Being retired is great, but living on a fixed income can be challenging. To combat the downside, I have established a brand new business called Boyle Innovative Products or B. I. P. My business plan includes designing and selling ingenious products you will not find in your local brick and mortar stores.
Letter: Fife’s future foolishly follows gambling’s financial flow
They were against it before they were for it.
As the month of this past February wound down, the Fife City Council was unanimously thumbs up in its opposition to new casinos. Now in recent days – almost exactly eight months later – gambling is A-OK if located in AAA-rated hotels.
Letter: Leaks (and Lotteries)
A crack in a roof and a leaky government in which your money is used in the latter case to plug holes – holes mostly imagined, many holes government-created – are similar in both the damage done and the costliness of repairs and that only if you can find, after repeated and frustrated attempts, the infernal source.
Westside Story – I Have To Hand It To Him
I just found a new reason to be happy to be a resident of Washington State. We enforce our seatbelt laws. The same cannot be said for our first state, Delaware.
My photo tells the story.
Letter: Kilduff vs. Wagemann – so who are they?
After all the candidates’ mailings, photo-ops and rallies – at the end of the day who are they really?
What Aesop wrote long ago is as true today as when the story-teller wrote of public affairs in the 6th cent. BC: “You are known by the company you keep.”
Westside Story – Roadway Catapult
With over two decades in law enforcement, I have investigated plenty of cases involving unnecessary injury and death to innocent victims. While it is true I am retired, I can still spot potential trouble from a mile away.
Check this guy out. He loaded a heavy water heater onto the trunk deck of his car and then with some flimsy cord and a single bungee cord, tied the load down by running the line through his open back windows. Down the road he goes.
Westside Story – Old Paint Cans
In the 1950s when I was a 12 year old kid, I used to go to the dump with my dad in his 1936 Chevy pickup truck. As soon as we left the highway, he let me drive the old truck around the dump. That is right; no high school driver’s training for me.
We had the entire truck-bed loaded with trash, garbage and junk. By the way, we called this magic place the dump, not some fancy name like Recycling Center, Recovery Site or Landfill. If you had something you wanted to get rid of, you hauled it to the smelly dump, fought through the army of flies and pushed it out of the truck, with no questions asked. There were no rules to complicate life.
Letter: Hidden tears – they cry too
With 420 million pornographic Internet pages – according to “Smart Freedom” by CareNet – littering “virtually every aspect of modern human life,” why do a handful of signs in Parkland “beckoning customers to a strip club using photos of scantily clad women” bother the Pierce County Council, member Jim McCune in particular?
For good reasons.
Letter: Why we row
Because, quite simply, we’re not multitaskers.
In the days when service stations actually serviced customers by pumping their gas, I worked at one while attending college. Just not for very long – neither service station nor college. Too much going on at the same time for my simple mind to handle.