On the omnibus tonight, a fellow commuter in the seat in front of me was reading a novel entitled From Dead to Worse. A passenger in the seat behind me was asking his neighbor, "How do you spell 'rush', as in 'I'm rushing somewhere?'" Both of these perceptions struck me as vaguely disturbing. I should mind my own business.
More disturbance. A friend of mine was incarcerated today for "stalking" -- by photographing female high-school athletes and cheerleaders at public sporting events. Apparently, he shot over 1,400 such pix. This news is on the front page of the Jersey Journal. It sounds plenty weird, but (based on what I've heard so far) I'm in a quandary as to how it is illegal to photograph fully clothed nymphets at public events. This may presage looser and more restrictive definitions of "stalking" and "public", respectively.
The front porch here is now festooned with electric Xmas ornamentation, yet the autumnal pumpkin remains -- plump, orange, and defiant. Somebody isn't quite ready for "the most wonderful time of the year".
Consider this scenario: You have $80 million in unknown Picassos stashed in your garage. You didn't steal them; he gave them to you, but you resisted the temptation to liquidate any of them for 30+ years while you worked as an electrician. I want to believe. I want someone to reveal that they've stashed the holy grail in the back of their refrigerator since 1968 while they worked as a Walmart greeter, too.