Levy Trail

I walked two miles on the Levy Trail this morning in 31:38.

It seemed odd how much Mayflower stood out even in the dark as I drove home tonight. I felt no desire to go stare at poor Vilonia. BJ called this morning to discuss Saturday's Great Cross Country Race, and we sifted through a handful of tornado scenarios. Among them was one in which we walked into the Mayflower mayor's office and said, "Good god, man, didn't anyone tell you fuckers the president of the goddamn United States was coming yesterday? I mean, it doesn't look like you've made even the slightest attempt to clean up this fucking mess." There was another where BJ eats lunch at a Mayflower restaurant and starts bitching about how all the heavy equipment is slowing down his commute to work.

OVERHEARD
"He don't have a car seat! Hurry, someone call the law!"
—woman in her front yard, with half a dozen others, as a man drove away from the house in an old pickup truck with a five-year-old boy in his right arm. As I approached, I overhead him say, "Fuck you. He's my son, and you ain't got nothing to say about it." This stood for me as a perfect example of our neighborhood's cultural diversity; those people live exactly seven houses and one chiropractic clinic away from a man who has read every published word written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ian McEwan, Richard Ford, Richard Russo, et al.