The title of the post is directly related to my trying for something unifying. It’s a stretch, that’s what it is.

Here’s the primary reason for thinking about predictability — Fucking Nick. If the man was a horse race the odds would be 1:1 and everyone would be betting on a sure thing.

Next week was to contain the scheduled date for our court showdown. Dog the Bounty Hunter, or whatever the fuck the delivery service I hired was called, had sent a letter indicateing Nicky had been served. Yup, the whole “Here’re are your papers, sir, now get your bad self to court.”

Only, it wasn’t exactly expected that Nick would go all gentle and all. I mean the official suit against him, the one in the real courthouse not the small-claims dealio, took two years or so to settle, because he was a no-showing, letter writer. So, when the stakes were high, he wasn’t on it. In this case, why would I expect anything different?

And, so it goes. We got the letter Friday evening from the courts, the case has been continued to September as Nick, globetrotter and bon vivant, is out of the country through August. At least that’s what the handwritten letter from his son to the court alleges.

(Total aside: It’s so cute that all of the court documents on record from that family are hand written. Very quaint. Particularly charming in that the son who wrote it works for a Silicon Valley company with its own flavor of word-processing. Old school.)

We were in Nick’s neighborhood yesterday. There was a teeny, trouble-making part of my brain that wanted to cruise by his house and/or our old place to see if he was around.

Maybe he’s in Greece, what with the free time of landlording in general and disputes holding that up anyway. Or maybe he’s just claiming unavailability. Either way, I was certain that the set date was anything but a sure thing.

The only other sure thing in my life these days was the lure of the fair. As I sat and wrote yesterday, I could hear a local carnival off in the distance.

It was certain that by nightfall, I would have visited said carnival. My man won me some plush, we ate a fair-based dinner, and I capped it with funnel cake (I don’t think there’s fried dough west of the Missippi). Life is grand, fucking grand.