How does one start to tell a story?  It’s an interesting question and I’m tired of pondering it.   So let’s just start by saying that I’m sitting on the back porch.  It’s raining.  It’s hot.  I’m tired.  The cars driving along the street, just beyond that rickety old fence, are driving ever so slowly.  So slowly that after finishing off this last case of beer, I can still count them.

The woman in the blue convertible japawhatever, the kid in the old beat-up bug, the man in the old Chevy Nova, wearing a fedora and burping up noxious clouds of who knows what.  Makes me want to do something, educate someone, enlighten him as you will, but, as time will tell, I am just too….

I stay put, perfectly pressed into the cushion, hand chilled by the touch of the cool perspiring glass.  Comfortable.