"You're in the wrong place," he said. "All our numbers are three or four digits, yours is five... and we don't have a 'Golf Club Drive'." Bullshit, I thought. This has to be the place. I radio back the other driver. "He says I'm in the wrong place..." "Ah, crap," came the reply. The guard went back inside to do some guard thing, then a minute later came back out.
"Oh, yeah, that's the clubhouse," he said. "I didn't recognize the street. It's straight ahead, second street. Turn right and the clubhouse is right there." I waited for the lumbering gate to open, all the while trying to wrap my brain around the absolute dimwittedness of a security guard who didn't know the location of the clubhouse that was merely two streets straight ahead. I mean... what the frickin' hell??
The old Austin chugged up the hill to the first street, where there was a stop sign. There was a queue of cars behind me, again. (All along the trip up the freeway, there was a queue of cars itching to make it out of this old car's wake).
I chug down to the next street, find my way to the clubhouse, and I see before me a bride and groom, standing, waiting, at the curb. Holy bejeesus. I am to pick up a bride and groom? I had no clue. I clunk to a stop and step out to meet them. They were not happy. By now it's 10:20.
I copped an earful about how frustrated they were with the tardiness of the cab. It turned out that the clubhouse was their wedding reception, and at 10pm, they would leave the clubhouse in some kind of "grand exit," to step into an awaiting old London Cab, and be wished a happy life together by the throngs of guests standing about. 10:00pm came and went, and everyone left. The bride, groom and a couple of immediate family members remained, waiting for me. Clearly, the old Austin was of no use any longer to them.
Clearly, if this was what the car was intended for, it should have been arranged to be at the Clubhouse well before 10pm. Somebody screwed up. I felt a little better knowing it wasn't all me.
I told them to forget the charges. Clearly, to me, it didn't make sense to pay for something they didn't get. They did offer to help with gas for the trip, and again I declined. I'd screwed it up this far, no point in making their entry into married life any more traumatic. The groom handed me a $20 for my trouble and at least shook my hand. I apologized again for the umpteenth time.
The trip back was uneventful. Same route, this time mostly downhill, so the old girl got a little bit of a break. I made it back to the hotel by about 11:15pm, and met Norma Jean, the other driver, at the office. I told her the whole story. She was as annoyed as I was about the apparent lack of planning for this event.
Then came the phone call to the boss. He was not pleased. "You did charge them, right?" Um, no. Nothing. I should have called him, he said, probably rightly so, although he would have no doubt embarrassed himself (and me) by trying to convince them by phone that they needed to pay.
So today, when I go back in, we'll have more to talk about. I am at least pleased with the experience of driving the old Austin. I think the old cab and I will get along fine, so long as it's not an everyday thing.
He enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force in August 1940 and served in the 23/21st Battalion in Victoria and later in the Darwin area. In June 1943, his unit returned to Victoria before being sent to Queensland. At this point the unit was disbanded and its members allotted as reinforcements to other units. Kenna was assigned to the 2/4th Battalion and embarked for New Guinea in October 1944.
On 15 May 1945, near Wewak, New Guinea, when fire from a Japanese bunker was holding up the company's advance, Private Kenna stood up in full view of the enemy less than 50 yards (46 m) away and engaged the bunker, firing his Bren gun from the hip. The enemy returned the fire and bullets actually passed between Private Kenna's arms and body. He remained completely exposed and went on firing until his magazine was exhausted, when he continued with a rifle. As a result of his gallantry the bunker was taken without further loss. This action won him the Victoria Cross.
Three weeks later he was shot in the mouth and spent more than a year in hospital before being discharged from the AIF in December 1946. The following year he married Marjorie Rushberry, who had nursed him at Heidelberg Military Hospital.
It must have been a miraculous thing to see, a man firing into enemy fire in this manner and not receiving a single wound. Balls of titanium, indeed.Because class is all the left has.In Sarah Palin's resignation announcement she complained about the treatment of her son Trig who always teaches her life lessons. She said that the "world needs more Trigs, not fewer." That's a presidential campaign promise we can all get behind. She will be the first politician to actually try to increase the population of retarded people. To me, it's kinda like saying the world needs more cancer patients because they teach us such personal lessons.
Her first act as President: To introduce a Pre-K lunch buffet that includes lead paint chips. Sort of a Large HEAD-START Program.
She will then encourage women to hold off on pregnancies until their 40's just to mix up some chromosomes.
She now is in favor of abortion only in case of diploid birth.
Her policies will increase jobs because Wal-Mart is building new stores each day and someone has to be the greeter.
This will lead to smaller government because fewer Americans will have the cognitive ability to hold a government job.
"We want Pop to grow up more freely and avoid being forced into a specific gender mould from the outset," Pop's mother said. "It's cruel to bring a child into the world with a blue or pink stamp on their forehead." The parents say they never use personal pronouns, referring to him or her only as Pop.
"I believe that the self-confidence and personality that Pop has shaped will remain for a lifetime," said the mother.
Swedish English-language paper The Local, quoted "gender equality consultant" Kristina Henkel who justified the parents' action, saying if they are doing this "because they want to create a discussion with other adults about why gender is important, then I think they can make a point of it."
But critics say that similar experiments with children have had tragic consequences. In 2004, David Reimer, a man who had been raised as a girl in childhood, committed suicide at the age of 38. Reimer's parents had been convinced by Dr. John Money, a gender studies specialist at Johns Hopkins University, to impose "gender reassignment therapy" on their son after a botched circumcision.
Reimer became widely known after the publication of a book about his life titled, "As Nature Made Him: The Boy Who Was Raised as a Girl." He appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show in order to prevent other such experiments.
Starting in the 1960s, the topic of "gender roles" and "sex stereotyping" became one of great interest to radical feminist theorists. At that time, the concept of a "psychological" gender was popularized, leading to the concept in "queer theory" and "gender theory," of the "transsexual" - a person who believes he is born in the "wrong body" and whose "congenital defect" can be corrected with surgery and hormone treatments. Gender theorists have posited as many as eleven "psychological genders."
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