There was this nice late-model Ford Mustang parked nearby that I had been coveting. One morning I saw it coming up the street with the right-hand fender bent up and all the way back to the firewall, and out a little hand-made patch rubbed in the fog on the windscreen a terrified face looked. A half a block further up the street, I saw the parked Hemi pick-up truck the Mustang driver had just creamed. Left me wondering why people don’t take five minutes to prep their cars for driving in the morning. I guess growing up in the mid-West and scraping snow off the windows every winter morning was worth something here in the foggy Central Valley. Five minutes. Five thousand dollars worth of damage. Getting off easy, I say.
I know a little about a lot. I know a lot about little. I don't know more than I know.
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