While out doing our business this morning, a strapping young lad from down the street nearly stumbled on us. Out and about at 5ish in the morning, and dressed in his finest Christmas boxers, we escaped his notice as all his attentions and remaining powers of focus were directed elsewhere. Our young neighbor was working hard to entice the object of his affections to return to the warmth of his apartment with a medley of Blues on his harmonica. This was clearly requiring more concentration and balance than he had available.

The lass of his interest, dressed in holiday party attire (velvety and with ornaments), was more interested in Pongo than our nieghbor, and seemed to have had enough warmth for one night. She did not appear to be a fan of the Blues, and neither did she appear to be sympathetic toward the possibility of her suitor turning blue. Glad tidings were not on display.

She seemed to prefer walking alongside us, and as she arrived at her car and the Blues were becoming background music, she left us with that timeless phrase of the walk of shame, encapsulating her sense of the spirit of good will prevalent during this special season: “F’ing drunks, man.”

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