That should have been my own name, yesterday, I think. But nevertheless, this is today, and it is less horrid.

I don't work until six, for starters.

The other day, as I went to work, I happened to pull out of the drive in front of a faded mint-green pickup truck. As I glanced in the rearview, I noticied, looming large, a reflected confederate flag vanity plate screwed to this gentleman's bumper.

Now, the bumpersticker on the back of Red Dwarf reads, "Race Mixing is Cool."

Bemusedly, I headed off towards work, with this fellow folowing me closely to the end of the street. He turned the same direction I did, but in the next lane. When I came to the next turn-- I had to make a left-- he pulled up next and a little ahead of me, in the right hand turn lane, looked over his shoulder at me, and stared me down hard. I shrugged, took a bite out of my ham sandwich, and noted the second confederate flag sticker on his rear windshield.

The light changed, and, giggling giddily, I schlepped on to work.

By the by, Chere Petra, just you wait. It's in progress. E-mail will hopefully be forthcoming, pending roundabout battles with Bahorel over the merits of first vs. third person.

<<agé chose>>

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