How fast time flies….
This isn’t a timely post–as usual, I didn’t watch the Pro Bowl, but I read a reference to this young lady the other day and followed up. It’s a fun story, as it turns out–and she wasn’t really streaking, exactly. The best part is that she was all over the field, as quick as liquid mercury–one of those teams ought to hire this girl to return punts–and would probably still be running–and you’ve got to love those chest bumps with the players.
Here’s the official Chuck Junk read of the day…
Random photos from the internet to you, via me.
About these posts and the photos in ’em: http://wp.me/p3AOvB-FN
From a dream I had…I’m with some cool government white-hat cats in this purple old Ford panel van, something out of The Waltons via American Graffitti with slick modern Goodyears and the lush power rumble of a primo big block Chevy engine under the hood. The Feds are dressed to the nines: sharp suits and fedoras, vests, pointed shoes, but not effete: we’re talking button sleeves and half windsors, none of that Kevin Costner Armani crap–we’re going full bore Robert Stack.
We are moving in on the bad guys, who we know are staked out in a reservoir dog warehouse down a narrow alley, mostly shaded but for the weak glow of a single street light. I’m in the back. A man who would be Elliot Ness is driving with a beautiful woman from a soap opera riding shotgun–and Elliot, he drives that gaudy machine right down the alley and parks it so close to a black limo we’ve been shadowing, I say “They’ll spot this car in a heartbeat, it will stand out too much.”
And Elliot says, “we’re counting on it.”
Then, as soon as he said it, a wedge of gangsters appears from a building, moving towards us.
“Just stay cool kid, this is all part of the show.”
So it’s a setup, a sting. Elliot and the soap opera shotgun queen step out to greet the gangsters–but I don’t know the plan. Stay cool, kid, she stage whispers.
I sit there, arms crossed, try to look tough but ready for action–the body guard waiting in the car as a sign of good faith to the gangsters. I hear Elliot saying, “Just to show you my respect, Louie, I left my muscle in the car.” Gangster eyes peer in through the windows at me, the enemy muscle. I nod, try to make like a volcano: cool on the outside, ready to blow.
It is all about good will, and the gangsters ask me out of the car–they need to check me for weapons. I’m unarmed. They want to x-ray the packages.
There are packages in the back of the panel van, three of them. I should know which to give them but I don’t.
And then the x-ray.
And then they find the gun….
She sets her alarm for odd minutes of the morning: at 5:34 AM the buzzer will call her to work, and she makes a point of leaving the house no later than 6:41. Before she goes she’ll set the thing for me, in case the adrenalin rush of watching her dress doesn’t drive me to a morning shower. When that happens, I’ll then wake to the electric buzz, squint at the numbers to look and see what time she has chosen for me. Most days it is 7:47, occasionally 7:48–but never quarter til or even ten til. She doesn’t work on the quarter-hour system, or even on the ten minute marks. In fact, she seems to be opposed in general to all multiples of five.