If you knew me well, you’d know that, in much the same way that the kid from “The Sixth Sense” saw dead people, I see (and write about) crimes. Mystery. Oh, yeah, and dead people.
But not actually dead. And not actually people. More like potential, imaginary, fictional dead people. Like, if I were to find myself in the beer cooler at Dave’s Supermarket, I’d go “Wow, what if someone walked in here and there was a dead person (a blue dead person) propped stiffly up against the six packs of St. Pauli Girl.” How cool (NPI) would that be???
It’s like I’m living the first five minutes of “Bones” over and over again. In my head. Only not as gross. I’m usually eating something or planning to eat a little something in the next two or three hours or so, so I try not to be imaginative in that gross and disgusting, sort of liquidy, way that Bones always specializes in. Eeww.
My point? Getting there. I LOVE mysteries and I relish all the lingo. BOLO means Be On The Lookout. As in “As soon as I saw Frankie Brancusi propped up against the six packs of St. Pauli Girl in the beer cooler at Dave’s, I put out a BOLO for Ralph “The Iceman” Boyardee. ‘Sonofabitch is at it again,’ I muttered, ‘and this time, he’s mine.'”
I like BOLO. It’s the kinder, gentler kid brother of the APB. Kind like “Keep an eye open for….. If you happen to run across…. When he shows up…. lemme know. But for crissake don’t shoot him. It’s just, you know, BOLO.”
Now for the non-crime, philosophical application. My experience suggests that if you put out a BOLO for something you’d like to see in the world or in your more immediate life, it has a better chance of showing up.
(I know. “Woo woo. Wacky New Age bs.” Get over it, you sour cynic. Choose to be happier.)
What I really need right now is some serious spring. It’s been slimy, icy, dark and rainy/snowing for quite some time and a change would be appreciated. Therefore I invite us all to BOLO for spring. And to give us all a little boost, here are some signs of spring in Cleveland that might be interpreted as signs of winter in other, less challenging climes:
The small round “lakes” in the roads are no longer frozen over into teeny, tiny skating ponds. Check. (And swerve to avoid.)
Ten thousand ducks are engaging in a social convention that can only be described as “duck speed dating.” Check. (In case anyone ever asks you where baby ducks come from, tell them Lake Erie. It’s a kind of single’s bar. For ducks.)
In spite of my kind warnings, daffodils are popping up like the true doofuses they are. Check. Check. Check check check.
The buds of the leaves of summer are clearly delineated against the blank gray of the sky. Check.
The grass is green. Greener? Checking. Checking. Keep checking.
Now it’s your turn. BOLO for spring! It’ll make you happier, I promise.
And if you happen to see Ralphie B. hanging out up at Dave’s, lemme know. But for crissake, don’t shoot him. Just, you know, BOLO.
