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Poems on glass 

The Observer went ahead with our years-deep threat and canceled our dish TV service a few months back. The prices had just been creeping up month to month, until finally we were paying north of $80 bucks per lunar cycle and didn't even have HBO. There was just something about paying that kind of money and not even being able to watch "Game of Thrones" that rubbed us the wrong way.

So, we canceled. Yes, we're sure we want to cancel. No, we won't climb up on the roof and retrieve your dish. You put it up there, you come get it. Yes, send us a box for the receiver and we'll gladly ship it back. No, we won't consider your exclusive, one-time offer of knocking $10 off the bill every month.

It has been blissfully peaceful around The Observatory since we cut the cord. No Kardashians. No reality TV. No political ads. No horrific glimpses of Fox News as we channel-surf past on the way to the old-timey movie channel ("Is President Obama an extraterrestrial lizardman determined to eat a burrito made of your pets and the Constitution?! We report! You decide!"). As an added bonus, we've totally missed that "Honey Boo-Boo" show everybody seems to be staring at in disgusted fascination, thank God.

We've got around to reading more books and doing a little non-Observational writing of our own, and when it blows up a storm, the lovely shush of raindrops on the roof doesn't have to compete with the drone of The Idiot Box. That's easily worth not being able to watch The Weather Channel.

The Observer is a great fan of public art, and particularly the kind that appears without anybody paying for it. Some might call that "graffiti," but the fact is that somebody put their freedom (or at least the cost of a misdemeanor ticket) on the line to express themselves. We can support that.

Speaking of which: while walking down Main Street the other night on the way to The Rep, a Deputy Observer reports that she was stunned to see the following poem floating before her in the darkness — careful, ghostly lines written in what appeared to be white grease pencil on the plate glass window of a shop at Capitol and Main:

Thinking of a master plan

Cos aint nothing but sweat

Inside my hand

So I start my mission

Leave my residence

Thinkin how could I get

Some dead presidents

I need money

I used to be a stickup kid

So I think of all the devious

Things I did

I used to roll up

This is a hold up

Aint nothing funny

Stop smiling

Be still don't nothing

Move but the money

So I dig into my pocket

All my money spent

So I dig deeper

But still comin up

With lint

But now Ive learned

Cos I'm riteous

I feel great

So maybe I might

Search for a 9 to 5

If I strive then

Maybe

I stay alive

As our Deputy reports: "It was a gift to find such a thing in our downtown block. I didn't have my camera with me then, but the next morning I snapped some shots before going to work. I haven't been back today to see if the words have survived or if they've been removed. Just like Little Rock's downtown, the writer is seeking a master plan."

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