Edward lives in an upscale middle-class enclave in Baltimore County, which has luckily been missed by the Government's Dindu resettlement initiative. However, a couple of the folks in this suburban brownstone neighborhood have lost their houses, which have been flipped and rented to welfare families from the city. One such family lives on Edward's block. They are polite, wave, the mother making her kids stay off Edward's property, but you might be able to take the Dindu out of Dindumore but not Dindumore out of his soul.
"You see that shopping cart at the end of the alley, where it meets the street, right next to my neighbor's garden, how it is all full of trash and compost?
"Well, they rolled their groceries home in that cart, then used the card to clean up the yard for the 4th of July picnic and rolled it to the end of the alley and flipped it over. Who does that?"
I responded, "Oh, your neighbor dindu nuffin! It's your fault for not hiring them a landscaper and paying to have their free groceries delivered."
Edward looked skyward as if trying to conjure up an understanding deity and sighed, "I suppose I'll call the supermarket and have them come get it."
Generally, the first signs of Dindu occupancy are:
1. Double parking or walking in the middle of the street depending in whether or not they are motorists or pedestrians
2. Drink containers left on the curb and in the street next to where they clean out their parked cars.
3. Lookouts on perpetual duty on rental porches.
Thriving in Bad Places
You forgot to mention the kids that are out playing at 11pm during a school night, the inevitable arrival at oh-dark-thirty of some relatives that believe they have to talk at a volume that Luciano Pavarotti couldn't have attained in his prime, even though they're 3 feet away from each other, and their complete lack of perception of time or date (Friday has no meaning when every day is Saturday).
Ed, apparently the Dindus of North Dindustan have some sort of vitamin D deficiency, because our Dindu whelps run the street below my window until 3 a.m.! Still, your home grown variety is demonstrating impressive tropical fervor considering the climate. I once took the bus through the neighborhood of Harford and Sinclair Lane, a block from the Northeastern District Courthouse at 11:30 p.m. in July, late 90s. There were so many people on the streets that the bus moved a t a crawl—denser than a night club on Saturday night. The children crowded in the gutters as the adults occupied the sidewalks,. It looked like a seal colony.