Tales from the Shoebox

Where do I live? Is this Bloomington? This is no Bloomington I know. Immodestly dressed young ladies parading the streets, knuckle-dragging young men cat-calling. And this is all right outside my door on the street. There are more SUV's on my block than I recollect ever seeing when I lived on the south side of town. Basty looks at me disapprovingly as though I knew ahead of time that this would be our lot. He looks at me saying "I thought you said we'd never have to live in Panama City Beach again. Our daily existence is smack in the middle of spring break. Even one of your 5 coed neighbors has an airbrushed license plate on the front of her SUV." Yes, Basty, I know, and I'm sorry. But at least our internet is free. At least our water and gas seem to be free. "But, Brian, it is so noisy here and walks are so boring and ugly." Again, buddy, I know, but there is nothing I can do about it. "But Brian, what do you plan to do with me when you go to the Netherlands? Do you intend for me to stay here in the shoebox, listening to the rabble-rabble of voices outside the door, unable to freely run in a back yard to make poopies?" No Basty, I don't know yet what will become of you, but I am certain that it either involves becoming a menu item at Dragon Express or going on a long vacation from me. "Brian, do you see this look in my eyes? Look closely. This is the glare of disappointment." Basty, don't do that to me. If you want to eat tomorrow, you'll just go to (YOUR OWN) bed and sleep. We'll talk more later.

With a tinge of regret, a couple more pages of the dissertation, and a longing for Primanti Bros.,

B