As I sit there waiting for the light to change from red to green at the intersection of West Kennedy Boulevard and Dale Mabry, I roll down my window and offer young Pops a few dollars. This is not out of the kindness of my heart entirely, as I felt required to give him some cash in order to extract information.
"Where's Pops?" I ask.
"Who?!" He replies half irritated, 40% curious and 10% something I can not put my finger on.
"Pops, the old guy with a red hat, like yours." My reply sounds more like a question than a statement.
He looks at me as if I'm half crazy, 40% stupid and 10% something he can't put his finger on. He shrugs his defeated shoulders, shakes his head, apparently committed to his initial 40% hunch that I'm crazy then begins to walk away. Before he gets too far and just as the light turns green he says, with a wide grin, "I like that name though. Pops!"
I travel through the portal, back to today, and it dawns on me that I have just given Pops his nickname. I'm not a physicist, and my time travel paradox knowledge is fairly limited...but it seems fairly logical and entirely possible.
Oh and as a bonus, here's photo evidence that I don't pull beads out of my ass.
Today's Jazz Hands were paradoxical. Day one-hundred and forty-three complete.
Once again, physicist down the road.
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