Letting go of attachments should be easy when you don't have much, but when you don't have much, what little you have is all you have. In other words, they stole my stuff.

I have been diligently hiding my resources and meager assets. Perhaps it is not right to desire, but from nothing, I will return to a compound, my compound. So even when someone takes my smallest of possessions, a few of my gold coins, a used jacket I had purchased for carrying my belonging — they probably did not even know the coins were in the inside pocket — I am annoyed. I hate the working warrior routine. We all have our strengths, this is not mine; patiently punching the clock, accumulating tips, but doing nothing is not an option...for the moment.

Exercise tonight was coming from a long walk home. I could sharpen my citizenry observation skills while walking myself to the point of exhaustion — and I am sick of the filthy bus, which always smell like a filled, flowless urinal. It was a beautiful evening, though a full moon must be on the horizon, because things turned weird.

The long walk wound its way through a nicer part of town. The feet of fleet were swollen, tired, which is the reason block walls half height are so useful. Sitting on the midget sized block wall...wait, midget is on the banned word list, and no need to draw attention...on the knob-bob-administrative preferential standard height wall, I noticed the citizenry in the area was more attractive than most other neighborhoods. The men seemed older and the women seemed younger. Everyone was dressed professionally. What a nice area of town.

Under the lights of the well lit city streets, every nuance was observable. The sidewalks looked as if they were scrubbed clean each day, yet the unattractive people who did that work were nowhere to be found. This was a special place...just like all the rest, but clean and attractive. Same same, but different.

Two young men, looking slightly out of place in ill fitting suits seemed to be fairly excited about the man approaching them. They did not seem interested in doing him harm, the fist of juiceless justice proclaimed while clenching in concern. The man, older, taller, well tailored, walked comfortably down the street, looking as though he did not notice the young men. All of that changed when he came close enough for the young men to be heard the approaching senior.

“Hello, Representative. Representative, how are you today? What do you think of the administration's policies regarding...” one of the young man began to ask, while his friend recorded the question. You could tell they were not prepared for what followed.

The man old enough to be their grandfather grabbed the arm of the young man asking the questions, causing the youngster to squeal “Ouch!”

“Who are you?” the grumpy old man demanded. “I have a right to know who you are!”

No one seemed to fear escalation, though the youngsters had that look of “grandpa's gonna spank us” going on. I had a question though: Where does this guy's right to know who these guys are come from? And how come he can be violent with impunity? Is it because he is old and senile?

“Please let go, sir. We're just college students working on a project.”

“Who are you! I have a right to know!”

“We're just students, sir. Please let go.”

With that, grandpa yanked the young man closer and put the him in a headlock — yes, the old feeble wobbler put the whippersnapper in a headlock. The headlocked young man's friend grabbed the free arm and tried pulling his friend loose, yelling, “Representative, let him go! Let him go!”

No need to intervene, grandpa has not frightened them enough to cause them to strike back in self-defense...clearly fine young men.

Something clicked in the old man, one of those moments of clarity where he realized where he was, what he was doing and that it was all being recorded — it was similar to that moment not so long ago when he realized the she he payed to play his skin flute was a he who just like to put an s before the he...and play the skin flute. The picture is all coming together in Father Timepast's misfiring mind.

The young college men as boys stood before the old man, comforting one another, licking their wounds. Grandpa was not finished. As the boys licked their wounds nervously, grandpa took a couple of roundhouse swings, causing one of the boys to see his phone fly into the wall from a wild, unaimed swing, while the other saw his video recorder crash into the ground.

“Hey!” they shouted in unison.

“I don't know who you are,” the old man said, walking away, righteous and ridiculous.

“We're just college students doing a project, Representative!

We have found the title of entitlement: Representative. There are few situations in life where a man can inflict physical harm on another man unprovoked and not have to be concerned about the man defending himself for fear of the ramifications, or have to worry about the stumpy, hairy arms of the law. Too bad being above the law is so corrupting, a chalice filled with evil from which the powerful guzzle each meal. Drunk in public is against the law, but drunk with power gets public structures and monuments named in one's honor. Oh, to be so entitled...that alone should call for the swift, vile hand of quick justice.

Note: Representative designation is more powerful than youth's prowess...in a civilized encounter.

Continuing on the journey of return, it took no more than a block to observe a couple more citizens in action...well, one in action and one half in action. (Is this a great neighborhood or what?!)

In front of a nicely presented apartment building, a couple were discussing a snag in their relationship. Being fair, it was somewhat difficult to discuss his side of the story as only one half of each word he spoke was decipherable. That did not stop her from letting her perspective be known.

As she tells it: She was there to confront him about his affair. He had had affairs in the past. They had two sons in their mid-teens who were going to be devastated by the revelation of their father's ways because they had spend the last year assisting their mother with his rehabilitation. Apparently, the man with the half on speech and movement with only one side of his body had been having an affair with a woman before, during and after a stroke. As the wife stated, she was done.

Without doubt, Mr. Stroker is a cad, but where is the respect? The man needs rehab, can hardly walk and somehow manages to have an affair? (When only one side of your body is working, do you get half an erection?) Is this not an overachiever? The man cannot take a walk to the bathroom without his wife's help and he manages an ongoing affair? Smooth, super smooth...now on the street smooth...unless the girlfriend takes him in...no, there is more, which negates that possibility.

As she tells it (cont.): She was very angry that her and the boys were nurturing him back to health, wiping his butt, even, and he would do this to them, to her? And she was extra upset because it was with her best friend! Who is married to his best friend! (Looks like he will not be moving in with his girlfriend or his best friend.) After all they have been through, she is shocked, hurt and angry, and promises to never forgive him.

Personally, we owe the people of this neighborhood a grand, standing ovation. People like this are our entertainment. Their inability to avoid self-destruction is so deeply ingrained, we can laugh, cry and gasp at the drama they present.

She was short and round, pretty if you like cute teddy bears. He was tall, rugged and half respectable looking — the unstroked half. Assuming the woman in the apartment looking down was the mistress — and her panicked demeanor gave that impression — she was plain Jane skinny, wound too tight, sour and soulless. Both factory second candies were his for the tasting, and thank God...can't imagine such spoilage rolling about the moist mouth of refined sampling.

Question: How'd he do it?

As he stood there alone, I considered all of the excuses we conjure for not experiencing life, and here was a man who was going to squeeze every last drop of dripping sweetness out of any rotting apple he could find. Wrong? Right? He was living his life, without excuse, and at various moments he was able to please two wives at the same time, while only half a man! I realized that I needed to learn from this man; I had to ask, so I crossed the street.

“Excuse the intrusion, my good man. How are you?”


“I just watched what your wife did to you and I have to ask: How did you manage to carry on an affair in your condition?”


“Yes, I'm sure she's a bitch, but how...?”

“Iiih uuusn't ooo arrrd.”

“But how? Can you even do it?”

“Iiii annnn taake meeciii.”

“Must be good and strong medicine to get little Johnny going in that condition, but you have shown that anything is possible, no matter how absurd it may appear. It was kinda douchy, though.”

“Uck youuuuu!”

We parted ways after a few more halves of his words of his wisdom. Taking all he had to offer, it would appear that the greatest lesson he teaches is that candy will stick it self to anything, no matter how decrepit, which explains all of the gum under tabletops...and on top.

Observational skills returning. The lesson learned this evening is that the well lit streets of this nice neighborhood are highly entertaining. And if you place Representative before your name, laws do not apply. And that I should have taken the bus — this was a long way to walk and I am not even close to being back at my rented room. In fact, where am I...