I was stuck in the house all day, working on the Rushing book and measuring the occasional showers. Before the sun set I thought it was sufficiently dry to take the dog for a walk. As we perambulated up Lafayette to Washington, over to DeKalb and down to Clermont, I was posed three questions, after having been asked nothing all day.

“What’s Bonerama?” a man said, reading my T-shirt. (A New Orleans band composed of four trombones with a sousaphone for a bass, I told him, and he looked suitably amazed. You should hear their covers of “Crosstown Traffic” and “The Whiffenpoof Song.”)

“A gas station attendant pushed me when I asked him for money and I punched him in the mouth,” a homeless man told me. “Can I be arrested for that?” (If he walked away, I said, he probably won’t press charges. But stay away from that gas station, just in case.)

“What’s the desperation?” a man on DeKalb asked as a woman barrelled past, running for the bus. “If she is that desperate, why not take a cab?” (Maybe she doesn’t have the money, I said. Besides, have you ever tried finding a cab on DeKalb?)

Glad to be of service, folks. Now it’s back to work.

“Gentlemen songsters off on a spree/Doomed from here to eternity…”