. They, too, are blind.

He's no altruist, mind you. He has his needs and desires. In fact, he needed what each of them, and still others, offered him. He expected what they promised, though in his defense it must be said that he was prepared to give as much -- or more -- in return.

A veneer of cynicism lies atop his words at times. But, like most veneers, it is thin and, without backing, easily broken. He is only reluctantly cynical and bitter; in his heart, he is the Ultimate Optimist.

I wish I could tell him what to do. But, like all of us, he cannot see into the future. He reacts to each new event, dreams his little dreams, and is perplexed when things don't go as he hoped.

More often than not, I see him, as revealed here, as a hopeless case.

Like a prehistoric creature contemplating the advancing sheets of ice, he knows dimly that his time has passed, has no idea how he might deal with it. And yet, against all odds, he will believe he can deal with it, and will believe that right to the end.

Sometimes, I see him as a naive idiot. Sometimes I like, even admire, him and sometimes I despise him.

But he is all I have.