By W.T. WIMPY HIROTO
I’ve been robbed! Sort of. Maybe not the most heinous of crimes, but right about now I’m in no mood to be picky. And who’s comparing, anyway?
A creature of habit to the nth degree, CR2S’s daily routine can be charted as surely as the sun rises. Especially in the morning.
Arise at 6:45, morning necessities follow (skip details); 7:20 to dining hall for frosted flakes with half a banana, self-supplied strawberries and crunched bacon to put atop daily scrambled eggs. Returning to apartment by 8:00, it’s time for a 24-minute exercise routine. After which I prop myself up on the made-up bed with a back rest and reading lamp angled just so (it won’t reflect on TV screen). It’s now time to peruse every page of The Los Angeles Times.
But first, another set procedure. I stack the sections in reverse order of reading: First the business section to check the Dow Jones and see who’s going to jail; the LATExtra is then followed by the front page. Calendar section is next to last, with care taken to remove the sudoku/crossword puzzle page for later solving. Sports conclude the separation process. Now we’re ready for a good two hours of reading to start the day off on the left foot.
Today we came a cropper. Alas, there was no sports section. A frantic search of the classified and auto sections, which I don’t waste time on, turned up naught. The unimaginable had happened: It was nowhere to be found.
Although new to apartment dwelling, I can understand the slim possibility of newspaper theft. But why just sports? That’s like robbing a cash register and leaving all the 20s.
Now, mind you, I’m not saying there is a pilferer amongst my all-Japanese neighbors; I’m just reporting my LA Times delivery was incomplete this morning. And it makes for a very naked feeling, to put it mildly. Like breakfast without coffee; ochazuke without tsukemono; watching television without a remote handy.
I’m not about to pose as Charlie Chan for something as inconsequential as newsprint, but since I can’t pick up the phone and request a replacement copy, let’s review the known facts: There are only about 15 Times subscribers amongst 145 residents (compared to maybe 50 Rafus); 24 residents are on my (ground) floor, only four of whom take The Times. There is very little intra-floor traffic. Papers are delivered to the front office around 4:30 every a.m. I have never missed a delivery to date, nor have I heard of any others.
My world will not come to an abrupt halt for wont of one day without a sports roundup. I already know the results of Dodger and Angel games; same with Clippers. And I choose not to read about the Lakers [didn’t someone get injured?]. What I miss is the small agate type stats that tell the story of all competition, be it MLB, basketball, horse racing, golf. Whatever. Missing one day won’t kill me. Ah so, this too shall pass.
The above minor flap comes on top of another bothersome irritant: a malfunctioning computer that continually taunts and reminds of the owner’s total ineptitude. It’s really no longer funny, let alone comical; it’s becoming GPa’s albatross.
Having finally “conquered” the challenge of the electronic equivalent of a kiddy car, emailing, CR2S continues to wear an e-duncecap in every other regard. Last week at deadline, I couldn’t transmit my column; something going haywire that made it impossible to send in my weekly commentary. Never one to panic, I took a deep breath and remembered there was something called an old-fashioned fax machine. So transmission problem was temporarily solved but not the “attach & send” malfunction.
And then there are those thingamajigs that comprise social media. The magic of Twitter, Facebook, texts, # and @s. Well, just for kicks I reviewed my Rolodex and address book and you know what? I sadly discovered that more than half my listings are deceased; you know, in descriptive Jappo slang, almost all my lifelong tomodachis are kaput! And chances are 50-50 the remainder, being as decrepit as I, would be just as social media illiterate. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. And In our world, it’s very simple: Somebody wants to know where someone is, they punch an old-fashioned contraption called a telephone, land line variety.
Which does not mean I am not impressed by Skype, intrigued with texting and all that young(er), new(er) means of communication. I mean, hey, just talking to someone of another generation is cause and pause for enjoyment.
It’s like that old saw about being careful what you wish for. If there is a time and place for everything and everyone, maybe it’s time to move over as well as along. At this point, I’m simply trying to think of something clever like: A pox on whoever made off with my sports section; I hope you wind up constipated. So there.
W.T. Wimpy Hiroto can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Opinions expressed in this column are not necessarily those of The Rafu Shimpo.