My alarm went off at 5:45, and like most mornings, it was about as well received as a PBR fart during a scheduled moment of silence. I would personally be OK with said flatulence, mostly because I would likely be the one blasting away. However, those with a sense of reverence would consider it inappropriate. They’re like that.

I was awake already and not by choice, but I had made peace with the situation. As dreary as staring at the ceiling was, it was preferable to getting up and starting my day. Alas, remaining immobile doesn’t pay especially well.

I went into the bathroom while scratching my ass and picking at my teeth with my fingernail (not with the same hand). This past Sunday, I was sitting in Muddy’s and managed to chip one of my front teeth with a wooden coffee stirrer. Some enamel came off, but not much. I still haven’t decided whether it is going to require a trip to the dentist.

It did get me thinking though. Decades of grinding my teeth in lieu of flossing them has left me with a crumbling mess for choppers and it’s only going to get worse. None of my retirement projections have included major outlays for dental care. Maybe it’ll be nothing but extractions from here onward. I think I can live with that. Whiskey is easy to chew.

The big unknown when it comes to retirement is longevity. My paternal grandmother, who smoked until she was 75, lived until she was 101. My father, who enjoyed a cigar now and then until giving them up in his forties, dropped dead at 69. My own smoking habits fell somewhere between the two therefore I should make it to 85.

Math!

I’ll probably know more after July 26. That’s when I go in for a colonoscopy. I’m not sure about the details of the procedure, but I’m guessing the doctor feeds a plumbing snake up my asshole, pulls it out, and checks the end of it for bits of tumor.

So I’ll either make it to 85 or be dead in six months. It doesn’t matter. I still need to plan on living a while. That means financial prudence. That means no indulging any of my self-destructive impulses, no matter what a hilarious piece of performance art it would be in execution.

I showered, dressed, told a semiconscious Becca I love her, and I was out the door. I later sent her a message that the garbage truck had not yet come, hoping she would get the bins and return them to their space under the stairs before our landlady did. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if the landlady ended up doing it. In fact, she did it last week while I was spending the first half of America’s birthday with a vicious hangover. I just didn’t want it to happen often enough to breed resentment. We live in a rent-controlled apartment and we’d like to stay in it for a while.

I had my coffee and bagel at Muddy’s, incurring no further damage to my teeth. I kept my eye on the time as I usually do. I have yet to miss the bus and did not want to start.

At 6:34, I left the cafe and walked down Valencia Street toward my stop. Halfway there, I saw a couple of guys talking to a cop in his police car. They said there was a Mini going in circles in the middle of the street.

Sure enough, there it was a block and a half away, and sure enough, it was spinning around with its hazard lights blinking, all out of fucks for anything in the state vehicle code. The cop took after the Mini, cop lights on and spinning. The Mini turned onto Cesar Chavez with the police car in pursuit. I continued toward my bus stop, thinking the Mini driver (no relation to the actress) would end up with a nasty traffic ticket or perhaps a DUI.

About five minutes after arriving at the bus stop, I heard a police siren. The Mini was heading my direction on Valencia with the cop still in pursuit. It was not hot pursuit, mind you. The vehicles were maybe going 25 mph with the Mini exhibiting an OJ-in-a-Bronco. I pulled my phone out to get a picture of this battle of wills, but was too late and they were gone.

Two other police cars soon came down Valencia with their lights going, presumably to join the chase. The Mini would eventually lose this contest. It is the nature of things. Still, I wanted the driver to keep going as long as he or she could. The outcome may belong to them, but the moment belongs to you. Bless you for rubbing that in their faces.

The bus arrived and I boarded, thinking of the day’s tasks ahead of me.