Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Let the Little Children Come to Me
Last night as I returned from the grocery store I ran into some of the moppets who frequently roam my block entirely unencumbered by parental guidance of any kind. Although they generally spend their time striking my neighbors' retaining wall with a baseball bat or throwing rocks at people's expensive European automobiles, on this particular occasion they determined to practice their conversational skills.
"Hey, man, you got a lot of bags there. You need some help with those bags?" the head child confidently began.
"No, I'm fine, thanks." I was shooting for indulgent but hurried.
"How 'bout you give me some chips? You got some chips in there? I want some chips."
"Nope, no chips today. Sorry fellas." I accessorized this remark with a sad smile. By this point I had reached my front door.
"I want to see your crib, man. Come on, let me in."
I politely demurred, at which point the child-in-chief began to feign crying and the others quickly followed suit. For my part, I went upstairs and put my orange juice in the fridge.
So now I can count both children and the homeless among my neighborhood stalkers. Am I putting some kind of weird stalk-me vibe out there? If John Hinckley shows up, I may have to seriously reassess some things.
Last night as I returned from the grocery store I ran into some of the moppets who frequently roam my block entirely unencumbered by parental guidance of any kind. Although they generally spend their time striking my neighbors' retaining wall with a baseball bat or throwing rocks at people's expensive European automobiles, on this particular occasion they determined to practice their conversational skills.
"Hey, man, you got a lot of bags there. You need some help with those bags?" the head child confidently began.
"No, I'm fine, thanks." I was shooting for indulgent but hurried.
"How 'bout you give me some chips? You got some chips in there? I want some chips."
"Nope, no chips today. Sorry fellas." I accessorized this remark with a sad smile. By this point I had reached my front door.
"I want to see your crib, man. Come on, let me in."
I politely demurred, at which point the child-in-chief began to feign crying and the others quickly followed suit. For my part, I went upstairs and put my orange juice in the fridge.
So now I can count both children and the homeless among my neighborhood stalkers. Am I putting some kind of weird stalk-me vibe out there? If John Hinckley shows up, I may have to seriously reassess some things.
