I just recently discovered that the correct term is “Daylight Saving” (singular) — NOT — “Daylight Savings” (plural). It matters little to me. I no longer wear a watch because my uber-screen smartphone displays moments in 2,100-point type. Bonus? It resets DST automatically. Ditto with my microwave, computer and garage door opener. The clock in my car? It will be correct six months hence. That’s just ducky with me.
My dear amigo for decades, John Duarte, wrote an essay on time in high school, pointing out that there was Howdy Doody Time, “… parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,” and, that “…Time, like your uncle, is relative.” Amen, boy howdy.
I’ve been nocturnal since birth and wonder why housecats to horses insist on being fed at Zero-Dark-Thirty. It’s an imposition. If animals insist on that behavior, I communicate, in no uncertain terms, that they can easily be put up for adoption. Or, sold to an Asian restaurant. (“I’ll take the Minced Fluffy and the Pad Thai, please …”)
At 7, I was a latchkey child. My parents were divorced and Dad worked the swing shift — 3:30 to 12:30 a.m., sometimes later. I’m in second grade and there were school nights where I’m wandering the streets and just barely beat Pops home. Elementary school curriculum wasn’t exactly a challenge, except for maybe asking my rollicking classmates with all those missing teeth to tone down the volume while belting out, “Li’l Liza Jane.”
I’m still like Rudyard Kipling’s youthful jungle boy protagonist, Mowgli. I sleep when I’m tired. Eat when I’m hungry. Pushing and pulling the hands of time doesn’t affect my life. I do know that good old Benjamin Franklin is blamed for the invention of Daylight Saving (no “s”). Poor cheeky fellow. Even the august, booger-eating New York Times falsely accuses Ben. Truth is, back in the late 1700s, the great inventor and rapscallion was our ambassador to France. There, he wrote a satirical piece suggesting Paris adopt DTS. Tongue in cheek, Ben noted if you blew on the sun, you could save candles. Franklin also kiddingly suggested taxing window shutters and ringing church bells to announce dawn. The NYT today? The stuffed shirted libs still falsely think Franklin was serious.
Daylight Saving (no “s”) makes no more sense in ancient agrarian societies than in our present parentheses. Modern folk have to punch clocks, or, be sitting, properly postured, pained winning smile, at their desk, cubicle or lube rack, no matter whether it’s hot or cold, dark or light. Farmers are unfairly blamed for time monkeying. Cows don’t have iWatches on their hooves. The sun rises — it’s breakfast time. There’s no evidence supporting that DST saves energy. Well. There is. But, there’s more evidence that it actually costs more money to implement. So. Why suffer through it? Daylight Saving is just another justification to control the masses and, like the Hart district trustees, be a shining example of bureaucracy’s useless existence.
I smilingly remember, eons ago, where an actual experiment of Clock Fiddling resulted in some delightful consequences. Well. Delightful to some.
I’ve shared often that I possess three wonderful, wicked, sister-like substances — Lesbie Ann (it’s actually “Leslie,” or “Lethhhlee,” but we call her Lesbie) Peters-Boston, Tweedie Peters-Boston and Lisa Boston-Peters. To this day, all three are quite annoying. From nursery school to post-grad, these three perfect women didn’t have an A-minus among them. They’re still knock-down hubba-hubba gorgeous, funny, witty, sweet and each was head cheerleader at Hart, which counts quadruple over being head cheerleader at any of the Santa Clarita Valley’s lesser high/continuation juvenile delinquent factories.
Lisa’s the youngest. She has an IQ longer than a ZIP code. Lisa didn’t achieve that AI Intelligence with just her come-hither, husband-trapping looks. She’d drive to Hart two hours early, just to study.
One night, after Lisa had fallen asleep, Tweedie and Lesbie Ann tiptoed in to kidnap Lisa’s alarm clock. T & LA also set back every clock in the house three hours. So. Fifteen minutes before the bars close. Lisa’s alarm goes off. She stumbles out of bed, showers, puts on her 8 pounds of warpaint/hair spray, makes coffee, feeds the dog who’s too exhausted to eat at that hour, grabs 165 pounds of books, jumps in the Gran Torino and drives to The Mighty Indian campus. As was her habit, she waited in the subarctic Newhall morning for sunrise and the first janitor’s arrival so he could unlock a warm classroom for her.
How should I put this?
Lisa Claire stuffed in an entire semester of extra book-learning that morning. Just because she’s smarter than 42 Einsteins all bungie-chorded together doesn’t mean that she had a fully developed criminal mind (like me). Outside?
It’s. Still. Eerily. Dark.
It’s 4:30 a.m. before she thought to turn on the car radio for a traffic and time update. Now three months ahead on her Calculus Brain Scientist Independent Study, Lis creeps back home, exhausted. She fell asleep with her clothes on. Her saintly mother, JoAnn, let her sleep in.
I’d offer a sincere and heartfelt, “…pobrecita Lisa…” Alas, that house was built on revenge. Months later, Lisa allied with Lesbie Ann. Tweedie had the habit of talking in her sleep and nodded off early. Les and Lis — gosh; I might have assisted; can’t remember… (:- ) — filled a large bowl with warm water, submerging Tweed’s delicate hand. Don’t be angry. This was for science. We were testing to see if Tweedie would wet the bed.
But, through deep-sleep hypnosis and narcotizing voices, we suggested that Tweeds was at her own wedding. We urged her and her goofy smile to recite her vows to her groom (the deformed limping juvenile delinquent/running back, Clint McKinney) and, to address the overflowing Catholic OLPH congregation about how their future children would be the first astronauts on Mars.
So. There you have it.
That’s pretty much why I don’t like Daylight Saving Time.
Management strongly urges bedwetters and all Signal subscribers NOT to fall asleep with John Boston in the same room. BUT — do visit his bookstore at johnbostonbooks.com.