I brown bag my lunch. I don't technically brown bag it, I pack my lunch in a wicked sweet Blues Brothers 2000 tin lunchbox, but "I lunchbox my lunch" is pap; regardless of the container, "brown bag" is the appropriate verb for bringing your lunch from home. So as not to ferry my lunch about all morning, I keep it out in Lumi. So as neither to ferry the empty lunchbox about all afternoon nor to make another trip out to the parking garage after I eat my lunch, I prefer to eat in the parking garage. And though the weather is rapidly growing too cold to continue doing so, I prefer to eat on a bench set up as a smoking area rather than sitting behind Lumi's wheel. As I was unpacking the lunchbox today, a passing motorcar honked at me. How do I know the honk was directed at me? Because when my head snapped up I saw the driver waving to me as he or she slowly rolled past. He or she? I saw the wave, but the glare of the window and the non-transparent solidity of the door post conspired to obscure the driver's face. I suspect a distaff personage, based on subtle, almost subconscious visual clues and body language, but I cannot say with any degree of certainty whom it was who found the spectacle of me sitting on a cold bench carefully unpacking my boxed lunch so thrilling.

This curious little scenario added a dash of color and a glimmer of silly fun to what was otherwise a long, wearying day. Neato mosquito!

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Sufjan Stevens, "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." from Illinois (T.L.A.M.)