More Frisky than Risqué

What an awkward feeling, being in a novel place without the slightest shadow of a partner-in-crime. This forces me to have conversations in my head (as if I didn’t already,) and appear to be a confused cornflake floating in an ocean of goat milk. And let me tell you, the goat milk down here is thick and humid. In an effort to appear less Joan of Arc and more Joe the Camel, I affect an air of importance and tend to walk quickly with a smirky smile on my face, checking my watch all the while. Unfortunately, part of the illusion is lost because I don’t wear a watch and I’m not smoking a death twig.

Ray-G turned out to go by the handle/moniker of ET, proving once and for all that the government should issue street translators for toothless people that try to sell you things. His full name is extraterrestREAL, and, like I promised, I bought his wares. Most of his songs are actually very good, if you can get past the kitchen-closet production quality and the weird alien voices he sometimes makes. To round out my ragtag street posse, I went cruising around on foot last night. I was approached by a mellow fellow who goes by the name of Polar Bear. He showed me a blood stained bandage on his leg and told me that he had just received stitches from a dog bite (apparently dogs are starting to multi-task, both biting you and stitching you up at the same time.) It was quite the show and tell, and I started to get nervous because I hadn’t brought anything to show the class. He soothed my nerves and changed the ambiance by asking for 85 cents. Knowing full well that all dog bites are more palatable (almost chewy,) after someone gives you 85 cents, I was devastated to find that I had no cash. I told him I’d hit him up with a dollar if I saw him again, and he saw me off with a wave goodbye and a single tear. I’ve now got a friend from the North Pole and one from the North Star (Polaris, phone home.) Man it feels good to be alive. Too bad I don’t have any from North Carolina.

This state is conspiring to spiral me into a Good Depression. Not even Great, mind you, just Good. First, I find out the state sales tax is 1% higher than in Michigan. This shook my faith in no small manner. There goes my youngest child’s college fund. There goes my summer ice cream money. On top of this, $5 footlongs don’t exist down here; I’m not sure if they even show the commercials. ...and there goes my sanity.

By changing my right front tire, my father managed to temporarily shake the homicidal tendencies from the polluted mind of my Dodge Intrepid. Like a discount therapist, though, he only pushed the car’s countenance from the deep end of the pool to the edge of the cliff. Now, instead of trying to dive into oncoming traffic to end my life, it tries to ram me into the welcoming fingers of the roadside underbrush. On top of this, it has requested (in writing) that I start feeding it premium fuel. I’m thinking of having The Beast admitted to the nearest chop shop and buying a scooter in its place. I fear that if the ‘trepid catches word of this betrayal, oncoming traffic might start to look mighty appealing again. Only this time, daddy isn’t here to save me.

Some quick work news: I report Monday at 8 A.M., an hour early, to get outfitted with a laptop. It’s business time, baby. I also got invited to a Durham Bulls game tonight. And the fun begins… now!

P.S. I have a huge blister from my run and, oh my, I think it wants to spend the night. Do you think I should charge it rent?