A dose of reality

We walked up to the Willo neighborhood today, anticipating the neighborhood open house that takes place in another 10 days. We walked up Third and zigzagged across to Central, past Palm Lane (palm seeds are cascading down as the starlings swarm through for snacks) and up Central to a mall. Stopped for coffee, then headed a block or two west to the Willo neighborhood.

It's modest and generally well preserved, the homes 90 percent one story, with many adobe style and others with tile roofs. Ranches and war boxes (with minimal overhang). A very nice neighborhood that's separated from the main arterials so commuters can't just zoom through. Here are pix of a couple of Willo homes and a cool Inuit sculpture we saw at the Hurd Museum.

After the walk back I decided to ride my mountain bike to get stamps and envelopes. The terrain here is all flat, so riding is easy. After an extended wait for the lone clerk at the Post Office I got the stamps, then rode up Central to CVS for envelopes. Locked the bike to a rack and went in, passing a couple of rough looking characters. One ostentatiously saluted me as I passed. Got the envelopes and went back outside to find . . . no bike. The lock and cut cable were there on the sidewalk, but the Cannondale was gone.

I started the walk home and called the police. They came by the condo an hour later, knocking like the Gestapo, to take my information but they won't even file a report, since I don't have the bike serial number. They said they'd keep an eye out for it during their shift. Lotsa luck, guys.

This experience has excited my imagination.

I catch the fool stealing my bike and whip the shit out of him with the cable and lock. (fantasy)

I lock everything and check it twice. (real)

I regret using a relatively light cable, and look sadly at the U-lock I didn't use. (true)

I ask Elisabeth to mail down the New York Chain I didn't carry along. (likely)

I see the guy riding my bike down the street and by cleverly maneuvering my Astro Van manage to squeeze him against a light pole. The van's white finish contrasts with the blood. (I'm hoping)

After the officers left we decided to catch a drink and chose Portland's, a restaurant about six blocks west of the condo on the same street. Thinking we might see the bike thief, we took the van. Portlands is plain, recent and quiet. They had the feisty former prosecutor on TV. A number of regulars were there and more came in.

Allen was especially popular, and on his arrival received many hugs from the patrons. He was kind of stocky and wore a short beard. Looked like a Hugo to me.

We shared an excellent pizza and on the way out I commented that there were many regulars there. "Not really," said the hostess. "They're here for choir practice at the church next door."

"Not Baptists, eh?" I said.

"Episcopalians," she replied.