I was in some kind of workshop and when I came out there was a guy sleeping in my car. He looked like Dave Chappelle. Also the roof had been sanded down and the plates changed, but I didn't realize this yet. I woke him up and told him to "get outta here." He said, "Alright, but can I just take the number plate with me?" "Yeah, whatever," I said. He took off on a moped.
When I realized I had two plates that were different and the top of the car now had a confederate flag on it (because of sanding, apparently), I took off after him. I could see him, but he was riding on the wrong side of the street and so hard to approach. At some point I switched over to his side, and luckily I became vary narrow so I could fit in beside the oncoming cars like he could. I grabbed him with my hand and gave him a chilly look.
Standing there were some policemen. I was relieved. "I said, this man stole my car, or my numberplates, or something. I want to turn him in." The Chapelle look-alike was quiet and sheepish this whole time. The cop said, "Talk to them inside," sticking his thumb in that direction. Inside there were a bunch of cops using a converted space to work on their robotics project. They were thrilled when it suddenly worked, extending a tiny shaft to poke through a piece of fabric, and angry at the Japanese nuns who'd won the prize money before. They would win this time.
John Reid is an interesting figure. As Britain's Home Secretary, he staged the "London Terror Plot" this year, resulting in the liquids ban when we fly. Some indications (timely speechifying, etc.) point to a possible bid for Prime Minister in the future. The BBC calls him an ex-Communist.
"Mr Reid lists his hobbies as football, history, crosswords and playing the guitar."
Here are some triangular shapes that move around in a three-dimensional space for your entertainment.
I was with Gordon Ramsay (Ann Coulter was his sous chef) and he was screaming at me after finding a fly in the food. "What do you føcking think you're doing putting a føcking fly in the føcking food? You think your føcking customers want to find a føcking menagerie in their dinner? What in the føck were you thinking about?"
Later at another venue we are cooking again and I'm looking at a cake he's made. Half of it has been eaten so the inside is showing. There's a little bug embedded in the cake; I free it with a finger and say, "Gordon, there's a fly in your cake." Ann Coulter and I exchange a meaningful glance.
Before today, I'd never heard of the École Polytechnique massacre in Montreal in 1989.
I was looking up "misogyny" to find out if I could spell it with "mys-." The answer is No.
Toward the Grassmarket.
Ahead a young man is shouting. He's pressing against another. The other is shouting LISTEN TO YOURSELF. LISTEN TO YOURSELF. He pushes him; he pushes him back. They begin to fight as I pass. A girl cuts away from the one who holds her—"John, John, no, John!"
Along a ways, two cops in their flourescent safety green vests stroll along. They should know about the fight. I compose. "There's a bit of a fight going on just down there." Another man is talking to them. He is pointing at the fight.
Ahead further is a club; loads of people wait outside. A press. Clamouring. Past run two girls in minis (20? 23?). They shuffle to run in their encumbering shoes. She laughs to her friend, "It's like Trainspotting!"
A man is kicking a broken road sign. Two others in kilts, fine young lads, walk up. "Where are you taking that?" "Wot?!" "Let him be, mate."
A woman has slipped out of her shoe. "Are you from Ireland then?" says a man. "Yeah, I've got it," she answers. Cutting across the road, I am stopped: "Eh, mate, you know where the Grassmarket is?" "Yeah, it's just along this road, back that way."