Four scruffy potheads from the suburbs were driving into the city to see a show, perhaps Pansy Division at The Fireside Bowl or Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind at The Neo-Futuarium. Something hip and unda-ground like that. To avoid the inevitable congestion on The Eisenhower, our party elected to take Roosevelt Road into the city. Some chicken-little associate of our troupe naturally extends the typical cautionary advise, "Man, you guys are gonna get car jacked driving through the 'hood!"

Foolish Mortal, as if a bunch of scruffy potheads in an '85 Cutlass Cruiser are going to attract any attention from anything more than panhandlers and window washers.

To the show!

Life, especially the years relatively unencumbered by real responsibility, most definitely those years to be recalled vaguely through the haze of chronic marijuana use, should be spent on the side streets in the thick of the shared and collective humanity. And definitely not The Eisenhower on a Saturday night.

Midway through the journey, another party of four scruffy potheads, in an early eighties Crown Victoria, pulled abreast with the Cutlass Cruiser with the window down. One could imagine our cautionary friend at that moment, "Man, I told you guys you were gonna get jacked!"

But from the back seat of the Crown Vic came the following enigmatic salutation, "You gotta be in 'yo shit!"

And with that the Crown Vic turned down a side street and left our party to ponder the nature of this obvoiusly deep and sage wisdom.

"What was that, some sort of philosophy?"

"Damn, drive-by philosophy, how about that!"

"OH, SHIT! Roll down the window there is a huge wasp up on your seat belt!"

Moments later, the unintended passenger escorted into the night air of the city, four scruffy suburban potheads continue onto their destination, "One Bee in 'Yo Shit" wiser.