There is a group home located down the block from my house. It seems to cater to “developmentally disadvantaged persons.” Got that out of the way, even used it in a sentence, now I can revert to type. They must have hired a new guy on day shift. I say this because with the regularity of the bulls showing up in Pamplona the wackos journey up our street. 

Get the imagine of the strength and power of the bulls out of your minds eye. This journey is more reminiscent of a Monty Python Skit, “Ministry of Funny Walks.”

The clientele seems to be made up of two groups, the organics and the brain injured. They seem to fall in the age range of late teens to early thirties. Some are residents of the home and others are day campers who arrive in the morning and go home at night.

I fancy that I can differentiate between the organics; the severely retarded, mongoloids and the traumatic brain injury. The TBIs exhibit the partial paralysis drooping face, limp wrist withered arm and dragging foot all on one side of the body.  The organics shuffle along with everybody else but it seems there bodies are not committed to the same journey. Another tip off is that the TBIs are the kool cats. It may be ragged and no longer fit but the TBIs hold on to that item of clothing they bought when they had more than half a mind to go shopping. The organics have relied on mom and Dad to meet their clothing needs and it shows.

The only disquieting thing about these excursions is that I know there is a staff member supervising the inmates. I have never been able to pick that person out with any certainty.