Issues

A smorgasbord of horror today, in the paper and the internet tubes. Run, isabelita, run. The wind died down by the lake, settling a temporary layer of hot wet air over the area, and the lake emanated an aura of armpit or something worse. If it doesn't rain, the lake is going to be irridescent and reeking pretty soon.
Lake revolting, running was jolting, the crows are molting. On the way home, I came upon a wicked-looking knife, resembling a serrated mini-machete, laying on a green knee pad. Then I saw a shiny pitchfork stuck in someone's garden border, and realized I'd come across WMD's: weapons of mulching and destruction. There was a strenuous sound of hacking and chopping, and around the corner of the house came a gardener. She had left her arsenal scattered about so any terrorist could have made off with them. Foolishly negligent.
The self-defense introduction was interesting, but just not my cuppa. I realized yet again that I have a hard time with anything that's very structured. This activity had some almost cult-like overtones in its presentation. I walked part of the way home, and as I passed a church, noticed I had to pass under dozens of crows, all lined up on a telephone line and along the church's roof. Would have taken windmilling with my fanny pack to beat them away.
The evening cooled down beautifully. Everything was lovely until I neared the Green Lake boathouse, where a slew of police and medics stood by the shore watching as a team was using grappling hooks from a raft. Didn't stick around to find out what they retrieved.
Off to bed with the New York Review of Books. Interesting art review by John Updike.