14,280. HYMAN DOBBIN

HYMAN DOBBIN

Reaching old music, the

Cracker Jacks box is wide

open. Settled levels of

layered pride, with the 

new pictures to match, 

are now being shown in 

close quarters. The lady

cop's raincoat is dry, while 

two hours ago it was dripping. 

More than that I cannot say. 

Was it raining just before? 

Hyman was the guy who 

pointed this out, and I said

'You're quite very conscious 

of time, are you not?

14,279. NOW TO COME

NOW TO COME 

Now to come, have a homespun

meal, the kind with potatoes that

taste like silk. Sit ye down at

this crooked table and dine. We

can sit and talk together, or, if

you'd rather, ignoring me would

be no harm. I am self-satisfied

and could maintain myself, my

presence being faint enough to

border your invisible gleams.

-

It's a tasty morsel I think about;

the way it goes down smoothly,

the sort of meat and gravy that's

only really read of in cookbooks

of might and wealth. Where

others do the cooking.

-

My wine comes out of boxes. I

dream of drinking all night long.

I lap my tongue on the edge of 

the glass I am drinking from.

14,278. I NEVER CLUTCHED AN ICEBERG

I NEVER CLUTCHED AN ICEBERG

The hands that hold April and May

have grown weary of waiting. It

seems it's all too chilly. These days

even the calendars lie. Or belie the

truth anyway, if that's the same thing.

I'm tired of waiting for warmth, and

now despair of any more cold.

-

Perhaps I'm now weak, grown too

old for any of this. Sleet and snow

and frost do tire me. I long for sun

to come perspire me? (That sounds

wrong, but it's right for me).

14,277. BUT I DID

BUT I DID

Apparently no one else thought

it was odd how  - as children  -  

Santa Claus was presented to us 

in the same light as God. Watching

over us, keeping a list, naughty and

nice, and then rewarding or not

rewarding us for transgressions;

all is if eternity was a new train

set, a bicycle, a doll, or a box of

great candy? Was the redundancy 

inherent in these ideas found to

be necessary? Or was it all just

more of the same weird screen

that was dropped down over

everything?

14,276. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,267

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,267

(executioner monk : master of everything)

"It's always been difficult for

me to be anything but what 

I am, and that's always part 

of the problem. People expect

too much. In the same manner

that a wedding invitation arrives

in one's mailbox (people expect

you to munch?), the needed

transformation is off-putting:

inane chatter trying to be heard

over loud, idiot-music, people

who screech and dance like 

their moments were all a'fire.

'This is Great Uncle Hiram, and

here's Terry's Auntie Mame.'

-

Lip-reading has never been a skill

of mine, but that's about all it comes

down too in such a scene. Captain

Blowhard and his wife Giselle can

sure talk your ears to Hell. So, what

is it with people that brings us all

to this crossing? Like a Wedding

At Cana, but without the water and

wine, this Jesus drinks Jim Beam

and falls fast asleep (all the time).

-

You know what else? I hate the

dispossessed, and I have no feelings

for those in need, or those newly

arrived and seeking support. Screw 

them. This country was made for

people already here - like those

Virginia Regents, and any malarky

story I get exposed to by someone

otherwise bleeding at the heart for 

others and for those 'dispossessed'

does nothing for me. I am not of

that ilk. I don't volunteer, and I

don't much grieve for others. I

may be an executioner monk,

and with a story to tell."

-

I leaned back in my chair and

suddenly realized how tired I was.

It was 4pm on some Thursday or

other. I remembered a time when

I could do this stuff, endlessly -

five cups of coffee, the TV blaring,

Eric Sevareid and all that crap-news

blaring  -  "The chief cause of

problems is solutions." Now, some

40 years on, I just really don't care.

-

I sure had traveled a long road,

yet I was convinced that most of

it was meaningless. Church and God

and all that  - yes, I was still sure of, but

now it was all by my own valuations,

and I figured that to be correct, for if

this 'God' who'd (after all) made me

and then tainted me too with original

sin (what a concept!), sought for me

to find a better perfection and a

salvation through 'Him' by the means

given to me, I was surely to be found

among the elect by following my own

path. After all, it wasn't really 'mine'

at all! It was that which was given

me to make from. God knows these

things, right?

-

['Biblical allusions lose all their

certainties in the American air. A

dog is a dog here, barking like 

Robert Johnson.']

-

I was kind of a madman all through

those early years  -  '66 maybe, and

all through the 70's. My last year of

regular high school had me appended

with the name 'Mad Dog' by some

idiot group of senior-fellows with

whom I shared 'Gym'  -  a ludicrous

reversal, surely, of any Greek ideal.

Probably shower-homos, for all I

knew, or cared. The name came, I

was told, from some over-excitement

I was seen doing, like a mad-dog,

in one of those stupid and endless

volley-ball things by which such

Gym classes filled their Winter time.

Evidently I pegged some creep with

a fierce return.

-

Sometimes people get trapped in

ridiculous, (untenable?), situations,

and don't I know. People of eminence,

media stars and politicians (each the

opposite of me), they speak out of

purpose, and they get lynched. Yes,

figuratively, OK but, still...In 'America'

it's presumed, or was, that everyone

has a right to speak, to be heard, to

do as they please, yet, if they say

anything that displeases, the free

mob will lynch them. In this country

the individual ends up having an

abject fear of the dolt next to him,

because they ARE free now to lynch

him the moment he shows he is

not one of them."The American 

voice can only be heard in the

collective stories of those who 

are for some time, no matter 

how brief, pushed outside of 

the definition of American.

The American voice is how 

one responds when silenced

because of who he or she is."

14,275. MY SECRET CRYPTOGRAPHY

MY SECRET CRYPTOGRAPHY

If I place myself against Watson,

that computer by IBM, I still think

I can win (again). The basic root

of my triumph being 'Algorithms

Suck.' Presented with a sentence

to complete, the computer cannot

move as humanly fleet as me.

-

Needing content in which to

swim, its endless overload of

alternatives weighs it down.

The most simple sentence, 

'The car ___ running," cannot 

be done because there is none.

-

Only this human would understand.

through context, whether the car 

IS running, or WAS running. The

computer would not, for it has no

time  -  which is what we use to

underline our being.

14,274. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,266

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,266

(don't even go there...)

I feel like I've been everywhere;

Hell, I haven't really been

anywhere, but I feel like I have.

That's the crucial difference,

I guess  -  bounding the real

against the unreal and living it

all together. Fact is, put up 

against any other average

person, I'm beat  -  people I

know have been everywhere:

Poland, Russia, France, England,

Thailand, Iceland, India, Vietnam

and all of South America and

Mexico too. Big deal vacation

romps, cruising the Danube, the

Elbe, or sneaking into Cuba too.

If a person plays the cards right,

it all; becomes doable.

-

I guess that's all something, But

while they did all that, I was

stuck at home. I got around and 

all, but none of it had any glamor,

no panache; just regular and junky

jaunts to places mostly unremarked,

I guess that means unremarkable 

as well.  Finding that none of it 

much mattered except as a means 

of spending the money I wouldn't 

have had anyway, I just let it all 

roll off of me and stayed to task 

as best I could. I got pretty good

at 'doing' one thing at a time, and

with attention to detail, etc., while

yet thinking of a hundred other

things at that same time. The mind

doesn't need a boarding pass, and

that jet is always leaving the tarmac.

-

'Somebody came up to me, they spit

in my face; but I didn't even feel it

was such a disgrace. I broke the

window, smashed my fist right

through the galss  -  but I couldn't

even feel it, it happened so fast.

It was fun, such fun, oh such fun,

such fun...'

-

One time  -  must have been like

1968, Winter  -  in one of those 

all-night diners that used to be

downtown along the old West

Side Elevated Highway, underneath

it, on the sidings and all. Truckers

and whores used them, mostly, and

geeks like me, travelers, cops and

winos. We were sitting in one, me

and a friend of mine, sort of sideways

in a booth, facing each other, looking

out. A few 15 cent coffees and a

hamburger maybe. I forget. The

guy I'm with here, Jim, he's half

shot and tanked already. The coffee

was supposed to help. Black. But he

was too nervous, acting too antsy;

it wasn't working right, and I could

sense that there was something else

going on in his brain right then, 

something harsher, and more

distant. And not good. I'd known

him already long enough to not

want to go through one of his

not-so-courageous acts again, like

rolling someone, stealing a wallet,

or even breaking in and robbing

some stupid dish-rag storefront.

Just then two cops walk in. Big

guys, all in leathers, and overstuffed.

There was no eye contact, thankfully,

because of the way we were seated.

That was good. We'd not been seen.

My impulse was to beat it, and

beat it quickly, get up out of there

and slink out. I certainly hoped Jim

felt the same way. It took a few

seconds, but I saw him change; 

turn another color, come more to

his senses. He quickly took another

gulp of black coffee, after finishing

the beans. I stood, threw 3 dollars

down on the table. And, fortunately

Jim got up wordlessly too. The cops

never even noticed us. Back out in

the cold air, we swiftly walked away.

-

It made me think of cause and effect,

which we'd avoided. And it made me

think of freedom too - whatever that

concept was, I hoped it stayed. I

remembered something from D.H.

Lawrence I'd read, something about

freedom, or being free, but I couldn't

remember it. After I got back to my

hovel, I found the book, and I found

the quote. Odd how it had surfaced

in my brain like that : "Men are free

when they belong to a living, organic,

believing, community, active in

fulfilling some unfilled, perhaps

unrealized purpose. Not when they

are escaping to some wild west. The

most unfree souls go west, and shout

of freedom. Men are freest when they

are most unconscious of freedom. The

shout is a rattling of chains, always was.

Men are not free when they are doing

just what they like. The moment you

can do just what you like, there is

nothing you care about doing.'

-

Everything is prism-like, with many

different sides that cut light into the

needed fragments for all different

colors. You may argue all day over

this or that  -  politics, punishment,

right and wrong, the past and the 

future  -  but you'll get nowhere and

it all ends up being garbage anyway.

Two years later and no one remembers

either the issues or the people in

question. I haven't seen Jim in 50 

years now, and for all I know he 

may be dead, killed by alcohol or 

violence, by his or by others' means.

All definitions have changed, and

all our issues then are non-issues

now. Mostly anyway. Those two 

cops are surely passed on, dead 

from cholesterol or old age. The

waitress, Penny, who was like 40

then and wise as an owlet, would

be 90 plus now  -  and if she is I

wish her well. Me? I'm still stuck

inside the Liberty Bell that keeps

resounding like a sum'bitch

in my head. 

14,273. MONKEY

MONKEY

My knuckles may not touch the

ground, but I am of another stock:

My eyes are mitre-boxed, and my

hands are ready to grapple. The

maze here holds too many enforced

rules for me to gracefully exit, and

this history knows no bounds.

-

Still I come forth, bleating like a

lamb about a this or that - Skyscrapers

that will not budge; truck doorways

that do not open; a month of miserly

Mondays with no expectation of a

tomorrow at all.

-

The double-yellow line means 'Do

Not Pass," and I shall do my best

here to obey.

14,272. ON A NICE DAY IN SPRING

ON A NICE DAY IN SPRING

On a nice day like today, I putter. 

I've got reams of things to do. There

aren't enough words for me to say

it. Clean the floor and wash the walls?

Is that enough? I walk down to the

rocks to see what Winter has left: a

few new broken limbs and some dead

raccoon a'rotting. Dried out already;

I'll wait for the skull but after the old

flesh is gone. I haven't yet seen any

fish in the water, nor frogs jumping

away. The peepers are pretty much

gone at night now, and the silence is

something better than that. Each footfall 

I take now is crushing something. All

this new growth seems now so impulsive

to grow. There's nothing I can do about

that, and I wouldn't even if I could.

-

My soul realizes things far before me.

I understand only later, how the lazy

buds unfold. How the bees will find

their pollen. And how little  -  really  -

I know about what's going on. 

14,271. MY OARSMAN

MY OARSMAN

My oarsman was St. Peter, but

he died walking on water. The

Maid of Honor at my wedding

was not Mary Magdalene, but

her daughter, my wife's good

friend. It all went down as was

planned, and we've been married

now near two thousand years.

-

Time passes, yes, that I understand.

But where does the King get his

Kingdom, and where does the 

landsman get his land? These

things have always bothered me.

Twice over, or more, in fact.

-

I go to the new car lot, looking

for something used, and I go to the

used car lot and all they offer is

something new. What am I to do?

14,270. NAMES

NAMES

Jesse James was her brother's

name but I didn't believe her

a minute. Who'd be so stupid

as to have a kid and have that

name go in it? Nomenclature

is one thing, but this is a joke.

-

So I told her that, and then I

mentioned that her mother was

probably a pig and her father

had died on the gallows. On

St. Crispin's Day, no less.

-

She took it all lightly and

laughed. (Probably that

was best).

14,269. THE WHOLE WEEK AND MORE THAN THAT

THE WHOLE WEEK 

AND MORE THAN THAT

I fall and I stumble but I get

back up, and the whole week

is more than all that. Crispx

on the table and I don't know 

what: tumblers of milk and

water? Another jug of beer?

-

If I had to go to one of those

meetings where I need confess,

I still fall down in drunkenness

14,268. PULSE

PULSE

In vainly searching the openings

for light, I realize there are none

here. This Earth is a vapid dispersal

of forms and shadows which just

run on. A magnanimous mixture of

all we assume: miracles of a new

deployment, and villages of treacle

and green. But let me have that

magic, for now. 

14,267. APERTURE OPEN

 APERTURE OPEN

Nothing like this has been

decided before. Precedent

setting, yes, this will be. The

same sort of thing a lawyer

would refer to: The truck that

drove into the river and was

grounded there in mud. Two

people dead. Was the intention

specific, or just an accident that

happened? The jury says the

water is at fault. The judge

declares a mistrial in abeyance.

No sentence is passed.

14,266. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,265

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,265

(way alone on my other side)

It's difficult, sometimes, to

go backwards or to understand

the value of coming from the

rear, a retrospective view,

of where you have been. I

do it often enough, but many

times all I get are guns in the

east, 1959 Caravelles in the

sky, and dual-headlights on

Rococo styled cars. Not a

wickedly well-put set of

examples, but, you know.

-

When I was young, a lot

of words confused me, and

caught my attention. I was in

a store recently - one of those

'today' stores where now the

messages on the shopping carts

are in two languages, English

and Spanish. The word used

for 'basket,' in the Spanish-use,

was canasta. As a kid, my mother

often said that word, but back then

all she meant was some sort of

card game she'd occasionally

play - ladies were always having

'card parties.' That was another

mystery to me - they'd alternate

the houses, maybe monthly or

every two weeks - I forget -

and the same people would

go to each other's houses for

'card parties.' Canasta was

played some, Maybe there's a

word connection with 'basket'

meaning a specific grouping

of cards? In the same way, all

these weird ladies were always

having 'Demonstrations' in each

other's homes (no, not the 1960's

kinds of 'demonstrations,' which

came later and took to the streets,

not homes) - nights out when

some faux-actress saleslady nobody

would shill for junk jewelry or

makeup kits, blankets and towels

and beddings. The crazed ladies

would fall for it all.

-

Perhaps I just missed a lot; never

knowing much of what was going

on with the loosey-goosey aspects

of newly arrived suburbanites along

their tic-tac-toe rows of new homes

as the 1940's were ending. With all

that came cocktails and fences, cars

and paved driveways. I just never

caught up. And glad for the miss.

-

I was adrift pretty much from the

first days I began to think. The world

made no sense. Period, and that was

all. All those forced polemics about

God and Country just made me ill.

My own pet theory, spoken to me in

a long, post-coma diatribe, was how

all things were just ONE, and Creation

had not been Creation of the 'many'

but instead a sort of founding of 'One

Mind' which could envision all things.

There was no 'checklist' of one thing

after the other that 'God' made, like

that Bible version of a progression

of creation, etc. The only thing 'Made'

was the one essence by which, formed

as Humanity, would accept all things

and allow the possibilities for all other

things to exist. This there was very

little delineation between thought and

matter. All the 'Creator' as Prime Mover

had needed to do was create the 'One'

and thereby allow it to be capable of

acceptance of all conditionals and

peripherals and possibles, and just

set it spinning, all. In other words,

the only thing God had to do was

create something that would accept

everything else - like creation tales,

iron, steel, water, Earth and planets,

mountains, hills, time, experience,

life, sad and happy, regrets, and

death too. The tragic and the flawed.

the happy and the joyous, categories

of 'Good' and 'Bad' - and all would

go on and all would be accepted.

Even the ideas of start and finish,

birth and death. A tree, with a

zillion branches. All things.

-

That was miles, nay, light years,

away from what I was seeing at

age 10. All my other ages too, and

it still is that way. There's a great

divide, and I sometimes seem way

alone on my other side. It was a

wonder to me that I even understood

what people were saying. The didn't

seem to 'mean' anything; they just

talked within categories and rambled

on about eminently useless stuff.

I apparently was expected to buy

into some piece of all that and then

structure my very same life as theirs

around my portion of it. It was all

unspoken too, and it came across

instead as some dark, erroneous

cloud of expectation that somehow

was always crowding me out of

whatever space I was trying to be

in. There truly was no other way

to go but out.

14,265. TOO WISE

TOO WISE

Sometimes when I'm rolling

along I think I'm pretty good -

doing this or that as I'm wont 

to do. Other times, I feel no 

better than a worm. But then

I stop myself to think, 'even a 

worm must have its own sort

of perfection, when it thinks

it has reached its ideal of a

worm-hood, slinking along

its miserable ground.'

-

So, in case I'm not thinking

too low of myself, I say that's

for me too  -  having reached

a pinnacle of my own devise.

Wormhood is great, if you don't

think you're too wise.

14,264. EASTER

EASTER

So here it all is again, bundled in one

place for all to see. We are living? Why

not He? Or anyway, what's going on?

Hell to pay, is living's cost; he went

there first, they say...of course.

-

I can't any longer shoulder all of this.

One week after the other, and 52 go

by, and there we are again. Right back 

to this. The lethal kiss. The Judas twist.

-

We do the same as well : Over and 

over again. See the dead on the 

streets of Ukraine.

14,263. BYSTANDERS BEWARE

BYSTANDERS BEWARE

In my parody of good intentions

maybe it just comes out wrong.

I don't set out to be a voice of

doom, but those endings come

along : disenfranchised am I, by

both the sun and moon.

-

Here's the other deal : What you

see is never what you get; this

life is a glimmer of but something

else, a pulse of time from another

place, a ridge along the valley of

despair. You can go. I can't be there.

-

Bystanders, beware - of me. 

I only cause confusion

14,262. SEE THE THING IS....

SEE, THE THING IS...

I do not watch propaganda, 

or, as you may call it, news. 

I have my own parameters. 

not really caring, to be truthful, 

if the whole world rots, burns, 

or fades away. Which it will, 

in due time, and hallelujah

14,261. THE MCCORMAC TOXICOLOGY REPROT

THE MCCORMAC 

TOXICOLOGY REPORT, 

pt. one

"First off, let me state, this is not on me.

I was not here when the High School was

built, and had I been I surely would have

seen to it that it was a warehouse instead.

My presence in office has amassed many

benefits for the citizens here, but this is

not one of them. As the good people of

Colonia will tell you, things are - in the

whole - good. My good friend Cory can

tell you too - from his perch in neighboring

Avenel - the benefits of my time in office:

increased schooling, advanced physical

plants for those schools, new acres of the

artificial grasses and surfaces for recreational

play (that surfacing helps us seal well the

toxic grounds we build upon, thus again

ensuring the safety of your children; your

children should not be subjected to worms

and dirt, as in the old ways of natural play.

We have endeavored to bring forth, with

your tax dollars, better surfaces and

playing fields for all, and have brought

many benefits to the area).

-

That being said, in our increasing outreach

to other sources of growth, we should thank

Jack Morris Developers for the movement

given to us to advance our quality of living

here in greater Woodbridge. Increasing the

housing stock as we have done, by the

inclusion of rows and rows of condos and

improved roadways and traffic accesses, as

well as the inputs of such outside corporations

who have redesigned our towns and lanes. We

could never have achieved this on our own. The

importance of warehousing for the goods and

the products you need cannot be underestimated.

Be sure of that, and be sure that we will never stop

in our quest for increased trucking and storage

of goods here in greater Woodbridge.

-

Of late, the toxicology factor of the lands

where we live have come to the fore. Let

me state again - clearly - this has nothing

to do with me. All we have done is a

cover-up. A cover-up of the old surfaces

with the newer veneer of today. And, besides

that, who knows where truth resides? You

will never get the truth from me."

14,260. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,264

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,264

(these tires tire me out)

I know this is probably hard

to believe, or to understand,

but I've spent an inordinate

amount of time over the years

thinking about tires. Yep. On

vehicles; automobiles. It's

never been a mainstay of my

thinking, but many times my

mind has gone to the subject.

I'll try and explain, and maybe

in my usual, discursive, manner

too. It's not much, but see if 

you can stay with me.

-

I guess it all started long ago,

for me  -  my father used to

haunt the Avenel junkyards,

often buying used tires for

his vehicles. I had to think,

seeing how often he bought

used tires, at what price I

cannot recall, but let's say

(40 years ago) 15-20 bucks

each. He'd replace tires by 

need, maybe 2 at a time. I

had to figure, within the

rotational and replacement

sequence that he'd get out of

the used and short-term tires,

that maybe he'd be better off

just getting new tires at a 4-tire

grouping a and not have to buy

replacements as unevenly and 

as often as he'd end up doing.

-

But I think for him the thrill

came in the small and momentary

savings he'd 'think' he'd made.

Often he'd come back as if he'd

gotten one over on the tire guy

by again getting two for the

30 or 40 bucks. Hard to figure,

but the ruling pleasure principal

of everyday living often has a

form of this for everyone  -  for

some it's a Mulligan on the golf

course, for others it's cheating

or shoplifting. I had two friends,

Joe and Jack, who got their rocks

off  buying a tire and then, in the

yard, with no power tire-equipment,

spending three or four hours with

a crowbar and tire iron, taking off

the old car tire and re-mounting

the new tire on the wheel, properly

setting it and beading it, all again

without any 'power' tool; it's OK

as a kid, doing that in a bicycle

tire, which is a cinch with a tube,

etc., but it becomes a different

story with a full-size car rim;

wheel and tire both take struggle.

-

My approach to the actual 'physical

aspect of tires and the work needed,

is not what I'm talking of (or, writing,

of). It was always more about the

physics, or the dynamics of what

made tires wear. I figured all the

tire and rubber companies had

roomfuls of scientific types doing

the same thinking as me. What

exactly made a tire wear down?

What dynamics were at play. As I 

studied the subject, I realized that

there are numerous variations of

compounds, treads, sidewalls and

loads. That was obvious. Any of 30

different compounds of the rubber

in use could lead (steer) to any of

an assortment of adhesion and wear

factors, dependent on price, quality,

freshness, dry rot,(age) and eventual

breakdown and splitting of the bands

belts and sidewalls of the tire. Heat

and compression took their own tolls.

What mostly interested me was the

dynamics of the tire, on the road. I'd

sit and muse about how and what

contact a 'rolling' tire, in continuous

motion, (forward and at speed) had.

I'd figure it was not much, or for a

faint instant. The roll of the tire, 

forward, made for a limited and

essentially frictionless contact patch?

Did it not. What effect than had the

other factors  -  heat, the stress of 

turning, and speed have? How was

any of that taken into consideration

and factored in? If a contact patch,

even slight, it repeated in the constant

roll of the tire upon the road, to what

steady amount does that accumulate.

A rainy day then allows for no 'friction'

or much less? The factor of the weight

of the vehicle, steaming along on a

dry roadway, with the stress of steer

and turn, aligned with heat, makes

the difference? Does a 'new' tire, with

its rubber, wear less quickly, or more,

than older tires. Alignment, wobble,

braking, and basic steering, what do

they add to nay of these factors? At

some point is an equilibrium reached?

-

Yes, yes, I'm boring you, and it all

could go on, but I wanted to show the

process involved. I had a friend, for a

long time, who was an 'accident-scene

investigation' policeman; always at the

ready with tape measure and micrometer

and all those items need to measure skid,

impact, and resultant crash momentum.

Tire tread, in thirty-seconds of an inch.

Sideways momentum; speed, erratic

driving. Tires. Tires. Always tires.

-

One time, in Princeton, a long time back,

the place where now are stores and an 

Italian deli called D'Angelo's was once

an old parking lot. It had a barbarous

reverse-tire spike strip to prevent people

from backing through, or exiting out

of the entrance. It was relentless in its

automatic zeal to take out two tires at

a time. Suffer those who got caught by

it. Instant flats. Now the cops can stop

pursuit by halting the fleeing auto with

the same spike-strip idea, simply placed

along the roadway where the perp is

expected next. Too bad on that count;

tires again. Security and police, etc.,

I have seen, with puncture-less tires,

unable to be compromised by bullet,

shot, or cannon. It's all tires, even if

the car is electric.

-

I decided, somewhere along the way,

that - much like life - tire wear is the

result of a cumulative scraping. It builds

upon itself, and it's not as if a person is

scraping a piece of rubber along the

ground, (though it is), but more that

the accumulation of all those rolling

and momentary contacts, even with

the rolling of the tire making the

moment of contact trivial, the wear

accumulates, the treads wear down,

and the tire, soon enough, is scraped

away to nothing. Now there's a cheery

thought for sure.