For those of you who haven’t noticed, I have been running a fever. Disjointed, silly thoughts abound and I have tough time finishing sentences before starting another. When I’m not hacking up a gob of phlegm, I’m hacking up a headline.
No, seriously, headlines is what I want to write about, but keeping with my phlegmish roots, let me digress.
It’s a beautiful day on the shores of Lake Harriet. Yet another race of some kind has taken over the parkway and I’m sure there are happy healthy people down there making the most of it. Nearly every weekend there seems to be something. Some of my neighbors belly-ache about, but I just nod and look at the clouds. They seem to forget that the lake is major park in a large city. It isn’t Walden Pond circa 1845. I like my neighborhood and some of my neighbors, but the complaining gets old.
There’s a new couple down the block, for example. He’s ok and was probably a lot better ante matrimonium. (We all have regrets.) He and I meet on the street and talk over the snow shovel or a cup of coffee. Her, on the other hand, well, I’ve met her once and barely then. She’s cranky.
I’m convinced she wanted to live in this neighborhood because her driven purpose in life is to change things that are not her business. I’m convinced she’s busy now poring through the city code looking for ways to restrict park activity.