Topic One, Topic Two

A hot, hazy, Sunday evening. Temps in the mid 90s. With humidity only slightly to the left of rain.

Within the last few days, I've made a mind-numbing decision: to try to sell my house and to try to buy another one.

Sounds simple when you say it. But it was an unnerving determination.

For a couple of years, I've been very aware of the changing nature of the neighborhood. And I no longer have that sense of safety or security I had in years past.

In a way this is hard to define. I've noticed a dramatic increase in the number of kids and teens who play in the street at all hours of the day and night.

And I've also noted older idlers who wander the neighborhood without any obvious purpose. I can not help but think of someone looking for an easy target.

An event happened the night of July 4 that I found irritating and perplexing. Around 11:30, a party of adults and children at a nearby house spilled out onto the street. I first heard the group, then I began to hear fireworks, including rockets. Just as I returned to the living room, I saw a rocket fly down my drive and hit my car! I should explain that my car was at least 75 feet from the street.

I should have called the police, but I did not. I went outside, and immediately a man came over. I pointed out what had happened, including the fact that the rocket was continuing to smoke under my car. We talked, and he said it was little kids. Which did not address the number of adults around.

I went back inside. And quickly decided I wanted to hold on to the rocket. I went back out with flashlight in hand. And from across the street I heard a drunken woman say, "What does the motherfucker want now?" I Found the rocket. Again the man approached. I asked him if he would be upset if someone hit his car with a rocket. Of course, his answer was yes. Two other men appeared, and again I asked the question and got a positive answer.

I wish I'd told him to ask the woman how she would feel. But it didn't register. Almost immediately the fireworks stopped and the party broke up. But I was furious. It occurred to me that this incident was quickly over. But the next might be more dangerous. But I also know there will not be a next one, because I'll call the police.

Tomorrow, I'll carry a batch of "Wallpaper" to work. I'm sure I can get a few discerning souls to adopt. But they'll have to promise not to read more than two pages a minute. And once finished, the magazine must be displaced in a prominent place in the household. Once a mag has reached it's terminal point, it must be respectively cremated and the ashes lifted to the heavens by the north wind.

PAX!