The drive home yesterday featured a more-annoying-than-usual jam of the traffic variety. (Grape jam is the only jam I can stands!) It was the usual--close start-stop jerky maneuvers, inability to see around the monster-SUVs driven by hate-criminals, and of course sociopaths using the shoulder to sneak ahead and cut into lane. In other words, sharing the 14th Street Bridge with hundreds of people all of whom should be fed into a meat grinder. And yet, if I were to do so, they'd call ME the psychotic. Go figure! And, at the end of my drive, I pull into my garage, to my assigned spot for which I pay a monthly fee, and what do I see? Some clod parked there! In the mood I was in it would have taken very little for me to go blatzurkers with a tire iron and create a bit of modern art out of the offending vehicle. Alas, better senses prevailed, I parked on the street for the night and informed management so they could warn the motorist to move their car or it would get towed. Is the world a better place because I don't carry hand grenades? Well let's just say it's a better place for people who park in others' assigned spots. Them, and I guess the guy who'd have to clean up the car parts.