Zoned Out

The First Blog Reader Yesterday

Yesterday was all about flushing the remnants of the California time zone out of the system. I’ve always found it easier dealing with jet lag after traveling east instead of west and yesterday was no exception. My wife, who was Californiated a much longer time struggled a little more and didn’t arise until much later than usual. She’d lost none of her cleaning acumen and immediately called into question the amount of effort I’d expended during her absence in keeping the shower clean. Some questions are best left unanswered.

Mommy Completing a Bath

Ready for her Closeup

I’ve been blessed with the neighbors I’ve acquired since leaving e military and the move to Worcester is certainly no exception. When we drove in early Sunday morning I noted the mailbox had been knocked down. I moved it out of the street and was prepared to address it yesterday morning. Coming downstairs in the morning I found my next door neighbor (and proud member of the Worcester Chapter of the Panamanian Mafia) already outside with a shovel in hand starting repairs. He was surprised I was home and said he wanted to repair it before I returned. I did say “blessed”, right? We jury rigged a solution and had the mailbox standing proud, if a little shorter than previously.

Pee Wee Still in Wonder at the New Addition

My wife and I made the short trip down to Rhode Island to rescue Buddy from the younger version of himself. He spent our Californian sojourn at my sister’s house with her lab puppy, Remy. Remy is exactly like Buddy was at a young age which was bad news for the middle aged Wonder Pooch. I’m sure Whomever is in charge of karmic balancing arranged for Buddy to experience what being around himself when he was younger was like – he was exhausted. My sister conducted a thorough debriefing on what her new grand-niece is like. I could see the wheels turning in her head on how she would go about spoiling her from great distance.

Discussing Yesterday's Football Games with Daddy and Other Grandpa

Since neither my wife nor I were feeling especially energetic upon our return we hit the local 99 for dinner. It was so good after my month long series of solitary dining to have my Favorite Panamanian across the table from me again. Thankfully the Patriots were not playing yesterday so we approached the latter portion of the day with intense recovery operations. My wife burned out a couple phone batteries re-establishing contact with her many friends and apprising them she was back on the East Coast and no longer restricted from full voice by baby quiet hours. I paid appropriate awe for the wonder that is the NFL Red Zone and cleaned out some DVR detritus.

My Beautiful Dinner Date Yesterday

For those of you who thought my return from California would save you from more baby pictures of my singularly marvelous granddaughter you now realize that was a false hope. My daughter and Wingman are providing daily photographic updates and I’m entirely too proud of this little creature not to share them with you. Consider yourself lucky.

During my recent travels to Lala Land I finished off the next in my march through Lawrence Block’s excellent Matthew Scudder novels with Hope to Die. Scudder becomes involved in a double murder case when his assistant TJ happens to know the victim’s niece. He slowly pieces together that the “solved” murder was actually the handiwork of a truly evil serial killer whom he starts to track down.

Block changes up the style in this book and allows the reader to see the thoughts and actions of the killer (still cleverly disguised) as wella s Scudder’s. The two dance in increasingly smaller circles until the inevitable concluding confrontation. Block, as always, has the resolute Scudder serve as the part of implacable doom for purveyors of evil. Block also sets up an obvious sequel for some of the characters involved which is something to look forward to since they were so compelling, on both sides of the cosmic justice scale. I’ll leave you with some of Block’s words from Hope to Die as Scudder discussed the importance of imagination:

One expects writers to use their imaginations, but that portion of the mind, of the self, is as much a part of the equipment of a policeman. A cop would be better off without a gun or notebook than without an imagination. For all that detectives, private and public, deal in and count on facts, it is our capacity to reflect, to imagine, that points us to solutions. When two cops discuss a case they’re working on, they talk less about what they know for a fact than what they imagine. They construct scenarios of what might have happened, and then look for facts that will support or knock down their constructions.