First signs of autumn in midtown

If you have been reading me for very long, then you might recall that I document the changing of the seasons, not by grass turning green, trees budding up, or the leaves turning shades of red, ochre and brown. Okay, I have no idea what color ochre is, I heard Bob Ross say it once and it stuck with me. Anyway, here in Midtown the changing of the seasons are marked by the Zombies who begin to come outside more often , hearkening the spring time, like ragged anorexic robins , I wrote about them here. Summer is marked by a rise in homicides . Winter on the other hand needs no help from the local riff raff, it gets cold, snows at the most inopportune times and in copious amounts, so that ones a no brainer. But Autumn, is more subtle, it eases up on you, the morning air is a little crisp, and the sun sets ever earlier, and petty thievery abounds.

Much like the Zombies of spring, the crack heads of autumn are going about their work in Midtown. Just as the hordes of potentially rabid squirrels prepare for the coming winter, so do the crack heads. The street in front of my humble abode is littered with broken auto glass, stereos are ripped from dashboards, leaving them to greet their owner with large gaping holes, that will no longer serenade them with obscure music from angst ridden emo punk electro hip hop bluegrass garage bands, or whatever crap the local art school crowd around here listens to. Burglaries will go on the upswing, shit will come up missing, winter is on its way, there is much work to be done. I have long contended that the local boofers (crack smokers), tend to hibernate through the winter, so it only stands to reason that they would need to stack up some cheddar(money), before it gets too cold to steal.

Another sure fire way to tell it's autumn is by the changing of the neighbors. The lease runs out for the people who live above me just as summer comes to a close. You might recall that I had an ever changing cadre of Art School students living above me. The leader of the group a homely, painfully thin, perpetually greasy haired young woman, who was a professional student and rug weaver. She had a giant fucking loom, and many a day and evening was filled with the thumping sound of the loom, slowly wearing a hole through the hardwood floor overhead. There was a steady procession of greasy haired , one size too small wearing boys and hippy-ish young women, also living with the ugly rug girl. Now they are gone, leaving piles of trash behind as the only proof that they were ever here at all. In their place are 3 hippy-ish 20 something guys, who are slowly growing louder with each passing day. By mid winter I will have reached my breaking point, there will be much posturing, beating on walls, and finally a profanity infused tirade from yours truly telling them they had best keep the fucking noise down. Thus the seasons have come full circle once again.