I am walking down the bike trail near my home in the late afternoon on New Years Eve. The trail is not empty but certainly not very busy on this late December day. At a good distance, I see a white haired man coming toward me who looks very like one of my neighbors who moved away but still visits family members on our street.
Love Israel, my former neighbor, is the grand poobah of a long established commune conveniently named the Love Israel Family. As befits any grand poobah or successful salesperson, Love is charismatic and exceedingly outgoing. You are his new best friend the moment he meets you. A good recruiting tool of course, but the man is a totally legitimate extrovert.
As the man is approaching me, he turns on a beaming grin and, full of cheer, asks me how I've been. It's like taking a drink of iced tea when you were expecting lemonade. The man looks and acts like Love, but is not quite Love. I find I've already launched into a conversation with the man about gardening, and he's telling me he once had an organic farm in England. That explains the British accent that I'm just now taking into account; further prove that he is definitely not Love Israel. But now we're talking about the horrors of genetically modified organisms and the Evil Empire of Monsanto.
He decides to introduce himself; his name is Walter. I try to explain to him that I had mistaken him for a neighbor. "Oh don't worry," he says, "I'm a terrible flirt."
Love Israel, my former neighbor, is the grand poobah of a long established commune conveniently named the Love Israel Family. As befits any grand poobah or successful salesperson, Love is charismatic and exceedingly outgoing. You are his new best friend the moment he meets you. A good recruiting tool of course, but the man is a totally legitimate extrovert.
As the man is approaching me, he turns on a beaming grin and, full of cheer, asks me how I've been. It's like taking a drink of iced tea when you were expecting lemonade. The man looks and acts like Love, but is not quite Love. I find I've already launched into a conversation with the man about gardening, and he's telling me he once had an organic farm in England. That explains the British accent that I'm just now taking into account; further prove that he is definitely not Love Israel. But now we're talking about the horrors of genetically modified organisms and the Evil Empire of Monsanto.
He decides to introduce himself; his name is Walter. I try to explain to him that I had mistaken him for a neighbor. "Oh don't worry," he says, "I'm a terrible flirt."
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