ON MY BLOCK

I bicycled to the edge of town, slowing when I saw a group of cars parked in the middle of the street, about two blocks up. I managed to swing clear as I approached, but abruptly found my bike swerving when a man in a beige jumpsuit lurched in front of me. My tires squealed as my hand grabbed the brake and I jerked the bike to the right, nearly toppling over as I skidded to a stop. I thrust my legs down and balanced at the center of the road. The nearest car, a Volvo, leaned, crumpled on the passenger's side where a group of people in uniforms were hunched over what appeared to be a prone body. From out of that tight group a woman bore straight toward me, grimacing. "Get out of here!" she shouted. "There's been an accident. Just go away."

She didn't have to tell me twice. I got on the bike and quickly started pedaling off, pumping down the safer roadside. I'm not one of those looky-loos who feels compelled to get up close to tragedy and death; that's sick. Hell, the person on the ground wasn't necessarily dead. And the woman who crossly shouted at me was right to chase away casual onlookers. So I bolted. But on the edge of my vision as I left, a woman slightly removed from the group was watching me. Was it the same woman who yelled the warning? I couldn't tell.

Later at home I had an unexpected and distressing deja vu when a loud, persistent knocking began at my front door. I rushed to answer it, but should have looked through the peephole first: it was the woman. A woman. Wild-eyed, disheveled gray hair, skinny shoulders trembling with rage or fear. I couldn't tell which. I opened the door a crack and she burst in, grabbing my arm and screaming, "You stay away from me! I saw you at the beach spying on me. Stop it!"

Before I could catch my breath and respond -- here I had let a maniac into my house! -- she continued her screeching rant and flung herself on my couch. "You're a goddam spy! Stay away from me!"

And here's where my dream faded. A stupid dream, but weird. A friend said I should write it down like a fictional story. I could try to make it into a full story, with a plot and an intriguing mystery and such, but I don't want to. That's the simple ttruth, the reason I do not write fiction. I don't want to.

I just don't want to! I see you spying on me! Just stop it!

FLAILING THE FRENCH
Yeah, yeah, I'm a real slacker with this site. But don't blame me, blame the French. If Bill O'Reilly can be a Francophobe, who am I to argue? To be franc, however, I have nothing against the French. In fact I regularly yearn for their foods, wines and perfumes, and Don can tell you of the countless times I've wistfully wished for a trip to Paris. But, maintenant, it's just not in the cards. Quelle domage! Ou, c'est la vie.

(But which reminds me. Someone has to ask it: Will Paris and Paris be honeymooning in Paris???)

Be that as it may, our boat Past Sins French-kissed another boat this weekend, and how appropriate is that around 4th of July? By "kiss" I mean an inadvertent, wind-borne meeting of the bows resulting in tangled anchors. The angry Frenchman whose large craft we touched so intimately threw our party (us and two other couples) into a bit of a glare fest with his hissy-fit, and perhaps we were lucky not to understand the otherwise beautiful language. The kiss was broken after what seemed a prolonged phase of remonstrations and such.

In any event, I, as usual, miserably cowed and wussed-out by someone else's forthright rage, ditched the furor by ducking down into the cabin with Buckwheat and Marisha, one of our passengers, a sweet woman who bravely attempted to make me feel better with a tale of a suddenly, and tragically, motherless 19-year-old Playboy centerfold-in-the-making. That helped a little. For just then I felt like a motherless child. I am such a baby! It could have been so much worse. And now it's in the hands of insurance carriers.

Other than that, these are great summer days. Buckwheat, a wuss like his Mom, had his usual frustrating times trying to get in and out of the boat. Like I await Paris, he awaits a larger, more comfortable yacht, so he can at least sleep stretched out.