At the north boundary of my neighborhood sits a huge Harley-Davidson dealership. Once a week (O.K., it's probably more like once a month but it seems like once a week) the dealership hosts a massive rally at which the bikers meet, join forces and lay siege to the nearest major intersection to collect money for the March of Dimes - an admirable endeavor, I will admit; and the way I handle it is with my cell phone. As I approach the stop light, I put that little technological marvel to my ear and carry on a heated conversation with the mouthpiece. I work my jaws and shake my head; I smile and nod; I run through my rehearsed repertoire of facial expressions and I practice my Sean Cannery impressions, all for the benefit of the easy ridin' philanthropist who, hopefully, thinks I'm so engulfed in private discourse that I don't know he's standing there with a sign and a collection bucket. And the stop light takes its ever-lovin' time. The last time I found myself in that situation, I caught sight of the woman behind me in my side view mirror, yackin' away on her cell phone like a teenager. I would've loved to have met her. Clever girl.
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