A Letter To The Next Lyn St. James....

To the young woman in the Pontiac next to me on Milton Avenue:

I noticed your car as it passed by while I was turning on to Milton Avenue today. I noticed its crumpled creases from dents in the passenger side front quarter-panel, and its passenger side-view mirror tethered from one cable, draped and clanging against the silver paint on the passenger door. I noticed its weathered smile from the front end, with its missing (rather, half-missing) grille in the front like a toothless, jack-o-lantern grin. I noticed the missing hub cap from your rear passenger tire, the rim exposing itself to unsuspecting and accedental voyeurs such as me. And I noticed the jagged hole in the plastic rear bumper, gaping as if a land shark such as a Lincoln or a Cadillac had taken a bite, just to see what your car tasted like. It clearly missed your "Recall Walker" sticker on your back bumper...thank goodness. Apparently whatever land shark decided to taste your car was a Republican.

Yes, I noticed. But who am I to judge? Perhaps you just didn't have the resources financially to make the necessary repairs to your car the time the accident occurred. Times are tough, certainly. Truth be told, however, I'm certain that you would have a hard time convincing others that all these maladies occurred simultaneously in the same shark attack. But then again, perhaps it was a feeding frenzy when it all occurred. It certainly looked like it.

Perhaps this normal "wear and tear" occurred in a series of bad luck. Furthermore, I am thinking that for whatever reason, it most likely wasn't your fault. No, certainly these maladies wouldn't have been because of your constant attention to the communication device I saw you using in your right hand, eagerly awaiting the next text message that I'm sure was from your mechanic, letting you know when you would be able to bring your car in for much needed convelescence. I'm pretty sure as well that these maladies didn't occur from your inability to properly see over the dashboard of your full-sized vehicle, even though I was only able to see the top half of your head through the side door window. You certainly looked comfortable with your front seat reclined at a 45 degree angle from your base seat cushion, laying in repose like the Queen of Sheba on her royal chaise. I'm surprised there weren't others in the car with you, their long peacock plumed fans fanning you to cirulate the air in your car to keep you cool. I've never tried driving while looking THROUGH the steering wheel, but from the looks of it, you have the technique mastered. I'm sure that on any normal day, feeding frenzies aside, you're an excellent driver.

Or perhaps, given your sticker of protest, it's the governor's fault, since you don't probably have a job to pay for the gas in your Pontiac, the insurance i'm confident you have, the cell phone charges for your infinitessimal texting, or the Marlboro Ultra Light 100 cigarette dangling from your pursed lip, or the small child in your care in the back seat. Just observations I make as I drive by. No, freshening up your unfortunate-looking jalopy doesn't look as if it is at the same level of priority as your need to be linked in to the world around you.

Whatever it is (even though you look barely 18 and are vertically challenged), I cannot help but be relieved both in the choices made, and the priorities you have set for yourself. It brings so much levity and credibility to your story of your maladies.

Just one thing, though. Next time you may wish to look up more often to make sure you're still between the painted lines of your lane. As much as I admire what you have done to keep your vehicle in tip-top condition, I simply wouldn't appreciate it as much as I should if you were to side-swipe my car while you were having such an important conversation.

Regards,

The Guy In the Truck Now Behind You

Things that go loose in the night....

I've been tired all day.

After spending an evening with friends out and about, I did what I do every evening: let my two grehounds out to take care of business...at 1 a.m. It started off very ordinary, but in a matter of minutes things went to hell in a handbasket in 1.3 nanoseconds.

The hounds were released.

Not on purpose, mind you. Being extremely nimble and very narrow, they quickly escaped on me, and suddenly I was transported into a "Born Free" moment that was neither planned nor welcomed.

After taking off like a rocket, and yes, once again me trailing far behind (and really, someone in my shape and age simply CANNOT catch a greyhound in full stride) looking like a complete jackass, the hounds were loose. It didn't help much that Dillon is jet black, and Siri is brindle (translated: canine camoflage), in the dead of night. It really created a myriad of complications. Fast, nimble, and stealth, and naturally camoflaged. Greyhounds 1, Owner 0.

Apparently a daughter of one of my neighbors happened to be up at the time and said she heard a man yelling outside. She originally was going to call the police thinking it to be a domestic altercation, but then realized after seeing my hefty ass running full speed at 2 miles per hour trying to track down something, she figured out that I was after my animals. At one point the dogs stopped, but then took off once they saw me come close, and then were gone. Rat bastards.

After going around and around the block about 6 times, a guy on the other side of my block just happened to be stepping outside for a cigarette, and tracked me down to tell me that the dogs were just in a persons yard. Who knew there would be so much neighborhood nighttime activity at such an hour? But I did spot them, now 20 minutes into the ordeal.

Well, Dillon really wanted to come to me, but when Siri took off, he thought running with her was the better option, and ended up following right behind. I seriously needed Barbara Woodhouse and a firm "Walkies!" at that moment. Where is she when when you need her?

Eventually they ended up in my next door neighbor's yard, trapped into a corner by a fence row. Busted.

Eventually they came to their senses, and halted their midnight escapade when they knew they were as good as caught. THANK GOD. It also ended the midnight entertainment for apparently more neighbors than I thought, which was more than fine for me.

A Slight Dusting

So here I sit. It's February 1. It's snowing. It's snowing hard.

Cozied up with my favorite bottle of Petite Syrah, I glanced outside. It's blustery. And man is it snowing. I can't see my neighbors' houses across the street. The flagpole looks as if it's a rubber band flapping in the wind. My flag (what's left of it) is flying completely horizontal. It's amazing.

This is what hell freezing over looks like.

I can't help but think of some of the trite comments we often make about the weather, with hope that somehow it will appease us, or at least make us feel like what we're experiencing is not so bad.

The best yet:

1. It's a bit brisk out there.
2. I don't think the hard stuff's going to come down for quite a while.
3. But it's a dry snow.
4. It's just a slight dusting.
5. It'll be gone by tomorrow.
6. It's going to melt overnight.
7. I've seen worse.
8. We need the precipitation.
9. It's not the cold, it's the wind chill.
10. I thought it was supposed to be 70 and sunny.


Anyhow, nothing gets us talking like talking about the weather. As if we can do anything about it.

I'm just hoping I still have the roof on my house by tomorrow. Oh the weather outside is frightful alright. Yes. Hell frozen over.