Et tu, JB?

Your friends, or those that you thought were friends, can be your harshest critics. I’m basing this on the comment on my 11/27 post. I think it came from my lawyer chum JB, but I’m not sure because it came in as anonymous. Can you imagine that, publishing a comment on such a widely read forum and not identifying yourself? JB has always been a wallflower. I tried to give her a call but I couldn’t reach her at home. She’s probably out shopping for down parkas and Manolo Blahnik snowshoes for the upcoming upstate winter. Say goodbye to beautiful shades of crimson foliage and hello to sleet, salt and gravel encrusted snow banks.

She may take exception to my response but that’s OK. I’ll use my blog’s “comment moderation” tool. If things get really out of hand, I’ll be soliciting donations to the DJ Defense Fund. As far as JB’s 11/29 philippic, it happens to be full of holes. I got my license at 16 while I was still a high school student. And I was a nervous passenger, but only in her ancient Chevy. That was with good reason. Such as the long, strange trip down to the Grand Funk concert in The Garden. JB was behind the wheel and I was riding shotgun. The Floyd brothers, Pretty Boy and Pink, were along for grins. I became concerned when we were in the middle of the Lincoln Tunnel and she was getting flak from the Floyds. She casually mentioned stopping the vehicle in the tunnel. This gave me pause. The back seat boys were of no help, cackling and goading her on. Fortunately prudence won out and we made it to the show without incident.

There was also that chilly midnight’s drive on the lawn of a rival high school. The shriek of reason had no effect on JB that night. The local PD was not far away but were luckily otherwise engaged, ensconced at the Dunkin Donuts on the miracle mile. We waved as we passed, on our way to 17. The miracle mile, as all roads, leads to 17.