OOF!

And there are times when Life takes a butcher’s at you, sees what you’re thinking of doing, and says, loudly and clearly, “NO!”

I was, for instance, supposed to be in Northampton yesterday. Instead I was sitting at the kitchen table and working from a laptop, occasionally wincing, occasionally getting up and either pouring another cup of coffee or taking a short, painful walk around the living room, occasionally grabbing another couple of painkillers.

I got hit by a car.

Not very hard, not very fast, but with enough of an impact to make life a bit more difficult until the bruising and swelling have gone down a bit.

What happened was that I was cycling north to get home and as I passed a turning on my left somebody in a car heading south turned to their right to enter that turning. I was in exactly the right wrong place to be hit, so that’s what happened. In a very short space of time I could see the car approaching, saw its signalling, recognised that it hadn’t slowed enough to stop and thus either hadn’t seen me or was taking a chance, and realised that there was no way I could either clear the junction or stop in time.

Then I looked down to my right and saw a car bumper smacking my calf. And then I fell down.

Anyway: the driver – a late-middle-aged woman – was bloody terrified. Once she’d calmed down a bit, and I’d collected bits of buggered chainguard off the road and ensured that no part of me was left behind, we went our ways.

Oddly, it was only when I got home that I reacted – I stood in the middle of the living room for half an hour unable to move or think.

There is no harm done, except for a broken chainguard that was going to be taken off soon anyway, and a bruised, slightly swollen leg.

And the lesson is: you can have flashing lights and reflective clothing galore but it means nothing against human stupidity.

Oh, and always wear a helmet.

And thick upper-body clothing.

And learn how to fall.

What Exactly Is It About That Number?

Hey hey hey, cats’n’kittens! Just to prove that Tottenhamista’s gotten over its spell of self-pity and can’t-be-arsedity, just to prove - if proof be needed – that not only is it once again cooking with gas but it’s also still following that same winning recipe of bad temper, bad language and bad grammar… Here’s some comics reviews!

And straight away let’s answer that question that’s been hanging over our heads like [redacted]’s beergut hangs over a ten-dollar blowjob: What did you think of the DC New Fifty-Two, Mr. Tottenhamista? Well, I’ll tell you.

You know what the most important thing about this whole thing is? More important than Wonder Woman’s pants or Starfire being a slapper (more later!)? It’s that the number of DC Comics that I personally slap down cold hard coinage for each month has increased from six to twelve. That’s a 100% jump. And against my better will and my bank’s, I’m going to stick with them for at least six months.

And furthermore, the regulars at the shop have increased their spend; new punters arrived near enough every day of the first month; many of those punters have stayed, opening new standing orders/pull lists. And a number of those who came in looking for ‘this new Superman, this new Batman’ have bought trades, and bought comics that weren’t part of the 52, and brought their kids along and bought those kids some comics too. (And here’s a tip for any retailers out there: that out-of-date promotional material? The Marvel Sneak Peeks from two years ago, the posters, the postcards? Give ‘em to the kids. They’ll love ‘em, and more, their parents will love you.) So, it’s been a good thing. Nothing wrong with that, and you name-callers and nay-sayers can just go away.

But to get back to the res; how about that 52?

It was alright.

That’s it. That’s all. It was alright. It was fifty-two new books, all put together in pretty short order. So it turned out exactly as you’d expect it to: some were good, some were bad, some were better than you’d think they’d be, some were nowhere near as good as you’d think they’d be, some were nowhere near as good as they thought they were, some were howling stinkers and one was totally batshit. (Totally Batshit was week three, wasn’t it?)

I can’t say I’ve read all fifty-two but I can say I’ve at least leafed through them all, and read (as in ‘paid for, brought home, sat down with, read, analysed) a number of them. And rather than give you an immediate response on each like some blogs have done  - it’s not a sprint, fellas – I’ve chewed over my responses for a time, often as much as ten minutes.

So:

This Red Hood and the Outlaws thing. Everybody seems to hate it. I loved it. It’s a stupid, sarcastic comic book. It has crazy action sequences where the artist doesn’t quite make things clear enough to follow, it has putative heroes going ape and killing people with arrows and guns, it even uses the ‘Tanks!’ ‘You’re welcome!’ gag. It’s exactly what modern mainstream comics are about. And frankly I don’t see the fuss about Starfire being portrayed as a slapper who’ll shag anything because A) most male characters are portrayed that way and That’s Just Fine, and B) it’s just a magnification of how she’s always been portrayed, ever since she first grabbed Grayson and tried to suck his face off. Pull-listed.

There were high hopes here at the ‘Nista for Stormwatch and Demon Knights because they’re both written by Paul Cornell who can do little wrong and is a very nice man, but frankly they both came off a little ‘meh’. DK wasn’t helped by some overcooked but still unclear art or by the fact that few/none of the characters are visually distinct (apart from Etrigan and the Shining Knight, obviously). Stormwatch seemed to be trying really hard to be Warren Ellis without emulating Warren Ellis’ techniques, especially – and thankfully - not those establishing captions that tell you The Carrier is Whistling Through Act Two of Hyperreality And Wearing A Dustman’s Hat. Still pull-listed, both of ‘em, but on the bubble.

Rags/Ralph/Rafe Morales draws people who look about five years older than they actually are, so if Action Comics is taking place quite some time in the past (which it must be if it’s showing a nascent Superman and if Justice League, which shows fully-formed Superman, is set five years ago), then the Superman it stars would be about sixteen. That aside – and it isn’t the complaint it seems to be, as I’m inordinately fond of Morales’ work and have been since Black Condor – this is what my mate Mark said it was: the best Superman story in years. Alright, it’s by Grant Morrison who is the God Of All Comics these days (but have you read Supergods? If ever a book needed a good hard editing…) and as such it will be a good comic. But this isn’t Morrison’s usual ‘concept above clarity’ style of storytelling, it’s straight-on linear stuff, exciting, action-packed, while still drawing on the tricks Morrison’s used in, say All-Star Superman or JLA: you can read the story carefully, noting the symbols and the subconscious actions, or you can read the story entirely superficially and still have a great time. Pull-listed? You betcha.

I bought and read every issue of the last Jonah Hex run and I have no idea why. Hugely pretty, some absolutely stunning art – how often do you get to see Jordi Bernet and Darwyn Cooke working on the same character? – but always slightly disappointing writing. Not disappointing story concepts, but stories that were disappointing in their execution: there’s always been a stilted quality about Palmiotti & Gray’s dialogue and story structure, a air of non-sequiteur that draws the reader’s attention to itself when it should solely be there to service the narrative. Still, the habit was there to be fed and All Star Western feeds it nicely. I don’t know if the format change from done-in-ones to longer arcs will help the title – it may keep new readers stringing along when they’re put off by the $3.99 price tag – but that’s by the by. New regular artist Moritat, who produced a fine few issues at the latter end of The Spirit’s last run, gives ASW a European feel that suits the book well. Hats doffed also to Gabriel Bautista who, when he isn’t playing left-back for Man City, colours the whole thing in muted, washed-out purples and greys. Pull-listed for old times’ sake.

Flash: Stunningly pretty, with some of the best Ordinary People in ages – there’s some schlub reading a paper in the background (though actually, technically, the foreground) of one panel who looks so real I’d like to read a book about him rather than Barry Allen. But no fair having a double-page title splash, even if it contains story-telling elements within its big, clumsy letters. Pull-listed? Probably. It’s like a first wife; it’ll have to stay this pretty.

Of the criticisms levelled at these new titles, the most common – and the most biting – is that there’s a strong element of 1990s Image Comics about them. Worst offender is Teen Titans – a book so poorly drawn it didn’t even make it halfway into the ‘flicking through the pages in the shop’ stage.

But.

I possess every issue of every Hawk and Dove comic. Even the piss-poor Mike Baron mini-series. So I had to buy this new one. It’s very, very 90’s Image. I’m willing to give it a chance but I’m not sure that even my love for Dove’s mask[1] can survive this. It looks awful, it’s not very well-written and the main plot point’s already had the rug pulled out from under it by a recent editorial statement[2]. Pull-listed? Depends on the second issue, which is on my sideboard as we speak. Apparently the bad guy’s called Condor. If he says ‘Nothing should disturb my moment’ at any point[3], I’m in.

Whar else do we have? We have Blue Beetle, and Swamp Thing and Batwoman, we’ve got the bitter chocolately goodness that is Justice League Dark, and we have OMAC. Oh boy, do we have OMAC.  Next time, okay?

---

[1] C’mon, those big blank eyes and the tiny little beak that doesn’t actually come anywhere near her nose? How can that not be sexy?

[2] This first issue makes great play of Hank Hawk’s resentment of Dawn Dove because she took the place of Don Dove who died during ‘the worst crisis the world’s ever seen’. A crisis which, according to Dan Didio, never happened. Sort that one out.

[3] If you understand this reference, please keep it to yourself

Beggin' Yer Pardon, But...

I am by nature a polite person. Not happy-go-lucky by any means, nor naturally cheerful or optimistic. Years of experience have burnished the patina of cynicism to something hard and matt, like the paint on an old garden shed.

But I am polite. I make way for old ladies. Give up my seat on the bus if a pensioner or pregnant woman or just plain fat lazy sod looks like they need it. I’ll be scrupulously polite to shop assistants because god knows they put up with some arseholes. I may even go so far as be look aghast if anyone treats one of these benighted creatures with rudity or contempt because dammit, they're people and they're just as good as you no matter that there’s a counter (and all that it implies by way of master/servant relationships) between the two of you.

Sometimes, though… Today, for instance. I’d just spent too much time trying to explain to Pete The Greek – my tonsorial artist of choice – that if I was going to sacrifice a good nine month’s worth of hair growth I was going to have it in exactly the style I wanted, I’d even pointed at one of his wall photos that showed the desired length (but most certainly the undesired 1980s boy-band moussed-up style), and, as always, I'd left his salon raring to go home and shave it all off. The man cuts men’s hair for money. What part of ‘longish crop’ doesn’t he understand? I wanted George Clooney, I got Rosemary Clooney.

Next stop, the bank, to pay in some Income. The automated deposit machines were both out of action and someone had performed some manner of unspeakable act on the rapid deposit slot, so it meant queueing for a real human teller.

I’m standing there, end of the queue, when a woman comes in behind me, holding a small child, pushing an empty pushchair. No idea why. Maybe she just liked making more work for herself. She pushes the pushchair a little too far, it hits the back of my ankle, just by the Achilles. No harm done. I look round, automatically reacting to the feeling. The kid smiles, I smile back. His mother looks at me like I’m Gary Glitter on his first day release. Still. No harm done.

Queue moves forward. Woman pushes buggy into my heel again. I turn and give her the ‘That’s twice, let’s not let this happen again’ look, but still politely.

And again. And, surprisingly, again. By now I’m nearly at the head of the queue, estimating which number cashier, and frankly I’m a bit pissed off.

“Would you mind being a little more careful, please? I’d like to be able to walk out of here.”

“What you talk to me like that for? You should move your feet and not complain.”

“You’ve got a child, I don’t want to upset the child, let’s leave it, but please watch what you’re doing.”

‘Fuckin’ tell me what to do.”

“You know what, lady? Fuck you.”

And I paid in my deposit, leaving her muttering voodoo curses even as she manoeuvred the buggy to the adjoining teller.

But you put it behind you.

Sainsbury’s: three checkouts actually manned by a human being, twelve self-services. Three staff to oversee/help. Long queues on the manned tills, so onto a self-scan. As is usual, an item registers wrongly and sets off the little red light to summon an assistant. All three assistants are happily chatting about the weekend, or the X-Factor, or whatever. I look at them, raising my eyebrows and tapping my foot. One come s along.

It happens again. Assistant takes as much time as he likes. Third time, none of them take any notice at all – they’re all chatting away like it was lunchtime.

“Excuse me! Need to, y’know – “

And rather than leap over to my side and double check my Fairtrade bananas, the guy keeps talking.

“Hey! Can you come over and – “

Guy looks at me, so he’s obviously aware the scanner’s misread again… and he turns away and keeps talking.

That’s how come he had to clean up the bag of unpaid-for shopping that I upended, along with the unscanned items in my basket, over his nice, clean, but sadly unattended self-scanning area.

See? Be polite. Do your job. Don’t treat people like arseholes. ‘Cause if you do, they’ll act like one. 

Stretch. Yawn. Breathe.

Not been here for a while. Been a little busy, a little blocked. However; for some time, I’d been meaning to write something about how life folds in upon itself.

The reason for this is that in the last two years or so, my past has been like a mythical lizard-god, sloughing off the ocean floor under which it has lain for centuries, rising up from its rest and lumbering towards civilisation, there to wreak havoc and remind everybody exactly who and what it’s all about.

I’d kind of embraced, a long time ago, that there was a cut-off point, approximately twenty years ago, before which Almost Nothing Happened. School? Too long gone. School friends? Old work colleagues? Well, you swear blind you’ll be mates forever, but after a month or six they’re very much In The Past. If I’d wanted to stay in touch, I’d have stayed in touch. Others fade away, weekly meets become monthly become annually become ‘I really must get in touch with him/her’ become Gone Forever.

Admittedly, it’s difficult these days to leave people behind. Facebook’s a main culprit; one absently clicks the ‘Accept’ button and is forever seeing exactly what Former Work Colleague X had for lunch. Twitter’s probably worse, with its open-to-all attitude that allows anybody and their uncle to read what you’ve posted, without your permission or your knowledge. But that’s only for newer acquaintances. Old ones, ones from beyond the cut-off point, they’re gone, done, juvenilia…

…Except for the old school friend who phoned out of the blue a year or two back after over thirty years. And except for the old work colleague who recognised me, twenty years on, as I topped up my Oyster card at Blackhorse Lane tube, and who luckily now works for London Transport and so wears a name badge otherwise I wouldn’t have had a bloody clue. And except for the woman who just happened to be taking a friend’s photo when I arrived to see him and who turned out to be an old work colleague from nearly twenty-five years ago.

None of them expected, all of them welcome, all of them from a time so long ago it seems like someone else’s life, suddenly rushing up and handing to two entirely different people the realisation that they’re the same person, decades apart. All of them still in touch – with luck, though we’ll see what the passage of time brings.

There was another such person. She’d gone missing for about ten years when the phone rang and she told me we were going on holiday together. Which we did. And again the following year. The first of those holidays was the best I’d ever had, full of carefree, ridiculous, full-on childish behaviour, which is a good thing when you’re some way beyond being a child. Alright, at one point we almost died. And at another we honestly believed we were being driven out into the desert to be shot and left for the jackals. We got home alright though, didn’t we?

The second wasn’t so good: the place we were based at was n the middle of nowhere, the food was lousy and the weather was so hot that it played havoc with her diabetes (Type One, if you please. None of your namby-pamby ‘Ooh I’ve eaten too many McDonalds’ Type Two bollocks for her, oh no). Still a good time though, in spite of the horrendous, hypo-fuelled, no-testing-strips-left flight home during which she really didn’t look as if she’d make it.

In June, her sister contacted me through Facebook, asking for my phone number. You know what had happened. She’d gone to sleep, hadn’t woken up, laid undiscovered for days, until a local friend kicked down her door and found her.

In what had been her last few weeks she’d phoned me a hell of a lot. Too much, in fact. I’ll be honest: those calls I’d missed through not being in or just by not bothering to answer the phone, I’d stopped returning. She knew this. She said, in one of our last talks, that she felt she’d started stalking me and would be easing off a little. I laughed it off. I think, though, I was a little relieved. I don’t know how she felt things stood. I hope she didn’t think she’d become unwelcome.

Three days ago I pulled up her details on my mobile, took one last look at her photo – standing in a hotel lobby, one hand reaching up so she looked like she was swinging from the chandelier in the background – and deleted her. Then I went to my landline, listened again to her final message, from a couple days before she died:

“Hi. Don’t worry. It’s not important. Bye.”

Said goodbye. Pressed ‘Delete’.

Tottenhamista...

... is very busy right now, but will be back in approximately two weeks.

And Tonight's Host Is...

In a desperate effort to get new content onto this blog, I have asked a couple of contributors to help out. First is Robert – never Bob – Harwoode. Robert has been a friend for many years and is the most immaculately dressed man I know. I’d like to thank him for agreeing to be the first ‘guest artiste’ on Tottenhamista.

Gentlemen, consider your ankles.

Travelling as I do on London Underground’s Circle Line each morning and evening, I cannot help but be drawn to other passengers’ clothing. As a man of refined tastes, it is to the male traveller that first I turn, though I assure the reader that the gentler sex receives equal scrutiny and shall be reported upon shortly.

The welcome return of the fly-fronted Mackintosh raincoat has been noted in recent weeks, sometimes in staid black but for the more daring, traditional fawn is the choice. These must be scrupulously maintained, as nothing mars the overall effect more than an unsightly stain from a rapidly-consumed Big Mac Meal on the breast, or the tell-tale greyness around the pocket flap that betrays overuse of the pockets.

Also to be greeted with inner gratitude is the passing of recent years’ trend for shoes to have one or worse two seams from instep to toe, and an elongated upper which gives the foot an appearance of some mis-shapen pasty or Arabian slipper. The Brogue and the Oxford – the latter sometimes with toecap, often without – are also making a comeback, though these must be polished and buffed like a squaddie’s parade-ground boot. Nothing marks a man as slovenly than does an ill-shone shoe.

Trousers maintain the slim silhouette that has prevailed for a decade or more, and rightly so. Pleats lend a boastful air to the upper leg and as such are vulgar. Turn-ups remain banished, and so the leg entire retains a modest slimness that suits the well-turned-out gentleman as would a furled umbrella, though please, never of the folding variety.

I am also pleased that shirt collars are no longer left unbuttoned, and that the hideous fad of fastening all buttons on the shirt without the wearing of a tie seems to be over. If we are to dress, we must dress entirely.

There are, sad to report, still those who wear three- or, criminally, four-button suit jackets. There simply are not sufficient negatives to describe this holdover from the years of excess. A simple two-button, single-breasted and cut in the Italian manner is the style of the day, although some bold souls dare sport double-breasted with no seeming concern for restraint.  Your choice of peaked or notched lapel, with the proviso that the former does lend an air of spivviness to the wearer which I am certain is, in most cases, not deserved.

It is, I am sad to report, in the matter of hosiery that the male commuter lets the side down. I believe Sir Michael Grade was responsible for the laissez-faire attitude to sock colouration, with his unchanging choice of bright red hose. This may be acceptable in Sir Michael’s choice of profession but ill suits the workaday male. In the past few days alone I have witnessed sky blue, emerald green and one occasion multi-coloured stripes in certain gentlemen’s feet, and to add insult to this sartorial injury the perpetrator seems always to sit with one ankle crossed over the other, revealing his eccentricity to the innocent eye of his fellow traveller. Pastel shades particularly emphasise the gulf twixt shoe and trouser and make obvious any misjudgement on the part of your tailor of inner leg length, be he Savile Row or Marks and Spencer. Woe betide the man with a inch-short trouser and a bright yellow sock, for he may as well dress in a flamingo costume and be done.

Plain black or dark grey should be the choice regardless of the colour of the rest of his outfit. I may possibly be lenient enough to allow vertical stripes in the style of Mr Jeff Banks, but again, monochrome should be the word to follow. One is, after all, off to one’s place of toil, not attending some polychromatic technicolour dream happening.

Also, the sock should be tight against the ankle and the calf. A sock that sags down over the top of the shoe is a thing of misery and should be avoided. This faux pas is easily remedied: a sock of sufficient length and elastic content, even allowing for Lyrca content in extreme circumstances, will grip the calf like a lover’s caress providing comfort, warmth and style during the most punishing of commutes. Be forewarned, though; bending to hitch up the sock in a crowded tube carriage is a sure indicator of a man with a surly disregard for his co-occupants.

The truly well-appointed male will take the necessary steps to prevent both sock slippage and its rough cousin, the over-long shirt sleeve.  A little assiduous researching among outfitters will surely provide those twin stalwarts, the elasticated armband and the sock suspender. The Prince of Wales himself is known to appreciate the rule of cuff: never more than one and one half inch of shirt cuff is to show below the jacket sleeve, and neither is to skim the knuckles and bestow upon the wearer the appearance of a besuited ape. Links, knots or buttons: the choice is yours, but please be restrained in your selection of these. Plain square or round, if you will, restraining double cuff or single, be it Bishop cut or French. No Union flags, jagged engravings or Lilliputian versions of motor vehicles. Your wrist should be a thing of classic elegance and not a miniature bazaar.

Finally, the golden rule for shirt and tie: one plain and one striped or patterned, or alternatively both plain. ‘Mix and match’ is the worst of crimes in the matter of colour choice. Please do not commit such atrocity. Also, bear in mind that as there is currently a mode for a pocket handkerchief to be worn in the breast pocket of one’s suit jacket –never, never in that of a blazer – such kerchief should be folded square and barely peek one quarter of one inch from its nesting place. Linen is the material of choice and must under no circumstance be used as a handkerchief per se. Should one need to attend to any nasal affairs, another square of equal material should be produced from a trouser pocket and returned immediately the necessity has been met.

I hope with all modest sincerity that those absorbing this advice adjust their attire to reflect my concerns. I retain the strongest conviction that should we all pay sufficient heed to our outer aspect, the inner man shall shine also.

RH, August 2011.

On The Passing Of An Old Friend

I was very young, maybe six, maybe even five, when my mother took me out, one bitterly cold day, wrapped in scarf and coat and Wellingtons, to the most magical place I’d ever been.

It was a bus ride away, which to a boy that age is like traversing the Arctic; it was even further than Nanny Bob’s house, and if going to Nanny Bob’s meant crossing the big road, and we were going even further from home than that, then surely we were putting our lives in danger even thinking about the trip.

I remember the dull yellow insides of the upstairs of the bus, the stairs so steep, each one so deep it took mountain-climbing gear, ropes, pulleys, and a smiling conductor at the top to pull you up the last few treacherous feet.

But we got there. And when we got there, my father was waiting for us outside, fresh from work, wearing his big coat with the dark collar. “Come on, son”, he said. “There’s someone who wants to meet you.”

That was when I first went up the two escalators, across the top floor, through gauzy curtains and tinselled pillars, to see Father Christmas. Other visits followed, but none ever felt as astonishing as that first trip.

On the way back downstairs, I looked around at the rest of the place. Huge refrigerators, big enough for me and all of my mates to hide in. Dresses so glamourous they would make even the old witch down the road look lovely. Shiny things for the kitchen and living room. A jacket that my dad really liked, but couldn’t afford, so he pretended it didn’t suit him.

When we came out, I turned around, reluctant to leave this amazing palace of wonders. I didn’t know it then, but it had a name. Officially it was Union Point. On the outside of the upper floor, above the window where, I was certain, Father Christmas was watching me walk away, there was a tower, and on the side of it were three letters, set in relief on the great white panel mouldings. LCS. London Co-Operative Society. Everybody knew it as the Co-Op.

I grew up. Union Point was still the Co-Op. Father Christmas wasn’t still Father Christmas but a man in a false cotton-wool beard. The Co-Op closed, leaving an empty building, boarded up against the indifference of shoppers who had been tempted away from the High Road by the sirens of the newly built Shopping City a few miles away.

It stayed empty for years, eventually becoming occupied by a carpet retailer who tacked garish greeny-blue plastic all over the beautiful original façade. The upper floors looked empty, old curtains hanging dusty and torn in the grimy windows.

I’d go past it so often it stopped registering. On the way to work, or off into town, or seeing girls from so many different parts of London, by bus or by car, Union Point was either the sure sign of a good night to come, or the last marker on the drink-blurred journey home.

Recently, life wasn’t good to Union Point, or to me, which meant we saw each other every fortnight as I went to sign on in the JobCentre that had been built next door to it, a modern redbrick slab butted up against its 1930s classicism. I’d walk through the park and along Lordship Lane, and there it’d be, its upper floors retaining their dignity despite the cheap nylon twist carpet offered half-price on the street level, the façade the same despite the modern flats that had been carved out of its interior. Always, always, the same three letters, LCS.

Everybody knows Union Point. It’s the place you saw on the news on Sunday morning, flames swirling from every window. You saw it today; mortally wounded, empty, broken-backed, its roof bowed under its own weight, aching to give up and collapse in on itself like a dying whale.  Union Point: destroyed, purposefully, by the people it had watched over for the last eighty years.

Tonight, there are cranes at the corner of Lansdowne Road and Tottenham High Road. Union Point is so badly damaged it cannot stand, and will be demolished. You might see it on the news. Many families will be homeless, their possessions devoured by the fire that destroyed their building. But until the wrecking ball swings, the last remaining part of Union Point that stays recognisable, defiantly unchanging even in its own death, the tower, staying upright only by its own will, and the letters: LCS.

I have no moral point to make. No symbolism, no analogy connecting Union Point with the social cohesion of this country. No ironic juxtaposition of its name and its origin against the selfishness that brought its end. My opinions over the last few days have swung, wildly, from hour to hour. I don’t know what’s happening, but I feel it will get worse.

So, for as long as I can, while the mobs and the flames stay just far enough away on the other side of the borough, so long as the sirens get no closer than the main road two hundred yards from my home, I’m going to sit and feel as safe as it’s possible to feel tonight, and I’m going to raise a quiet glass to those three letters that have there in the edge of my vision for most of my life.

Goodbye, Union Point, Goodbye, the Co-Op. Goodbye, you life-long lodestone. Goodbye, thank you, and sleep well to those unforgettable three letters: LCS.