I saw Gandalf walking down McIntyre Rd. a few days ago. He was wearing a pin-striped shirt, a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a fishing hat. In each hand was a bag of groceries. His long white beard hung roughly down past his neck and came to rest on the tops of his collar bones. He walked slowly, his left leg shuffling ever so slightly behind his right to give the appearance of an age-refined limp. But this man was no frail, brittle old man, despite his limp and obvious degeneration of stylistic instincts. This man was a wandering wizard. His grocery bags were filled with jewels and stones of magic. I stopped him as we passed each other and asked him why a wizard was walking down McIntyre Rd. on a Thursday afternoon. He replied in an incoherent mumble. I think it was a curse, because the next day the hair on my arms turned blue and the end of my nose fell off in my sleep.