There's a sign across the street from my son's weekly numerology class. The boy's mother, who I met briefly years ago, has threatened that if I reveal in this blog the message on the sign, then I can count my days remaining in polite society on the fingers of one hand. Since I'm missing the ring finger on my right hand due to a forced chemical spill back in the late eighties, the ambiguity of my time estimation is somewhat flinty or even odd.
It's my practice when arranging for non-apparent disappearances of persons, places or things to sometimes just take a short break, let my hair down (what little of it is left) and coach at-risk youth in the fine art of antique doily restoration while arranging for their indictment on major felony charges. Usually within a day or two I'm back on my game, scoping the ponies at Rickter Vells. When my niece's chauffeur, Richy Sneff, called yesterday at 3:42 AM I knew what to do. The tools I needed, however, were lacking—missing actually—due to the structural obtusion in the treehouse I call 'home'.
Three days after the 'hunting accident' that claimed my best friend's sister-in-law's French poodle Frenchie, the weather finally cleared and I was free to go. 'NOT SO FAST', I heard someone thinking. Normally in this type of situation I can remain unreasonably calm, but whether you know it or not, friend, these are not 'normal' times. Not by a long shot. So, while I can't promise that I'll return to Brooklyn before Founder's Day, there is one thing I CAN promise you. So what's that? you ask, right? Okay, here goes: I'm going to get up every morning and go to bed every night working my butt off for Our Great American People! If your life and the life of every person you know have not significantly improved within one month, then please sue me. I dare you.
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