It started simply enough, as most days do. The sun rose in the east and, by accounts, it seemed inclined to head towards the west. This is what happened in the sky. The weathermen had mastered meteorology once again. What happened under the sun is another matter altogether, one that could not be predicted, unless you are a dapper gentleman who happens to zigzag around New Orleans on a little, 250cc Ninja motorcycle. It might just be the Littlest Ninja around. It is certainly the best.
In a tight spot, the Littlest Ninja will weave like an eel though nooks and between crannies, beating a yellow light by a minute, at least. It is handy in emergencies.
When the Littlest Ninja purrs by, ladies' petticoats ruffle in the slipstream. Maybe it's the motorcycle. Maybe, it is the driver. A gentleman refuses to kiss and tell, and the motorcycle is whisper-quiet.
I am afraid I have been sworn to secrecy, under oath, affirmation, and blood libel, not to divulge what occurred today by the northwest lagoon in City Park. There were a number of witnesses, but only one of them is reliable. The sun rose in the east and it set in the west. A motor scooter without chrome is like a beautiful woman missing an eye.
I was in Walgreen's, lingering in the eyepatch aisle, today. I left after buying a deck of playing cards.
|[Photo taken last week. -Ed.]|