Jubilant Immature Moment (a JIM, if You will) #87,433.
If You are like really incensed by generalizations, breeze along.
backstory: Middling City cabs are frightening and if viewed on any MC roadway steer clear for they are, generally speaking, un-maintained cabins of death. Their drivers are, generally speaking once again, people who are unaware, or perhaps on the lam. They are smoking. The cars have missing hubcaps. They are rust buckets, as we say in this grand Rust Belt. The cabbies resemble the little rectangles of photographic images of those who have done something grave in mags of distinction amid a harrowing piece of non-fiction.
In a more edgy sector of the MC I was being waved down by a cabbie. Immediate thought was of carjacking or something until the next thought was Of course, they have no GPS in the vehicle, nor maps, I presume, so he is lost and in need of coordinates. But I really was not into stopping where I was and rolling down passenger window and shouting directions across a thoroughfare so I did the natural thing. I pretended to not notice the large flailing arm rising out of the cab window. I motored along at law-abiding speed and the cabbie was driving alongside my vehicle flailing wildly. I pretended to be not only not noticing but singing along to a phantom loud tune on the radio. He began beeping madly. Still I stared emphatically ahead, singing along to … rien.
I was priding myself on not laughing and continued the ruse through a red light and a left turn.
The cabbie flagged down a poor, defenseless pedestrian.

Met Liz last night for vino. She does not get the whole Perfect Nancy Gun Moll Thing.
I tried to explain. It did not work. You either groove on the adrenaline of shooting targets well – or not.

Jubilant, immature Love.