The problem with new-fangled inventions is their likelihood of being abused.
    I’ve written ad infinitum about the gratuitous porn that shows up on my desktop at home and, if I’m not careful, within view of my three grandchildren, all of tender years.
    Before very many people had cars, and w-a-y before gasoline spiked to $3.09 a gallon, running into people, sometimes literally, was unavoidable. Often the run-ins provoked challenges, or at least posturing, sometimes one of us having to yield sidewalk space to someone we met. Too often the encounters weren’t friendly. There were many challenges.
    A medical doctor with business contacts flattered me a few weeks ago by asking if I’d translate into Spanish a set of instructions for a new device designed to replace the traditional baby bottle and resemble human anatomy.
    The invention is conical, with a nipple in front and a plug in back for filling: milk straight from the store or from the mother.
    All it took was one keystroke to change from the apparent popularity of a cheerleader to a recluse.
    My son Stan, in Seattle, who kind of manages the Internet server of which I am a part, typed in an extra letter in my e-mail address, and like magic, zillions of unwelcome messages stopped arriving.
    I did a double-take listening last week when I heard someone announcing she was going to Dick’s Dally. Dick’s Dally? You know, the popular restaurant downtown that prepares deli sandwiches. Each time I’ve gone there I’ve been convinced that they conduct their business with celerity and alacrity. They certainly don’t dally at the deli.
    If the newsroom crew of the Optic were to secure five Pulitzer Prizes, it probably wouldn’t cause a ripple. And though such an achievement is admirable, if a bit far-fetched, it points out how unpraised we are, those of us in journalism.
As a retired teacher, I recall attending endless workshops in which publishers would send their reps to peddle old wine wrapped in new skins.
    About the time all of us decided it was time for Dad to surrender his driver’s license was when he said, “I’ve been driving for almost 50 years and have never had an accident.”
    “Don’t you have better things to do?” I got asked that question about 55 years ago by then-Las Vegas City Police Chief Matt O’Brien as he stuck his pointer finger into my ear and gave it a slight tug.
    “What’s your husband’s name?”
    “Art.”
    “Is he a Chicano?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can he butcher a pig?”
    “Heavens no.”
    “Oooo, then he’s a Gringo. Get rid of him.”