Wednesday, March 08, 2006


I've been coming down with something. Yesterday, I felt like I had been beaten all over with a sack of oranges (mmmm...oranges), and today feel woozy and foolish. When I'm feeling ill, I generally console myself with all sorts of processed and terrible foods: canned things (Beefaroni), fast foods, and soda (specifically, orange soda which I otherwise loathe). So it wasn't surprising to find myself pulled up in Loomis Park today, with a plate of Kentucky Fried Chicken on my lap, listening to Fresh Air, and looking over the grey/brown vista of Michigan in March. What was surprising was my company.

It was hard to find a spot - almost every other parking space was taken by some other poor sap, no doubt seeking a short period of peace in their work day. I had contemplated returning to my office to eat, but could not face the slew of jocular inspectors (think of your least favorite uncle and imagine that he only talks about plumbing), the bulemic receptionists, and the World's Shortest Fire Chief.

Ah, Jackson.

So, there were a lot of us in Loomis park today, no doubt escaping similar fates. I thought I had found a private spot, but after I'd parked, I realized my neighbor had only been temporarily slumped in her seat and thus less visible. Nap? I thought. But she then began to alternatively writhe and loll...she was either high or masturbating, or maybe both. I locked the doors, but didn't leave.

First of all, I was worried that something was really wrong - that she was seizing or having some other medical emergency (imagine me knocking on her window with my chicken bone..."Ma'am, ma'am are you alright?"). Second of all, how can you not watch that, I mean, come on. She didn't seem particularly aware of me at any time, and I hazarded occasional surreptitious glances from behind my lunch. She was still at it - whatever IT was - when I left. I think this means we all need better places to each lunch...we get into such trouble otherwise.