A few weeks ago, Gary’s dad brought in boxes of books and left them at the store for the employees to go through and take out what we wanted. Most of the books were self-help or Christianity related, but I found two I wanted: the first is a second copy of Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets by David Simon. It’s excellent reading for anyone living in or near Baltimore, interested in police work, and wondering how true-to-life most dramatic portrayals of detectives are. The second was A Simple Plan. For a book that probably sold most in a grocery store checkout lane, I was surprised by how gripping and compelling it is — paraphrasing the blurb on the back of the book, it really does make you feel like a co-conspirator. Putting it on my Netflix queue, I wasn’t particularly surprised when the film turned out to be, in comparison, incredibly disappointing. I don’t know why I’m surprised about things like this: I’m an English major. The book is always better than the movie.

I felt really dirty watching Little Miss Sunshine, particularly the child-beauty-pageant sequence. I was glad to see the film ultimately reject the beauty pageant ideal of beauty in favor of a person’s inner worth. Also, while I enjoy Alan Arkin in most films he’s in, my favorite role of his is still as John Cusack’s shrink in Grosse Point Blank.

I had mixed feelings going into Miami Vice — I like a lot of Michael Mann’s stuff, but I’m not the biggest fan of the over-the-top TV show. The movie was pleasantly surprising, and while the plot twisted like a bull and threw me loose a few times, I turned off the television happy to have seen it. For me, the most engaging sequence came at the end: the long camera shots, the bright staccato bursts of gunfire at night.

I debated calling out this morning but decided, for a few reasons, to go into work. Primarily, it was a financial decision — yesterday I felt bad enough where I wouldn’t have been a very effective employee (a puking pizza guy generally makes you send the pizzas back), and that was enough to outweigh any financial considerations. Today I was feeling much better, and couldn’t afford to take another hit on my wallet — fortunatly, today was also very busy, and I had twenty-nine runs between working open at the Franchise, and late at the Indy. My average was a little low, but I walked out with a hundred and thirty for a ten hour day. Fortunatly, Driver-Gary agreed to close for me, because I wasn’t feeling up to a twelve-hour day (I know, a two hour difference, “suck it up, pussy!” is what you should be saying).

If anything, the very oddly warm day and night didn’t hurt how I felt — I felt like I was twenty again, and the day absolutely flew by. While I’m totally cool not having any snow on the ground at all this winter, I’m also not so certain I’m cool with January exhibiting spring-like temps: I really missed my Jeep today, and was (briefly) tempted to rip the roof and doors off my Celica. I joked with a customer, “Hopefully it won’t be snowing in July!” It won’t be, right?

Spring weather, if anything, makes people drive stupider. Four incidents from today to illustrate this point without requiring you to brave the harsh roads of the Greater Phoenix/Hunt Valley area.

On my way to my first delivery, I made a left-hand turn onto Sweet Air Road. A car northbound on Jarrettsville made a right-hand turn onto Sweet Air: he had a yield sign which he ran, and I had to brake to avoid hitting him. Aside for the pizza bag flying off my front seat, there was no harm, and I was really too mellow (and still perhaps a little sick) to make much of a fuss about it, but there he was, looking at me in his rearview mirror, screaming at me, giving me the middle finger. I really really really wish I was an undercover cop and my car-topped Celica was an in-disguise police interceptor at times like these.

On my way to another delivery, I stopped on the road to allow an oncoming car to pass. The individual waiting to make a left out of the street I was waiting to turn onto didn’t seem to have remembered to install his brain that day, because with tires squealing and rubber peeling, he bolted out, narrowly avoiding a collision with both of us. The driver of the oncoming vehicle and I shared a shocked “WTF” look.

I got cut off by a sportbike. I was already doing at least ten miles over the speed limit when he came up on my ass, waited for a straightaway, then bolted around me, gunned his engine, then slammed on his brakes to make a left into his driveway. Needless to say, we both had to wait for oncoming traffic to pass before he could, so I didn’t mind, stopped behind him, leaning on the horn as if to say: “Thanks for making me wait, fuckwad.” “Inconsiderate fuckshit” works also.

There was an accident at Ashland and York around 6:45 tonight. A police car with lights flashing was guarding a car waiting for a tow in the far left lane of westbound Ashland. I couldn’t believe how many times cars would pull up behind the cop car only to be suddenly shocked when the lights would turn green and the cop car wouldn’t move. Generally, when a cop car has its lights on, it’s either going somewhere really quickly, or nowhere at all. Then again, I’m known for my keen observational skills.

HT: Mariz Lopez, in the comment section of Dave Copeland’s Blog.

My number one Google Hit over the last few days? Wesley Autrey, who I wrote a post about. For a short while, I was on the first Google page of search results, which, I assume, led to a surprising surge in hits Thursday and Friday and my apparent promotion in the TTLB Ecosystem. Yeah, they weren’t interested in my blog, most didn’t stay long, but I won’t deny a thrill at seeing my sitemeter’s graph shoot into previously unseen territory.

I have six empty pictureframes on my wall above my living room window (got ‘em at IKEA - $1.99 per three). Eventually, these will be filled with cityscapes of Baltimore. For now, they hang there as a reminder of their existance. Otherwise, I’d find them in a few years when I move, crammed into the back of my linen closet, and I’d ask myself, “Where and why did I buy these?”

Linen closet. Junk drawer. All the same thing, really, aren’t they?