| Larry Powell: Illegible writing might have some historical value 02/02/2001 By / The Dallas Morning News Good morning, and happy Groundhog Day.
Ah, yes, if Alan Greenspan emerges from the Fed office and sees the foreshadowing of a recession, he drops an interest rate ... or am I misinterpreting a long-standing American holiday?
Having made that goofball observation, we'll move on to the day's business while hoping that if there are six more weeks of winter, it is somewhere else.
WE INTERRUPT THIS COLUMN – The item originally scheduled for this spot has been delayed. There is a good reason: insomnia. (Aside: My heart goes out to those of you who respond to my occasional insomnia columns with a drowsy "Me, too!" Maybe this town is too loud at night for sensitive people like us. Or, maybe, we're just nuts. )
A fellow tries to make the waking hours worthwhile. So, in the middle of the night, when it's dark as the inside of a mad cow (another disease to lie awake worrying about), I'll scribble something onto a bedside notepad, confident that the tidbit will lead to a Pulitzer Prize, a Nobel Prize or, at the very least, an attractive certificate from the Western Area Select Society for Undue Praise (WASSUP).
The note I'm currently attempting to decipher appears to read either "birchless Braxy" or "hireless Preg." Colleagues have offered similar interpretations and one even asked, "What were you thinking when you wrote that?" As if I have a clue.
I'm tempted to put the scribbling into a time capsule and bury it at the grassy knoll so that in a hundred years, or at least next November, it'll be dug up and taken to a hieroglyphics expert who will explain that it's an ancient form of writing that appears to be a confession by a second or third gunman who couldn't write his name.
Now, as the madness that is my sleep pattern does a number on my noggin, we return to our regularly scheduled column items, if I read my notes correctly.
• A NOTE ABOUT THE OPEN ROAD – A couple of times lately, as I motored on Interstate 20 south of Dallas at the speed limit (65 or 70 mph, depending on the area), maniacs on motorcycles have zipped in and out of traffic at speeds surely exceeding 90 or 100 mph. One cyclist even turned the white dividing stripe into his own lane and slipped at breakneck speed between cars and trucks. If any of us had adjusted a side mirror in the slightest, he'd have been highway history.
Let me emphasize that these are not "outlaw bikers" on graceful Harley-Davidsons. By comparing their body shapes to that of, er, mature bikers, one might guess that they are young men who, in colorful garb, race past on speedy little bikes. Who are they? I'm sure the authorities will determine that during a post-crash examination of personal effects.
But this could be a reason for my sleeplessness: We live near a freeway, and I must be listening for some kid on a racing bike to launch himself several hundred yards into the air and into my attic through my brand-new roof. I'm not sure my homeowner's policy covers an airborne cyclist dropping in. I'll need to check the policy's roof rider.
• THE LIFESPAN OF A BUMPER STICKER – On Wednesday, the day that Mr. Greenspan dropped a key interest rate by a half-point, I motored to work on Interstate 35 behind an old, well-preserved yellow Buick.
Plainly visible on the back bumper was this sticker from the United Aerospace Workers: "BUY AMERICAN. LET'S END THE RECESSION."
Just a guess, but that old sticker may be from the last time a Bush was president.
Larry Powell can be reached at 214-977-8487; P.O. Box 655237, Dallas, TX 75265; via fax at 214-977-8319; or at .
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