Remember the early-'80s song "Freaks Come out at Night"?
I don't know if it's the hot weather, but on our late-evening dog walks we keep encountering people in liquor-fueled states of chattiness. You could almost see the fumes rising off one of them. I was used to that in the city, but you don't often see it on display in the 'burbs.
Speaking of boozy neighbors, Dan ran into a notorious tippler this morning. (No word on her status at the time.)
"How's your brother?" she asked.
The first time she made that query, a year or two ago, Dan was momentarily nonplused, wondering: How could she possibly know my brother? Then he realized she must have meant me.
He set her straight, as it were, but evidently it was too much to grasp. Or maybe she just forgot. Heavy drinking takes quite a toll on the mind, you know.
We might have to do something more memorable - like making out in front of her. Which would give me considerable pleasure, not least because Dan reported that she was wearing a T-shirt today from the 1996 Republican convention.
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