![]() ![]() You’d think someone sawed the legs off her desk. Though she could have been more enthusiastic about it. In fact, Lakshmi was reporting today about a record turnout for today’s march. His owners are NPR fanatics. Harlow’s always zonked out on the bean bag when I pick him up for his walk, tranquilized on Lakshmi Singh. Know what I’m saying? And I’m not sure Harlow does. Never, ever power up your saw inside your home, or bedroom, or bathroom. ![]() Don’t let the pull of the saw pull you into an accident. Tell him Chainsaw Americans are not a haphazard crew. But first, I must salute, waggle my imaginary saw overhead, give it a buzz with clenched teeth, working the sound up from the meat of my throat. I know we should be rushing along, my Vaz only two blocks away. And as we turn onto Sixth Avenue, with a squint I can see them approaching. I can sense through the leash as he continues to pull against my charge that he’s stressed by the march of saws. Then I tug the leash and we’re back in action, Harlow reluctantly marching behind me. THUMBS UP FOR THE GO GETTERS SONG SKINWhy had it not been–Ī yank to the arm, a skin burn to the wrist, the leash pulled tight, Harlow is looking at me from where he has slammed on the brakes like, Get over yourself, dude! Wood pulped into paper, ink on the constitution, men in colonial wigs, scribing our rights. Oh, man! Feel the boom thunder beneath your feet, the notch-and-carve of felling a virgin tree. Oh, beautiful for gracious saws, from tree to shining tree. The hip hip hooray of America, a mighty buzz. Long as you hold yours over your head during the march, grind that sucker at the air, you’ll be one of many. But today, a saw’s a saw, even if you have to plug yours into the wall to charge it up. It comes with the stink of a diesel boost. The testosterone of a saw doesn’t come with an electrical chatter. Marching from downtown, a crank-and-rod choir of saws, Farm Boss to Makita to Craftsman and if you sharpen your ear you can hear the gentle flourish of Greenwork blades, those lithium go-getters, hedge snippers with Jurassic teeth. That’s where the march is happening, on the Avenue of the Americas. We’re on West 11th Street, 6th Avenue up ahead. I can feel the excitement tingling up into my arms. Then we pick up the pace, two-and-a-half blocks from dropping Harlow off at his apartment, two-and-a-half blocks from my Vaz waiting for me in its snap-lock case. But the stand of a coin-operated phone? Have at it. Fines enforced and incarceration for repeat offenders, and I’m not talking dogs but their owners and walkers who allow such an act to continue. There should be consequences for such behavior! Laws drafted. ![]() No dog should be allowed to pee on the leg of a mailbox from the United States Postal Service. He seems annoyed too as I drag him past a prime hub for pee mail. I’m cutting his walk short-not proud of it. I’m a dog walker and Harlow’s my last walk of the day, a bulldog with a toothy underbite and a thick-headed strut. But soon as I drop him off, I’ll crank up the Vaz, grind that stump daddy over my head, join the march, my saw among the many. That’s why I left my Vaz in Harlow’s apartment. Generally, I’m not an open carry kind of guy. The song of my Vaz Deferenz is a mighty scree. That stump daddy may look like a chump chainsaw, but the speed of the chain and zero-gravity weight makes up for what it lacks in a long-dong of titanium steel. There’s only one sound missing from that march and that’s the sound of my Vaz Deferenz KR-14.Ī stub titanium blade with monster horsepower. You can hear them, less than a quarter mile away, marching up the avenue. Ahhh, the soothing sounds of the Chainsaw Americans. ![]()
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