Walkabout. Curb Edition.


In my neighborhood, in between bulk trash pickups and the usual dumpster diving, the walking dead have to come up with new ways to get money. One sure gambit is to repaint the white curb signs that feature black house numbers in front of our houses. Often they will ask permission first for either a set fee or a donation. Other times they just paint it and ask for a donation. Tulip hates these zombies as much as she hates the guys that crawl into the trash bins in my alley at 4 in the morning in search of an aluminum Diet Pepsi can. Her hackles were up this morning, actually her hackles are always up because she has a lot of ridgeback in her, but she was growling and barking so I knew something was going on in the front.

I, too, really hate these guys because one year, without asking, they painted over our curb sign that Hess had decorated when he was little with some of my acrylic paint. So they don’t ask me anymore, but Tulip and I were ready should they try. Watching today’s tag team of Bonnie and Clyde do their magic was a rare treat into the artistic process of house number curb painting. Clyde, using a big brush would slap down a square of white acrylic paint. Paint was flying everywhere. Then, without waiting for the paint to dry, Bonnie would lay down the numbered stencils and hit it with black spray paint. Sort of. Lot of overspray and drips and runs. The abstract painting event was overshadowed by the full blown argument erupting between Bonnie and Clyde. Clyde was a bitch, a little bitch. Bonnie was a whore. With some slight variations that was the gist of the screamfest that broke this morning’s peaceful Sunnyslope calm. They never made it to my house, but when they turned and headed over to the next street, I could hear them yelling at each other long after I had lost sight of them.