Let's get to it.

1. The 4th of July was on a Wednesday, so the fun kicked off the previous Saturday. Heat and humidity were horrible — I blame New London — and visitors were headed to the shore like children and lemmings marching together with a pied piper over a really steep cliff to a storm-tossed and shark-infested sea. And so the City of New London decided it was the appropriate time to shut down Ocean Avenue. The detour brought traffic down Lester and right onto Lower — which happens to be the corner we live on.

I'm not saying the flow of cars full of sun 'n' sand enthusiasts was bogged down, but from our window we could see snails, sloths, tortoises racing by as idling cars went nowhere. We felt like zoo creatures and were too self-conscious to follow through on our original plan to assemble in the front yard for a rooster-sacrifice/voodoo ceremony.

I shouldn't complain. For a while now, every street in New London has been under some sort of construction or another, and I got a kick out of the sign on Bank Street that reads, "Pardon our construction as we aim to make downtown look like Damascus."

The goal, of course, is to make the roads better. That's good. I'm just not sure why it's happening now instead of in the winter, during a blizzard or ice storm, when there wouldn't be summer/tourist traffic.

2. I'm weary of parking in the Water Street Garage and passing the two handicapped spots near the walkway across from The Day. Starting around Memorial Day, these are invariably occupied by cars with no handicap permits. Why? Because, usually, fit and healthy citizens hitting Block Island with their golf clubs and surfboards park there. Nice. I've been taking photos of these fine people's cars to use in a future voodoo ritual. It won't be pretty.

3. There are NEVER tickets on these cars. Think of the missed revenue for the city. Maybe my wife's and my yearly car taxes wouldn't be $800 if we firmly dealt with these scofflaws.

4. Speaking of car taxes, I headed to the Assessor's Office on Masonic Street Tuesday to pay them. According to the CORRECT time on my cell phone, I reached the door at 3:57, three minutes before the posted sign indicates closing hours — just as a pleasant and helpful clerk turned the key, stared at me with bovine indifference and retreated, presumably to catacombs under the facility where she might well have a coffin.

"Hey! It's three minutes till four!" I called — and the wind whipped my voice down the street in a desolate echo as though I was standing alone in the landfill we call the Fort Trumbull neighborhood. Sigh.