Have you seen a green Miata?

Sometime between 10:30 last night and 7:50 this morning, someone stole Adam's car.

He bought it on the same day that he asked me to move in with him. We've driven it to the beach, to Southern California, and to Portland. It is not his favorite car in the world -- that would be the black Miata that, until last night, had to be jump-started in order to be moved for street-sweeping -- but it was his, it was not cheap, and it holds many memories.

This morning we were bickering about something totally incidental (a Trader Joe's kitchen washcloth, okay? yes, of course I'm serious) and he left for work a little miffed. A minute later, I heard the gate open and I thought -- aha, he's coming to apologize.

Instead he walked in and said: "You're not going to believe this."

This is the latest in a building series of incidents ranging from annoying to infuriating. In the three years we've lived here, both of his cars have been repeatedly rifled through. A month or so ago, we set out for a day trip to Santa Cruz, only to find that all of his CDs had been stolen from the glovebox that he'd neglected to lock. On Valentine's Day, we came home to find my bike (the one he uses more frequently than I do) gone.

Now this.

Do we shrug and adapt? Do we brace for more? Do we move?

I know one thing, though: This isn't solely about economics. This isn't rich vs. poor, the convertible-driving yuppie scum sleeping soundly in his cottage while the downtrodden take his vehicle so that they can feed their starving brood.

No, this isn't about redistribution of wealth, the taking from Moishe to pay Floyd. This is about a thief who steals what he's not man enough to get on his own. And they'd better not run into me any time soon, or I'll give them what they do need: A swift kick in the ass.