But not actually dead. And not actually people. More like potential, imaginary, fictional dead people. Like, if I were to find myself in the beer cooler at Dave's Super Market, I'd go "Wow, what if someone walked in here and there was a dead person (a blue dead person) leaned stiffly up against the six packs of St. Pauli Girl." How cool (NPI) would that be???
It's like I'm living the first five minutes of "Castle" or "Bones" over and over again. In my head. At the store. Only not as gross. I'm usually eating something or planning to eat a little something in the next two or three hours or so, so I try not to be imaginative in that gross and disgusting, sort of liquidy, way that Castle and Bones specialize in. Eeww.
My point? Getting there. I LOVE those stories and I relish all the lingo. Like recently I encountered BOLO in Tina Whittle's debut novel The Dangerous Edge of Things. (Read this novel. I read it. I loved it. It's way fun. Just do it. And if my just do it recommendation isn't persuasive enough, see my review at Amazon.com. http://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Edge-Things-Randolph-Mystery/product-reviews/1590588193/ref=cm_cr_dp_all_helpful?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1&sortBy=bySubmissionDateDescending And ask me why I have such a ridiculous user name there. Go ahead. I ask myself, myself. Lizzie? Really?)
I'd seen BOLO in books and heard it bandied about on TV before but I had to look it up. It means Be On The Lookout. As in "As soon as I saw Frankie Brancusi leaned up against the six packs of St. Pauli Girl in the beer cooler at Dave's, I put out a BOLO for Ralph "The Iceman" Boyardee. 'Sonofabitch is at it again,' I muttered, 'and this time, he's mine.'"
I like BOLO. It's the kinder, gentler kid brother of the APB. "Keep an eye open for .... If you happen to run across.... When he shows up at the N-Spot .... lemme know. But for crissake don't shoot him. Just, you know. BOLO."
Now for the non-crime, philosophical application. My experience suggests that if you put out a BOLO for something you'd like to see in the world or in your more immediate life, it has a better chance of showing up. (I know. Woo woo. Wackyass. New Age bs. Get over it. Choose to be happier, you sour cynic.)
What I really need right now is some serious spring. I have two new bionic knees and it's tough to get them up to six million dollar speed inside the house. Walls will stop you. Plus it's been slimy, icy, dark and rainy/snowing for quite some time and a change would be appreciated. Therefore I invite us all to BOLO for spring. And to give us all a little boost, here are some signs of Spring in Cleveland that might be interpreted as signs of winter in other, less challenging climes:
The small round "lakes" in the roads are no longer frozen over into teeny, tiny skating ponds. Check. (And swerve to avoid.)
Ten thousand ducks are engaging in a social convention that can only be described as "duck speed dating." Check. (In case anyone ever asks you where baby ducks come from, tell them Lake Erie. It's a kind of single's bar. For ducks.)
Against my better judgment and in spite of my kind warnings, daffodils are popping up like the true morons they are. Check. Check. Check check check.
The buds of the leaves of summer 2011 are clearly delineated against the blank gray of the sky. Check.
The grass is green. Greener. Checking. Checking. Keep checking.
The wild garlics are springing up like the creepy intractable weeds they are. Soon the garden will be in full and lavish ... ah ... smelly garlicky weed bloom. Check. Pewie.
Now it's your turn. BOLO for spring! It'll make you happier, I promise. And if you happen to see Ralphie B. hanging out up at Dave's, lemme know. But for crissake, don't shoot him. Just, you know, BOLO.
