President Danvers

No, I haven’t lost my mind.  Yet.  I don’t mean prez of the U.S. of A.  I mean of the Byrd Park Civic League.  That’s where I’ve been lately.  In the Presidential Zone.  It all began last October when the former president resigned because he was going to move.  He still hasn’t moved, but that’s another story.  Mine was the only name in nomination.  Why?  Because I’ve been going to these meetings every other month for forever, and they all know me as the guy who reads the weird stories at the Holiday Potluck every December.  Who wouldn’t want a guy who writes stories about sadistic angels and genetically modified reindeer to be their president?

I stumbled along more or less satisfactorily, given that this isn’t exactly saving the economy or keeping us out of war with Iran, when Spring shows up, the perennial Byrd Park cruising scene goes ballistic while we’re on a weekend camping trip, and my inbox is swamped in hysteria and outrage.  Two of my favorites.  Each year young people in tricked out cars with killer sound systems come from far and wide to gray the neighbors’ hair and create edgy gridlock.  The cops always act surprised, but eventually get their act together.

For me, this meant lots of emails (oh joy!) and conversations with police.  My years of working in donut shops gave me a great deal of experience in the latter.  So this blog has been hanging out in the backseat of my life along with several other matters, waiting for a lull in the mayhem.  Yesterday was Easter, so there wasn’t much going on.  Even cruisers have mamas who want them in church come Easter, or at least not drinking in the park.  We’re about to do a little traveling and will miss the next two Sundays.  But isn’t that what presidents do when the shit hits the fan?  Do a little foreign travel?  Maybe I can find the president of some neighborhood association in Bologna and drink to the peaceful resolution of all our neighbors’ woes.

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