nine minutes.

It's nine minutes from my apartment to the diner. I had that long to listen to BBC News. Two things that'll stay with me:

Danca Voluminosa. A Cuban dance company of obese dancers.

The BBC carries coverage of the Superbowl. Utterly alien to hear a Brit shouting out the final minutes of the game.

I'm confused.

I've just come back from the diner where Bill and Courtney and I go all the time. There were some incredibly drunk guys there. A third guy came in separately. One of the first two got rowdy, and threw something at the third, then left. The third guy got angry and tried to go after them. I realised he, too, was incredibly drunk. For a minute, we all snickered.

Then I realised he'd come in alone. Driven in.

The host and waitress sighed and said yes, he did it all the time. He'd stay til he got sober, then drive home.

I guess I kind of quietly lost it. I said to Courtney,"What if, in 1991, someone had called the cops on the guy who later killed Patrick?" And I realised that it was one of those moments that I could look back on years later and wonder why I hadn't done anything. So I stepped outside, and I called the police.

There wasn't anything they could do, of course, since they didn't see him driving. But they came. At least I called.

So why do I feel like I caused drama? Why do I feel bad?

Snicker.

With thanks to snugglyevil

Latest Joy.

One of my minion's boyfriends made a reservation for Friday night. They now think they can't go. Ian called to cancel the reservation, and was told they WILL NOT refund his money. They'd already charged him for a night he hasn't used, and they will not refund his money. Why? Well, he has to take that up with Jeff Mach. Jeff, specifically.

I told Ian to call corporate. He did, and Corporate cancelled him with no problem.

Blood. BLOOD!