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My Fine Afternoon

I feel... I feel the need to complain.

Some cretin, some churl, some penny-rate snatch-and-grab artist saw fit to releive my truck of my laptop and my book bag. Gone. I gave a co-worker a ride from point A to point B in Hartford after lunch and he probably didn't think to lock the passenger door when we arrived. Not having frequent passengers in my truck I didn't think to check. Viola, a target of opportunity.

OK, it was just stuff. And it was better than having a window smashed or the whole truck stolen. But it was my stuff. My papers, my Palm Pilot, my tools. My Compaq screwdriver, which I have carried with me every working day since I got it at a class in Boston in 1993. My spare radio battery, an inhaler, and a roll of yellow flagging tape.

I DON'T name things. I don't have pet names for my truck, or my favorite rifle. So, don't even get me started about Old Faithful. That poor laptop has put up with all of the daily abuse I dish out for three straight years. When nothing worked, that laptop was my tool to put things right. And now, some scumbag is either trying to fence it for crack money, or is pawing through it in hopes of gaining political advantage.

They left my wiring tool bag. Depending on where the theft happened — at the Times building or at Barnard Brown — they left my municpal radio, and my entire ring of keys for Constitution Plaza (wouldn't that suck: changing every lockset those twelve keys open). Oddly enough, they left behind a twisted and battered key for an Accura sitting on the passenger seat. When I saw it as I got in my truck to leave Barnard Brown I thought that some kid passing through the school yard had dropped it through the 1/2 inch gap where I had left in the window down. The true meaning of this odd little item did not become apparent until I got home.

So, now I get to re-accumulate all of the stuff that I have just lost. And, that bullying fop from the Secretary of State's office can just go screw 'cause his name, number, and email address were in my notebook — which was in my missing blue book bag. Thank you Hartford. I guess this means that the honeymoon is over. I suppose that being able to niavely say "I've never had a problem in Hartford" for three years counts for something. Right now though, I'd like to raze the place to the rocks and plow the ground with salt.

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