When it's wet outside, the dogs' paws track mud into the house, and the prints look exactly like icons of dog paws.
Outside, a tweaker woman pounds the chest of a man as they lean next to a beat-up SUV.
Two minutes later, I look out and see the man hugging the woman, his head above her shoulder and looking into the distance.
Litter is everywhere. People just don't care enough to put trash in a can, and that's a societal problem involving complex issues of representation, pride and rebellion, I think.
As ever, the Washington Mutual Web site is down.
My baby is on a plane, and she is about to begin the first of two legs of a cross-country journey.
Graduate students grade papers and deduct points if word counts are not met.
Cooks in restaurants yell at each other, breaking balls in Spanish before the lunch rush comes.
The Mel Gibson movie "Ransom" is still going and appears as if it will never end. Someone, somewhere, watches is defiant self-torture.
And, still, only Kobe and that young woman know what happened in the Colorado hotel room.