Laundromat

Older lady at the laundromat asked me what I was reading and I explained that my current car book was "Metzger's Dog" by Thomas Perry. Then had to explain the concept of 'car book', it being the one I carried about for traffic delays and stops like the laundromat. She then started questioning me about my reading habits and I told her they were habitual. She was a retired English teacher, we talked about Faulkner and dear sweet Emily. When I left, she thanked me for the lovely conversation. Went to the museum, to read in the AC for a while before lunch and D was there, with one of the artists from Construction Zones. D didn't have his keys, so my appearance was timely. Very nice black and white photos of structures, uniformly matted and framed. Pub for lunch and a beer. Dinner is a salad with a small tuna steak in the center, cheap wine left over from the reception. A nice browned butter for the tuna. Rereading some early Barry Lopez essays, "Crossing Open Ground" and they're wonderful. There was an exceptionally strange, small, professor of Ethics at Janitor College, Lamar Francis, PHD, MDS, SOC, who spoke beautifully, in his lectures, about the natural world, took long hikes into really inhospitable places every summer. His lectures were often incomprehensible, though the attention to detail was transparent. An odd combination. I did learn from him that the janitor was just part of the background, and that, ethically, you'd be an idiot to not take advantage of a stock tip you overheard in private conversation, when you were just part of the woodwork. A small point worth belaboring. I won't, but I could go there. I'm good on belaboring small points. Professor Francis died an odd death, he was hiking a slot-canyon in southern Utah when he heard the sound of rushing water. He was an practiced rock climber, and easily got above the flow, but evidently ended up on a ledge where a momma mountain lion had just given birth. They only identified the skeleton because he'd had a tiny titanium plate attached to his 2nd rib that had his name and social security number. A careful guy. Ethics are where you find them. Much later the dog goes ballistic and I know it's either a opossum or a coon, or those guys dressed in black with body armor. It's a coon on the compost pile, and I'm relieved it's not the men in black. I can deal with a coon. I fire a shot across his bow, he takes off down-wind, the dog spins in circles. I go back to bed. Too much intrusion. I have a show to hang.