Losses

I saw this car parked outside the Coralville Mall and thought, "this person's probably pretty damn cool..."

And so today I woke up, discovered that we'd left the fridge open all night, spoiling everything, and then ventured outside with Stella, where I found the busted remnants of a bicycle lock that let me know the score: Bike #3 (a.k.a. "Blue Bike") had been stolen from our yard in the driving, drizzling rains of last night. "Bastards brought tools for this," I said to Stella, who had peed on the kitchen floor in the night, causing me to think more mortal thoughts about her (as in, "Man, Stella's really wearing thin these days, poor old gal..."). At the same time, a lanky young dude biked by our house, completely innocent of anything, probably, and I gave him the Evil Eye. The remnants of the bike lock sparkled, scattered.

Anyway, in addition to this Bad News, today I also learned that David Foster Wallace had offed himself over the weekend (hung himself in his own home). For those who don't know, D.F.W. was a writer of words who didn't hesitate to go ahead and sort of revolutionize and revitalize (post)modern fiction. Sure, he could be indulgent. But so what? When he was on, the mutha was on, which is more than can be said of most. It's sad. His family's loss is also the world's.

If I coulda caught the bicicyle thief, I'd have broken his kneecaps (and that should say a lot, coming from a pacifist). Instead, I'm just a guy on his porch, scowling complacently, exhausting imagined karma.