Has Anyone Alerted Mr. Chertoff?

Because I suspect that Homeland Security did not approve this document, and something tells me heads are gonna roll when it reaches the Oval Office that there's an official government document floating around that goes on the record as saying that those members of the Evil Empire? Those villainous scum of the earth, the Arabs? They're just like us.


Oh yeah. And by the way, so are the Berbers. But who would go to all that fuss about a bunch of carpet?

Dangerous Curve Ahead

I once got asked in a bar, "Hey, what's your sign?" Not kidding. I really did. I think he thought that it was so dorky it had to be cute, the same way pocket protectors were once in, or bell bottoms. (Why is that, anyway? I lived through the hideous dress code that was the 70s once; I have no desire to repeat it.)

Anyway, scarcely believing my ears, I stopped whatever I was writing, peered at him over the tops of my glasses, and said (with a completely straight face, mind you), "Do not enter."

Somewhere back behind the bar, there was a tremendous crash and a strangled yelp as my husband, who in a lull between tables was helping the bartender change a keg, tried not to bust a gut.

Other answers we came up with after hours, slinging back Yeunglings as fast as we could pour them, included U-Turn, Slow Children at Play, and (my husband's favourite), Speed Hump Ahead.

There is a plethora of amusing signage out there. Most DOT workers don't realise how funny they are (or maybe they do, and have just been waiting for someone to appreciate it). How about the two signs outside my local Whole Foods that share a signpost? The top one says "No Stopping or Standing." The bottom one says--you guessed it--"Stop." Or the sign in Peekskill that points right towards 202/35, right next to the One-Way arrow pointing left? Or the existentially helpful signs in parts of Iowa: "Gusty Winds May Exist." Yes, they may....but they may not.

Along the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut are carefully spaced warning signs: Caution. Depressed Storm Drains. I guess they're afraid of the storm drains throwing themselves under the wheels of a passing automobile in their despair. Nearby, in Westchester County, is a sign that contradicts itself. "White Plains / No White Plains" it announces. Well, yes. Either it is, or it isn't. That's the way it is with most of the exits on that particular stretch of 287. If you turn one way off them, you get to White Plains (whether you want to or not). If you turn the other way, you don't. Actually, this isn't always true. Sometimes there's no avoiding White Plains, no matter how hard you try. And believe me, I've tried.

But perhaps the most ominous example of stupid signage I've encountered is near the Big Dig in Boston. It is meant to indicate an underground bypass tunnel to Boston's North End neighbourhood. Grossly underpunctuated, it states "Tunnel No End".

And they think I'm going to want to drive into that thing??

Notes from the Fiver

1. 4:30 AM is not too early to get up to run in this heat. 7:30 AM is, however, too late.

2. Mile 1.0: two purple socks on the bridge, and a plastic Smurf head the size of a dinner plate. I can't be hallucinating already.

3. Hills, hills, hills.

4. 85 degrees is a lot, when coupled with that much humidity.

5. More hills.

6. There is no such thing as too slow.

7. Walking counts.

8. Look. A hill.

9. A shrub's worth of shade can make a world of difference on the ass end of Higginsville Road. Start planting trees at night.

10. Now I know I'm hallucinating. Because there's Jimmy Two Strokes, doing his Mile 22 Dance, like this:

11. She who does not start out a run like this without a wet bandana on her head is a dumbass.

12. ....mommy?

Fortunately, I was not hallucinating. It really was my mommy, leaving for work. Which meant that this was my house. Hello, house. Can I kiss you? Can I kiss the hose whot makes cool water run down my head and neck so that I can feel my feet again?

Recovery time was quick, which meant that I wasn't really going to die, it just felt like it. Which is good to know, in retrospect.

The Ghost of Kittens Past

One-eyed Jenny Linsky, in a rare moment of whimsy, wreaths herself in sheer curtains on mom's daybed.

On Running My First Ten-Miler

I am the mayor of this road's ass.
Thank you, and good afternoon.

Notes from the Repository of Souls

This grew out of another great/impossible prompt from the folks at Sunday Scribblings. It's very raw, and unlike my usual need to overpolish and work to death, I actually want to post this one this way. I'm not sure why. I think of all the secrets we carry for others, and I know that some people hold the secrets of many.

Persephone's Dream

You come to me underground
where I hold all your black stones
your prayers in the thick night.

The lovers you shouldn't have kissed
in a churchyard full of secrets
our bodies, where we lay them, full of dreams.

Our lips suck the forbidden fruit
words that want to crawl back,
unspoken, into the caves of our mouths.

The children you couldn't carry
rest between my breasts:
this silence, the labour of my love.

One day I will carry your death
alone at the crossroads
the gun to your head.

And I Thought I Was Absent-Minded

Apparently, the good people of Chile have misplaced a lake. My guess is that it's not under the living-room sofa, but you never know.