Boxes

Sonja and I dropped off some boxes for her dad's move she gathered up last night. As I pulled the car into the drop off area at Sonja's dad's apartment I got a little too close to one of his noisy motherfucking neighbours. When he looked back at me like I was the guy who fucked his ex-wife the day after their honeymoon I thought he might say something about my utter lack of driving skill. I would have had to show him the Pabst Blue Ribbon I won for driving skill behind the wheel while loaded.

Around us in the parking lot were the cars people who rent cheap apartments drive. Oil leaks, rust, peeling paint, flat tires, creases, dents, missing headlights, back seats piled high with A&W wrappers. Sonja's dad's car fit right in until he had the back end fixed the other day.

The old guy has hearing aids for the first time. It was also the first time since I have known him that he was not shouting at me like Don Cherry's latest jacket.

After our visit Sonja and I visited the Wet Spot for food. I had a pitcher of their company ale. It is not bad. A pitcher is the only way to test a beer. Lots of beer tastes good when it is ice cold. The last glass from the warming pitcher is the test glass.

I do not even want to tread on England's play at the World Cup until they have had their way with the Swedes.