Castles Made of Sand

There's a certain intersection on my way home from the wellness workout place; there's a Wendy's, a couple of car repair places, a big old house that someone turned into a big old real estate office, and a shopping center with a grocery store and my bank. I call it 'my bank' because, well, it's where Peggy and I have what we laughingly call "our savings." For those interested in food delivered by tiny model railroad cars, right where this shopping center sprawls across the land, there used to be a restaurant called "Hamburger Junction." The cook would load your bacon cheeseburger onto a flatcar back in the kitchen, the chow would travel through the beanery on model railroad tracks, and some sort of routing system made the flatcar stop right in front of you. Baltimore is always on the cusp of new methods of food presentation. Although Hamburger Junction closed down decades ago, we now have some sort of Brazilian steakhouse downtown where the food is brought out to you on the tip of a sword, and carved to your order with a dagger. We haven't ventured down there to eat because, well, it's downtown! and plus, it would cost about fifty Brazilian dollars to eat there.


But anyway, back to the intersection where Hamburger Junction used to be, for some reason, every time I try to get through the light there, some meathead(s) is (are) gridlocking the intersection. Here's what I don't get about their modus operandi : they sit at the light, seeing that traffic is still backed up at the next light (the main drag, Harford Rd) and then, right before their light turns red (and mine turns green) they decide to pull into the intersection, knowing damn well they aren't going any further.

Then, the Appropriate Thing To Do, as outlined in the Poor Driver's Almanac, is to sit and stare straight ahead, not once turning your head askance to see the looks of approbation being aimed your way like pepperoni raining down on a 14 incher at Papa Chubby's Pizzeria. Looks, and the occasional digital salute, and every now and then a salty member of the immobilized driving public will offer a suggestion for a really novel method of self-gratification.

But hey, gridlockers! It's your world; we're just driving in it! Or not.