Mister Bluebird on my shoulder

So, over the weekend, I was advised that Monday was going to be a “Bluebird Day” and that I should probably call in sick so I could enjoy it. I didn’t call in sick, in fact, and never even acknowledged the comment because, believe it or not, I have never heard of a “Bluebird Day” in any context. Maybe I’m just not old-timey enough but these terms that seem to come out of nowhere just confuse me. Every month, we’re told it’s going to be some special kind of moon. Wolf Moon, Pink Moon, Shark Moon, That Sticky Stuff That Develops On The Bottom Of Your Feet When You Wear Sandals Moon… you name it. To me, a full moon is just a moon and a Monday is Monday and nothing more. I do kind of wish I’d called in sick, though. It was wicked nice out.

Me? No, you. Wait, me?

I had one of those situations the other day where I was stopped at a four-way intersection where I and one other driver couldn’t figure out which one of us should proceed first. At Spruce and Park, this was, and I swear the whole dance went on for 10 minutes. We both just sat there, me on my bike, he in his car, not moving an inch. Then we’d both start to roll through the intersection at the same time only to slam on our brakes because the other guy was moving, too. This tense pas de deux might have gone on forever if I hadn’t shut off my engine, climbed off my bike and lit up a pipe to make it absolutely clear that I wasn’t going to drive on through until he did.

Not really, though

I don’t really smoke a pipe. But now that I think of it, should I? It might bring me an air of sophistication that monocle and watch chain never did. I could get a checker pattern sweater vest, some kind of smoking jacket and maybe a fedora. This could be the beginning of the radical personality change we all know I need.

I’m blushing…

On Wednesday, a nice fellow wrote to say that my humorous articles make him “pee pee my pants.” As far as I’m concerned, I can just hang up my writing hands and retire now, because I’ll never get a compliment as good as that one.

I mean…

That IS flattery, isn’t it? Maybe I misread the thing. I get a lot of people telling me that my writing makes them upchuck, too, and I’ve always considered that praise. And what about that guy who wrote to say my columns make him want to gouge his eyes out? That’s a pat on the back, right? You readers are so nice to me.

Mark LaFlamme is an award-winning Sun Journal reporter and columnist. He’s covered the nighttime police beat since 1994, which is just grand because he doesn’t like getting out of bed before noon. He is the author of eight published novels and rides a dual sport motorcycle everywhere he goes. Unless it’s winter, in which case he just sulks a lot.