Joe Weaver

Joe Weaver

I was reading one of the big news websites this morning and came across an article about what the latest goofy thing the city of San Francisco is doing. Keep in mind, this is the city that all but gave an invitation to people to use the city sidewalks as a restroom. 

Just the other day, my wife and I celebrated our wedding anniversary. We didn't go out for a fancy dinner and a show. There was no dancing involved. There were no elaborate gifts or overwrought declarations of love. There were no flowers or candy. 

I am thinking I need an office. I don't need a big one, really. I just need someplace where I can write the column in peace. 

I would like to state, before this column starts, that I love writing the column. It's been a pleasure for the last few years to bring to you a little insight, a little opinion and a lot of words. 

I would like to thank those of you who are entertained, both of you, and all those who read each week. I have written about what an effort it is to put out a weekly column each week that is not only easy to read, but is well thought out and of the best quality I can muster. This alone is an achievement. It is not about preparation or research. It's not about struggling with a topic. The difficulty comes from something much more serious. 

My wife and I just got back from the supermarket a little while ago and for most of the way home, we could not stop talking about a woman we met at the bakery counter. 

She was an elderly woman with probably a little too much makeup, colored hair and enormous glasses. She was decked out with a lot of jewelry and wore high heel shoes. She was brassy and bold and definitely was from somewhere well north of here. 

I have been accused of a lot of things in the half-century I have been on this earth, but I have never been accused of being a morning person. I don't hate mornings, per se, but I will admit they are not high on my list of things I enjoy. 

The old wisdom says that first impressions are the ones people remember. It has been said that the first impression is always right and it is always stored in the back of the mind for future reference. I guess this occasionally true, as some people and things never transcend that initial impression. 

This evening, I had pizza for dinner. It wasn't made from scratch, nor was it from a local take-out. It was a boxed frozen pizza from the supermarket. The brand is not important, as I don't want to get into the area of product endorsement, but it has a World War I flying ace on the box. As gourmet food goes, it's lacking a great deal. It's not organic or all-natural. It didn't have any trendy toppings on it. It had four meats, though I can't remember which four meats they were. It's not expensive. It's not award-winning. It is, however, delicious. 

A day or two ago, as I often do, I got a Facebook message from my daughter. Usually, she will check in and let me know how her day is going or how my grandsons are doing, but sometimes it's just something a little frivolous. 

Cooper has complained that he has not been mentioned in a column lately. He's been quite perturbed and does not understand that he cannot be in the column every week. 

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