So we're driving on 95 when suddenly we hear a noise. Sounds like a flat. The noise gets louder. I try to get to the right. A truck is in the way. The noise gets really loud as we realize our tire is dying. It fully blows, and I have no choice but to pull onto the left shoulder (which is at least as wide as the driving lanes, fortunately). Oh, and it's night. So we call the pigs, and they say "okay, we'll send someone right out." After another call to them, they dispatch a tow truck. After a third call and 20 minutes, we're still sitting there, sweating through every car that flies by, hoping it doesn't veer slightly left and kill us. The tow truck arrived at the half hour mark, and the statey didn't get there until about five minutes from then. 35 minutes. That's how long it takes a cop to get to you when you're in danger, helpless. When there's a fucking state police headquarters no more than 10 miles up the highway. Get up, get get get down, 911 is joke in yo' town. And in my state, apparently. (Maybe next time we should just call 'em and pretend we have a sixteenth of an ounce weed in the car--that'll bring 'em screeching onto the scene.)

Oh, and the whole time we're in the tow truck on our way to get the tire fixed, the driver is telling us about how the stretch of road we're on is called the "death strip" and that drivers are constantly drifting onto the shoulder, slamming into broken down cars, and that once it happened while he was setting up a tow, and he had to jump over the hood and roll down the embankment to save his own life. So....

We're safe and/or sound, back here in good ol' 1955. The night before was much more fun, as we went to my friend's wedding in NYC. I got to see a lot of people I hadn't seen in years. And Kim got to hear a bona fide "eh, No, Peg" from my friend, the one who tried (and is still trying, along with me and a select few others) to make it a nationwide catch-phrase about a decade ago.

The groom and I don't see each other very often, so on the wedding day, we returned DVDs to each other we'd traded a while back. He had my The Warriors and I had his Style Wars. As you can see, I needed a place to put Style Wars during the ceremony, so we stuck it in the little book holder thingy in front of us, next to some book called "Celebrating the Youkilis" or something. My friend Jen snapped a shot of it from her whatever-machine.

Too bad about the last two days of crappy losses. Thank Gedman we don't have to see our pitchers bat anymore....more on the Red Sox side of life later. I kinda feel like Tommy Lee Jones at the end of The Fugitive right now.....