I need to start carrying my camera on bike rides again. I need to start getting some photographic evidence of the money sump I find myself living in. Or near. Today I wandered down a previously unexplored side street in the Farms; I was trying to find a straight shot to the lake, so I could turn for home. (This is my rule on bike rides: Stay out 40 minutes minimum, and always ride along the lake for at least a short stretch.)
I can’t remember the street, but I knew I was getting close to the water when I passed several places that looked like English manor houses, only bigger, each one likely sheltering a family of four or so. You know you’re in Plutocrat Acres when you start passing middle-aged Latina women in smocks, walking tiny little dogs. “Deliveries to side entrance” signs blend in with the landscaping.
“I feel like knocking on the door,” said my sister when she visited in July, “and asking, ‘Hey. How did you make all this dough?'”
But that’s the Farms. Up in the Shores, the money is newer, and it shows. One of my favorite places is a fortress-like English Tudor, the driveway lit by a series of nymph statues, each one holding a torch aloft. Honey, tell the groundskeepers that nymph No. 3 is burned out, OK?
And then I come home to the Woods, where I keep it real with my peoples. We walk our own dogs up here in the G.P. ghetto.
Summer won’t let us go. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but not long after I wrote that DetNews blog entry about the lazy summer day outside my home-office window, I had to close it and turn the a/c on. It hit 90 today; not good in a brick house.
But I got some work done, which means the day yielded little of note. If you want someone to jeer, try Timothy Noah in Slate over why the New Orleans police were correct to ban Snowball from the evacuees’ bus. All I gotta say is: Where I go, Spriggy goes.