47 degrees

Got cooked at work. The bad kind. Greeting my eyes was a (n unnecessarily) long list of undone marks and dashes taped to the blemished monitor at my desk. Set my scrawny jaw to the grindstone forthwith and reduced that list to a mere skeleton of itself. Got the lecture. Simple blowback. Process H people get treated similar to crack addict step-kids with malaria from Sturgis. Been that way from day one. Naturally, I end up with the process H hat. It's been documented, discussed, explained, yada whamwoozle.
Gonna go chew some light bulbs, dagnabit.
The weather was quite lovely today. 47 degrees at six fifteen am. 63 degrees around four-thirty. Bright warm sun smiling down on this green paradise with air sweet enough to kiss. Enough beauty in one day for at least one lifetime. It was similar to a day when Rome burned, but not as windy. Sometimes I get the cities confused.
Congratulations, Red Sox. It's not funny, but a clear memory from Boston was three-generational. A mom and daughter get out of cab near the Park. Grandmother has gotten out on the other side. She walks around to where mom and daughter have exited. The door is still open. She reaches in to grab something and the cab was about to go from zero to a million. For some reason the cab stopped, slammed brakes and coughed smoke, at half a car's length. Poor grandma got jerked sideways. She walked away. Cab driver hopped out wearing a litte Italy shirt and began apologizing for all he was worth. Mom chewed him out for all he was worth. Grandma was one tough broad. It would have been funny in a movie with Chevy Chase and Diane Keaton.