Man, oh, fucking, man. Tired, that’s what I am.

And, anxious, and guilt-ridden, and all sorts of worrying. Why? Don’t know, other than I’m a maroon.

Yesterday’s angst was cutting edge and teenagery. There was a neighborhood “block party” on the main drag. Live music, some kinds of street fair food and booths for the local merchants. Even better, it was a celebration of the town being “green.” We got a free energy-saving light bulb. Whoopee.

Here’s the thing, we strolled around our well-heeled suburban village. We laughed at our well-heeled suburban village. I took the free Hoodsie-style ice cream from the AAA insurance guy. I enjoyed it.

Then, our officer appeared on his police bicycle.

The local constabulatory came right out to the apartment when my own damn bike was stolen shortly after we moved here. A young man with a name like Officer Jason or Justin or something youthful sounding came on by and took notes and took the sliced bit of cable as evidence.

We’ve run into Officer J. a couple of times since then, and he recognizes us as criminal victims and newcomers to town. He’s quite friendly and lovely and all. And, last night he was on a tricked out mountain bike and even played the siren when I asked if a tricked out cop-carrying mountain bike has a siren.

I only wish his bicycle helmet had a red cherry flasher.

The thing is, though, when the fuck did I become a cheery complacent surburbanite chatting up and palling around with the police. That’s the man, and I know he’s keeping me down, so when did I start being friendly about that.

I have exactly zero anti-establishment edge at this point in my life. I am a squishy, soft, contented bovine-like animal. Or, wait, that might be ovine. Fucking BAAAHHH.

Today as I rocked out to de-stress the stress fest at work, it all came to a crystal clear head of irony. Punk rock on a iPhone.

I’m keeping my ownself down.