Judas Priest. How did September slip away so fast? Was it that week in Vegas? Confusion caused by allergy meds? Could it have been downsized along with everything else?
Whatever. Tomorrow it will be October, and I’m betting we get our first snow before Halloween. The furnace just clicked on at midday and the thermostat is set at 67 degrees. Sheesh. Close the doors, shut the windows, batten down the hatches.
It sure is pretty out there, though. Fall will always be my favorite time of year, even though it means hunting up my comfy samue pants for around the house, and arm/knee warmers for outside of it.
Hm. It appears I was mistaken in my Party Palace post — les flics did nab the young man in question (he was hiding in the attic, says the legitimate tenant of the actual house on the property). Now, instead of squatting in a refurbished garage with a motley collection of drug-addled evildoers he is enjoying three hots and a cot at taxpayer expense.
His mother, who owns the property, is in no hurry to get Sonny sprung, which suits the neighborhood just fine. Two of his pals who remained at large popped round twice on Tuesday, looking for Christ knows what (perhaps a mislaid debit card that’s now in Mom’s hands). I have photos of both and a license-plate number, and so do the cops.
Meanwhile, today we have enjoyed our first scumbag-free day in many a moon. I should have a case of beer delivered to the squadroom.
Herself found this item in the alley this morning. There, as they say, goes the neighborhood.
Who needs cable TV? Last night we had a live edition of “Cops” right across the alley from Chez Dog.
The Party Palace, like the Mos Eisley spaceport, has always been a wretched hive of scum and villainy. And as the man says, it’s the quiet ones you want to keep one eye on, because the most recent residents have been as quiet as they come.
Until last night. A few uniforms in patrol cars rolled up the alley with lights off and then, with a SWAT team, commenced inquiring about the whereabouts of one of the two-legged roaches infesting a one-room cottage on the property, a gent who happens to be the son of the woman who owns the towering pile of horror-movie house across the driveway.
Rarely have I seen so much weight brought to so little purpose. No doors were kicked in, no dogs of war let slip; neither were Tasers, .40 cals, tear-gas canisters nor any other weapons deployed. The firehouse down the street contributed a truck whose lights turned the property into a Hollywood soundstage, and a couple of minor characters were hustled off, stage right, but the target of the op’ remains at large, as far as I can tell.
And the young lady who chauffeurs him and his mates about seems to come and go without let or hindrance, though her car is showing signs of wear and tear. She’s popped round at least twice today, and one reliable source had her tottering down the street looking like she’d been shot at and missed, then shit at and hit.
Heroin, suggests another reliable source. Lovely. I might have learned something from having William Burroughs in the vicinity, but this lot looks less than literary to me.
Love him or hate him, you’re going to see Mark Cavendish in the rainbow jersey during 2012, and I can’t say that he and the Brits didn’t earn it.
The Limeys brought the pain in Denmark, stomping everything flat like Godzilla tap-dancing on Tokyo, and when it came down to the final sprint, well, that was all she wrote. Once again everyone in the peloton gets a backside view of the little weirdo with his arms in the air.
And he’s already talking about London 2012. Blimey. Glad I don’t have to race against him. It’s much easier to deliver my Snark-O-Grams® long-distance.
Hello, autumnal equinox. I didn’t expect you quite so soon. Still, there’s something to be said for lows in the 40s and highs in the 70s, especially for those of us who like to spend a lot of time outdoors.
Indoors, the evening libation is shifting gradually away from ice-cold beer to blood-red wine, and we need an extra blankie come bedtime. Occasionally the furnace clicks on. Perfect sleeping weather, if you don’t mind a snuffling mutt periodically rearranging himself around your ankles.
It’s cyclo-cross season, of course, but I don’t think I’ll be seeing much racing in person since I work the weekends for VeloNews.com. Looks like there’s only one local ’cross, too, on Nov. 19. All the action’s up north these days, which is one of the many reasons I no longer race. Who wants to drive for five hours to race for 45 minutes? Not this old dog.
Speaking of racing, it seems VN.com doesn’t have the wherewithal to pay Charles Pelkey for live updates from Sunday’s elite men’s race at road worlds, so I’m going to try to embed the code on this site for your viewing pleasure. If for one reason or another it doesn’t work, you can always visit CP directly at Live Update Guy.
Mad Blog Media 