Cold wind a' blowin' on State Street
I board my train. It is 80 degrees and face-warmingly sunny. When my train arrives in our state's capital city, I depart the station and walk out onto State Street. As always, a cold wind whips down this corrupt lane leading to the State House. I button my shirt and hug my shoulders. Is this a new day?


Today is the birthday of my childhood neighbor, most likely grown from a dear little girl into a forty year old woman…unless her birth date was a clarion of meaning, in which case she would have grown from a dear little girl into a mistress of dark evil. For, you see, she was born on Six Six Sixty Six. (Cue gasping supplicants crossing themselves in fear.)
I was as big a fan of Steve Austin as the next sixth grader. But now that I think about it (and why wouldn’t I?): if his bionic legs were pumping back and forth fast enough to travel 60 m.p.h., in reality, his arms would have been helplessly flailing about in an attempt to match the rhythm of his legs. And with all the friction, forget about maintaining virility. Best case, impotency. Worst case, flames.