Boy do I feel like a dumbbell. There I was at 7th and Montana this morning, tempting fate, commenting on how quiet it has been lately, when the floodgates opened. "Gee," I said, "We haven't had any loons around here for a while." And it's true. Except for the growing pile of dog feces at 7th and Georgina, it's been a pretty quiet summer. And then it happened. An Anonymous Loon headed my way screeching "Rivers of Blood, Rivers of Blood." He was a thin, young man in his mid-twenties with a crazy glint in his eye and a baseball cap on his head. He carried a dumbbell in one hand, wrapped in paper, which he used for emphasis, much like a professor with a pointer. "Only the Pure Bloods will survive," he cried, "Hells-a-poppin'!" He babbled on and on breathlessly for 20-minutes. "Maybe he gets paid by the word," I said. And then the police arrived, donned their rubber gloves and escorted him away. Whether he was on drugs or just unstable, I hope he gets some help. Meanwhile, next time I start wondering why it's been so quiet at Our Favorite Starbucks, I'll keep my mouth shut ...
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