Good Things Come In Pairs

Your Boulevardier, accompanied by the Trusty BoulevarDog, walked the West End this morning. The weather was clear, crisp, and cool, and vehicle traffic was light.

Many shops on The Boulevard had hand-lettered signs in their windows: "We will close at 3 pm Christmas Eve," read one. "Closing at 4 p.m. Friday - Merry Xmas!" read another. Some shopkeepers had already decided to take the day off; others, including, inexplicably, the Tune-Up Shop, were open for business. Do people actually have their cars tuned up on Christmas Eve?

Your Boulevardier shared a brief but pleasant encounter with the Boulevard's resident Jehovah's Witness -- the slender, earnest, bespectacled, somewhat awkward gentleman who is always dressed as well as one can be when one shops at secondhand stores. Today his outfit was accented by a trenchcoat and canvas fedora, making him appear to be on his way to an audition for a revival of television's "Dragnet" crime drama. He offered a copy of The Watchtower, which Your Boulevardier gratefully declined. For an evangelist, he seems almost eager to take "No" for an answer.

We stopped at the Starbucks On Stilts (SOS), which now anchors the corner of Lake Chabot Road and The Boulevard. We sat outside in the brisk chill and enjoyed our pastry and coffee. (Alas, the Trusty BoulevarDog is not permitted inside the establishment.) The SOS was fairly busy, causing Your Boulevardier to ponder how a weeks-old establishment could already have a clientele. Perhaps they build Starbucks outlets with a queue of patrons already in place. But then the revelation came: some Valleyans would rather wait five minutes at the SOS than fifteen in The Village. To put it another way: SOS patrons may actually there for coffee, not to see and be seen.

But they were seen by Your Boulevardier. From our elevated perch, a pattern was detected: some features of our town were found to be running in twos.

A pair of black Labrador Retrievers, one young and enthusiastic, the other stiffer in the joints and a bit grey in the muzzle, walked their denim-clad owner.

A pair of brothers, perhaps six and eight years of age, greeted the Trusty BoulevarDog: "Nice dog!" one said. I thanked him on the Trusty BoulevarDog's behalf, she being unable to show gratitude in a way that would be appropriate on a cold winter's morning. "Nice dog!" said the other, not to be left out.

A gentleman in a bright blue windbreaker and short pants -- short pants, on Christmas Eve! -- strode by, exercising his arms with a pair of dumb-bells. Alas, your Trusty BoulevarDog today was forced to complete her walk with just one dumb-bell -- Yours Truly, The Boulevardier.