The other day, on my way to what is euphemistically and antiseptically known hereabouts as “the transfer station,” I looked up at a road sign as I turned right off of Cemetery Road and nearly ran into a tree because I was laughing so hard.

The sign said, “Westside Highway.”

It’s good, in these troubled times, to have things that set you to laughing, but this is just plain ludicrous: Everyone knows that the Westside Highway is a six-lane expressway that runs straight as an arrow down the length of Manhattan’s west side (duh!) right along the Hudson River. The speed limit, as I recall, is 50 miles per hour, unless you are a yellow taxi, in which case — by law, I think — it’s 90.

I checked this with fellow New Yorker, Bad Michael, at the Burton Coffee Stand, and he agrees…not that that means much.

Vashon’s “westside highway” (let’s not honor it with capital letters), is a narrow, two-lane rural road that wanders hither and yon through the trees and salal shrubbery on the far side of the Island. It looks like it was laid out by a drunk. Highway? I propose it immediately be renamed, clearly and accurately, the “westside byway.” I mean, really; what were they thinking…

For the time being, just to be fair, I’m leaving the Vashon “Highway” alone. After all, it is a mostly straight “way” that is often “high” (I refer, of course, to altitude) and runs the length of Vashon. Close enough.

And while we’re on the subject of New York, did you know that Manzanita, on the shore of Maury Island, was promoted years ago as “the Staten Island of Tacoma”? This is true. Trust me; you couldn’t make this stuff up. Maury should have sued Staten Island, or Tacoma, or both. Absolute slander.

Moving on to other anomalies, let us now consider The Hardware Store.

Imagine this scene: You’re perhaps a guy who’s met an intriguing woman — maybe while shopping in Seattle, at Nordstrom’s. You hit it off, and you think, “Hey, I’d like to see this woman again!” So what do you do? You take a deep breath and extend an invitation: “Say, I have an idea! Why don’t we get together next Saturday on Vashon, at The Hardware Store!”

Can you see the little thought bubble above her head? The one that says: “Wow! Now here’s an exciting guy! Wait till we get to the plumbing section!”

I wonder if anyone has attempted to calculate the sheer tonnage of confusion The Hardware Store generates in a single year. I mean, think about it: With this sort of logic, why isn’t the TrueValue called The Restaurant? Or Sporty’s, the Public Library? What I’m saying is, if we say we want to “Keep Vashon Weird,” why not rename everything? Why stop at The Hardware Store?

Here’s another anomaly: if you look on a map of the Island, you’ll find that the area at the intersection of Vashon Highway and Cemetery Road is called “Center.”

Maybe I’m just ornery, but it’s my natural tendency to ask, center of what? It isn’t at the geographical center of the Island, either north-south or east-west. And, the lively coffee roasterie notwithstanding, it isn’t “the center” of “town,” either. No, that’s called “Vashon,” which — just to keep things interesting — is the name of both the Island and the locus of commercial activity on said Island. But is that “Town?” It certainly isn’t “Center,” because that’s already taken, farther south and off-center.

Does anyone really say, “I’m going to Vashon” when they mean they’re going to, say, Thriftway? Of course not; we’re already on Vashon! Pardon me for thinking this, but I’m guessing whoever was in charge here, say 100 years ago, had a diabolical sense of humor.

If you live here long enough you come to understand that Islanders have solved this particular problem with subtle use of prepositions (okay, I admit I had to look up “preposition”) that let insiders known what each other is talking about, even if it doesn’t really make sense.

If you’re going to that part of the Island where most of the shops are, you’re going “up” town. But if you’re going to Seattle, you’re going “over” town.

These words are a kind of secret code language for much longer explanations of intention and direction. It’s like using the turn signals on your car to indicate where you’re going — which, of course, hardly anyone on the Island does because, since you’re only going 25 miles per hour, how much directional confusion can you really sow, anyway?

As it turns out, on Vashon where confusing anomalies reign, the answer is: Plenty.

— Will North is an author living on Vashon. His most recent book is “Water, Stone, Heart.”