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“I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king,
I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing,
Each time I find myself flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race,…”

Frank
That’s Life

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Been making the will up the past few weeks. It’s done and I just have to go and sign the papers sometime this week.

I figure it’s about time. There’s just some things that have to be done before the last call arrives. It’s better to do it when you’re alive than to let the courts decide things after you’re dead. That’s an entanglement that doesn’t need to transpire. That’s a bad scene all around, ain’t it?

It’s not a pleasant business. That much is understood.

You get the will in order and then you get the power of attorney in order.

Simple.

But while I was thinking along these lines, I couldn’t help but wonder about all the other things that I could potentially take care of before I pass.

I guess, in other words, what else can I do to help make things run more smoothly for my loved ones once I’m gone?

(My insurance and Roth IRA are in good hands.)

Seeing how I was recently at funerals for people who died younger than me, I saw first-hand what I could do that would make things go better and smoother, should I take the matter into my own hands right now.

One thing was so simple, yet it becomes an almost insurmountable task to complete before the actual death and the wake. There’s simply no time to do it justice when having to make it on the fly.

I’m speaking, of course, about the inevitable media that loved ones want created that’s to be played at the funeral.

We live in a media age. Everyone wants their loved ones to have a slide-show or film to be played at their funeral,…yet nobody ever takes the time to do this beforehand of course,…because the thought of preparing it prior to your death just becomes morose and gross.

I’ve noticed that every time I go into a funeral home, there’s always a dignified TV screen on the wall in the corner of the room. Attached to that is a hidden DVD player somewhere.

Why is this there?

Because everyone wants a slide-show nowadays, that’s why! Who prepares the slideshow? Usually someone on hand who was asked to make it just after the person just died, that’s who!

(That’s a 24 to 48-hour production from start to finish!)

In light of the will, I had to think about that one for a minute. Could I actually do that?….why not?

I’m the one with all my freakin’ pictures!! I’m the one who will take matters into my own hands and I will be the one to ensure that my images aren’t played to the Barry Manilow song, Can’t Smile Without You!

The thought of someone picking theme music for my final slideshow rankles me to the very core of my wishbone. I shudder to even think about it. How can one leave that to another person to take care of?

It’s impossible, I say!!

So,…in light of that, I started to work on that little piece for my exit.

I have to say, it really is quite soothing to work on, actually. I sift through pictures that make me smile and make me re-live happy times,…and then I veto pictures due to the fact that I simply don’t like the way my hair looks in them.

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I am in complete control of this project….and I’m loving it.

When it’s complete, I will simply give it to my power of attorney encased in a taped up shoe-box….along with other written instructions.

For example:

If the funeral home has two identical dvd players that are in the same cabinet, (one player for one parlor, the other player for the parlor next to it) do not play media on that dvd player should there be another wake transpiring at the same time as mine. They will inevitably have media that they want to play and, due to the fact that the dvd players are identical, the two remotes will also control both units….therefore, when they go to play theirs, it will shut off ours,…and visa-versa.

Do not ask for assistance from the funeral director for understanding the dvd player. He knows funerals, not media players.

Should the above transpire,…

Play it on a lap-top with only these speakers permitted: Two battery-operated, hi-fi speakers on either side of the computer screen. (A sub-woofer is permitted should there be no other funerals taking place at the same time.) Do not play strictly through the computer speaker alone. We all know how painful that can be. This will simply irritate people who are already irritated at the fact that they have to be there as it is.

Do not serve rigatoni at the wake. Serve any other noodle than rigatoni. I’ve always hated rigatoni. It’s a bastard noodle. It’s designed for wakes. I don’t like wakes and I sure as hell don’t like rigatoni. Deep-six the rigatoni….out of respect to me,…the dead guy. I personally like spaghetti best. Especially since I saw the movies, “In The Line Of Fire” and “Kill The Irishman”.

…but you can choose your noodle,…other than rigatoni.

In the unlikely even that someone should start sobbing uncontrollably, get ‘em out of the freakin’ room! I didn’t sweat blood on that slideshow to have it be ruined by a freak side-show!

Flasks are OK within reason. I’m Irish.

It’s OK if my guitars are thrown into a pile on the floor. I always like that one Fleetwood Mac video in which they did that. You have my permission to toss them into a pile. It’s OK. Don’t worry about it…seriously,…go ahead. (Or maybe just set them gently into a pile. That may be the way to go….)

All eraserboard pics are permitted….except the ones about work. Don’t let Lin display the eraserboards about work.

Any references of my death by means of quotes from The Godfather are strongly encouraged. i.e.: “Dan now sleeps with the fishes”, “Try the veal, it’s the best in the city”, “Don Corleone, I come to you for justice”….

Umm,….yeah….

Anyway…

“If you think I could be forgiven,…
I wish you would…”

Counting Crows
A Long December

I’m a failure. I admit it. I don’t have a problem admitting when I fail. I’m not a person who can’t admit when he’s wrong.

It all started a few years ago when I visited New Orleans. I went on the four day junket by myself. The reason I went? Not really important….but, truth be known, it was to see a door. I flew across country to see a door. It was no ordinary door, but a simple door, nonetheless. It was on Trent Reznor’s studio down there.

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I flew across country to see it on a dare. While there, I saw the French Quarter and Bourbon Street. I saw Lafayette Square. I saw 544 Camp Street. I saw the Super-dome.
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I found all of this mildly amusing really….

In any event, while there, one has to eat, don’t they?

I went to a bodega down there. My friend took me. The place was simple enough. Not a whole lot of she-bang for the atmosphere of the place. Quite unremarkable, actually.

He ordered for the both of us. We got two shrimp Po’ boys and a plate of oysters. I was also not very impressed with the order….until it came, of course.

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In New Orleans, the french bread is really quite exquisite. I don’t think I’ve ever had french bread that good. I can’t really describe it. There’s a nuance to it that can’t be conveyed. I can see why they eat it straight with wine.

I studied the sandwich. Lettuce, tomato, fried shrimp and a pinkish sauce. That’s all it was. Very simple.

When I dug into it, it took on a whole other dimension however. It was, indeed, a perfect sandwich. I can’t really explain it, to be honest…but every element was perfect.

I never forgot that sandwich…and then I attempted to make it this past Sunday. I bought all the ingredients. I stored them just right. I had my canvas.

I cooked the shrimp until it was just right. Floating and golden brown. I sliced the tomatoes and grilled the french bread. I made the remoulade sauce to the exact recipe that I found online. I shredded the lettuce to the width that I remembered.

I then assembled it, with great haste, exactly in the order that was noted in my fevered and heat-oppressed brain. Everything that needed to be hot, had to be hot. Everything had to be just right. The french fries had to be perfect.

I then,…after making this wondrous creation,…sat down to eat it. All looked well. I spun the plate around to see if I’d missed anything. Everything looked in order. It was quite a good-looking sandwich.

I then bit into it.

It was decidedly not the same sandwich I had in the Big Easy. It was,…how shall I say?….putrid, actually.

I was stunned.

Did I really fail this miserably?

Yes,…yes, I did.

I failed.

I tried to push through till the end. I just couldn’t though. There’s no use in pretending. I got through four bites when I suddenly got up and walked over to the garbage can and dropped it in.

It wasn’t the sandwich’s fault. It was mine. I failed. I didn’t even digress to give the shrimp to the dogs. I dropped that sandwich right in the garbage.

I lamented on the money spent,…the time taken,…and the effort put into it.

It was then that I reflected on the fact that my efforts were higgledy-piggledy to begin with.

I should’ve known that tomatoes were out of season and decidedly wet to begin with…and the lettuce might’ve gotten frozen on the way to the store…

No!

Wait a minute.

This was my fault.

I’m a failure.

There. I’ve said it.

Anyway,….

“When Black Friday comes,
I’m gonna collect everything I’m owed,…

Steely Dan
Black Friday

In a moment of extreme boredom the other day, I went up to the library to find some videos to watch. I came across the boxed DVD video set of the TV show, Fridays. (1980 to 1983. Live on ABC from the west coast.) From episode one, they said they were not a rip-off of Saturday Night Live,…while they then proceeded on to become an exact carbon copy of it. Not similar. It was exactly the same. Weekend Update, musical guests, drug references, live, late-night-slice-of-life cold opening type deal. It did have a sunny west coast, early eighties feel to it however.

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It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good. It had some moments. I just think that if a network hands you a live TV show, you would endeavor to make it unlike the only other live TV show around. Michael Richards, Larry David and Melanie Chartoff were pretty good in it. Richards had some range.

Heck, if it lasted another year or two, I could see him ending up in a Woody Allen movie…

(Geez. Since when did I end up as Rex Reed?…)

Anyway,…

“I’m all out of faith
This is how I feel
I’m cold and I am shamed
Lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed
Into something real
I’m wide awake and I can see
The perfect sky is torn
You’re a little late
I’m already torn is how I feel.
I’m cold and I am shamed,
Lying naked on the floor.
Illusion never changed.
Into something real,
I’m wide awake and I can see,
The perfect sky is torn.
You’re a little late.
I’m already torn…”

Natalie Imbruglia
Torn

Strange day today.

In a moment of boredom and extreme mental clarity, I decided I would go to the library and then get some lunch. I had no one to see and no commitments to honor.

I perused the videos and books, making selections every now and then, when I came upon a book in which the subject matter dealt with strange instances of my beloved hometown. A local book by a local author.

As I flipped through it, I came to a chapter in which the premise matter happened to be, literally, not even a half mile from where I currently stood. I decided to get the book and read more about this interesting and unsolved murder mystery.

I checked out and then drove down the street to get some tacos, man. (I hemmed and hawed about that for a bit. I was torn between a burger or some tacos…)

In any event, I acquired the tacos and then got back in the car to go home. As I was about to pull out of the parking lot, it occurred to me that the street this murder happened on was less than half a football field away.

I pulled out the book in question, flipped through until I found the chapter and then skimmed down to find the address. There it was….

I pulled out of the parking lot and turned toward the street in question. I found the street, made a right and began studying addresses. It was the third or fourth house on the left. I stopped the car in front of the house and pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. (Never thought I would ever utter, “I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture”. Strange days we live in,…)

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I went home and ate some of my tacos while I intently read the chapter from the book.

Here’s the deal.

A 16-year-old girl, on break from school for the Christmas holidays, woke up and ate some breakfast with her 12-year-old sister in the year of 1964. The two then tarried over to their grandmother’s house at around 10:30. They gabbed a bit and then the grandmother made them lunch. Ham sandwiches to be exact.

The 16-year-old then went back home, leaving her sister at granny’s house…because she had a date with her other two female friends.

(As the author describes this, she apparently went to a bus-stop and was seen by a neighbor who then instructed her son to go give her a ride instead of her having to take the bus. The thing is, it’s not THAT far, man. It ain’t….and people say we’re the lazy generation? I don’t think so. Not if that kid was taking a bus to go two blocks…it also has to be said, at this point, that she began receiving gifts from and anonymous suitor months earlier.)

Anyway,…the kid gets back home, right? (Cute kid, too.) She gets back home and walks into the house. She drops her purse and jacket off in the kitchen. She turns on the radio to the classical music station. I recognized the call letters…

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(This was post-Beatle arrival here, people. This act alone demonstrates the accuracy of the adjectives used to describe her personality. She was rather quiet, timid and bookish. She preferred poetry and latin-speak. She didn’t have a whole lot of boyfriends. She was cute, for sure, but she led a rather mundane and sheltered life on the whole.)

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So, the music’s playing and she starts walking up the stairs to her room when the phone rings. It’s someone looking for her dad. (Her dad and mom were both at work at the time.) She takes a message and then writes it down and leaves it next to the phone. She then goes upstairs to the room she shared with her sister.

Her girlfriend then arrives, right? She finds the side door open but the screen door was apparently locked. The girl rings the bell repeatedly. The girl then gets pissed off because nobody’s answering the door. The girl then hears a rather loud crash and thud coming from the upstairs. She then walked around to the front door and began ringing the bell there. She perused some magazines that were in the mailbox while she waited for her friend to answer the door.

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She never did,…so the girl just went back home.

The girl calls the grandmother who then calls the father. The father races home and finds his daughter dead.

She was stripped from the waist but there was no sexual assault. She was stabbed forty times but the cause of death was due to strangulation. There was a hole in the wall next to her bed. There was blood all over.

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The story gripped the headlines for weeks. They rounded up every male within a thirty mile radius and questioned them.

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It was never solved.

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There are a few things to take home here. In essence, the killer was in the house killing the girl when her friend arrived. She was very adamant in the fact that she heard a crash and thud. She arrived when the crime was in progress. The killer then escaped through the back door.

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The killer brought two weapons with him? The rope and the knife? Not likely. That doesn’t happen. She knew her killer. It was said she was very paranoid when gifts started showing up at the house earlier in the year,…with no credit given as to who sent them.

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Her ornate letter opener was also gone as well.

The cops re-opened the case in 2008.

The father and mother divorced and the mother and remaining daughter moved away. The father remained in the house until his death in 2012. He also had a solid alibi.

But it begs the question,…why would he stay there? He was successful. He owned a thriving company. It just doesn’t make sense.

Nothing in this case does.

Are you telling me a 16-year-old in 1964 wasn’t into The Beatles? Are you kidding me? That’s a mystery in and of itself,….

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Anyway,…


“I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in,
And stops my mind from wandering,
Where it will go,..”


The Beatles
Fixing A Hole


“…So, don’t tell me if you’re off to see the world.
I know you won’t get very far.
Don’t tell me if you get another girl, baby.
Just tell me if you get another car,…”


The Dresden Dolls
The Jeep Song

The window of opportunity remains a very narrow and brief passage during these ever increasingly shorter and colder days.

I woke up early this morning for some strange reason. The presence of left-over turkey and it’s L-Tryptophan content usually stacks the odds against something like that from transpiring. For some reason, that wasn’t a factor in this unusually early-morning rising time of mine.

I rolled over, grabbed my phone and then pressed the weather app. It said it was 55 degrees outside. That was a highly unusual temperature for this time of year in my neck of the woods. It was welcome, I suppose.

I thought about the car. I needed new brakes on the front end as well as new tires on the same front end. The back end of the car is aces.

I thought about the pad slap for a minute. I knew I did it before but couldn’t really remember what it all entailed. I unplugged my ipad from it’s charger and pulled it into bed with me and then pulled the covers up over my head. I called up my Youtube app and did a search that said, “Replacing brakes on a 2008 Honda”. Various videos then came up. I chose the most in-depth one and watched it. (I knew it was in-depth because it was 15 minutes long….) I then listened to it with one ear and watched it with one eye opened.

All I needed was a 14mm and 17mm socket. I had those two items. I got up, made my coffee and headed down to the auto parts store.

I purchased the cheaper of the two choices available to me due to the fact that the salesman said there was really no difference in pads. I paid the marginal farthings and left.

I got home and jacked up the driver’s side front end and then pulled off the tire. I used the sockets designated by the Youtube video guy and peeled off the caliper. I popped the used pads out and popped the new ones back in. I then repeated this endeavor for the passenger side. Nothing out of the ordinary,….except for the sky.

It looked like it was about to let rip with some serious rain. I could smell the rain. I could almost taste it. I knew from the weather report on my phone that it was supposed to rain and that it would soon be followed by colder weather.

The clock was ticking. I then changed the pads on the right side and got the tire back on. I got the car off the jack and took it for it’s new-brake maiden voyage.

The pedal was loose. Real loose. I popped the hood and then jumped out of the car to return the brake fluid cap to it’s rightful place. (I was told to take that off to relieve pressure on the cylinder…I forgot about that after I was done.)

I drove around the block twice. The car stopped great. No unusual sounds or grinding.

As I was driving it around, I began to think about the tires. The back tires were like new but the front ones have seen better days. I decided that, since this was front-wheel drive, the most prudent thing to do was to rotate my back tires to the front. I had the capabilities.

The back tires, on a Honda, are only along for the ride. There’s no power-train back there. They simply move in conjunction with the car. You do not need the traction back there like you need it in the front.

A 2008 Honda is simply not built like a ’69 Chevy.

I pulled the car into the driveway and jacked up the front end and then, after supporting the front end with a BIG-RED stabilizer, (good for three TONS!), I did the same to the back end.

The sky was looking crazy. This rain was on it’s way. The neighbor was hurrying around his yard trying to get everything he needed done before it hit.

I kept my wits about me.

As I set about to take the rear tire off, I ran into a problem. It wouldn’t come off. It was frozen on the hub. I began to panic. I frantically hit it with a rubber mallet but no dice.

I began to think.

I decided that what I needed to do was go back inside and consult the almighty Youtube. I typed the search, “What to do if your tire won’t come off your car”.

A video came up. In 30 seconds, the guy showed “what to do if your tire won’t come off your car”.

He said, “Leave one lug nut on, loose, then kick the tire from under the car”. He then demonstrated it.

Aces.

I ran back outside and did what he told me to do. It worked splendidly.

I raced around and switched the tires on the one side and then repeated this endeavor on the other side. I then made sure all of the lugs were tightened again, lest there be any problem.

I then checked under the hood to make sure my serpentine belt wasn’t in dis-repair. It looked fine.

The sky was getting darker by the minute.

I ran and got the jug of of blue juice for the wipers and topped off that little plastic tank. I then adjusted the windshield wipers themselves. There was an issue with passenger side coming loose. I fixed that with needle-nosed pliers.

It was starting to mist.

I ran inside and got some rags and cleaner and “dusted” the inside of my car and then removed all the garbage from it. (I really didn’t need all those receipts and the ten pennies that were in the middle counsel).

I removed the chocolate from the dash of the doughnut remnant that I ate when I went to go meet Graham Nash last summer.

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I made sure all of my little books and registration were in their proper places in the the glove compartment.

I then made sure all CD’s were in their proper CD cases. I then threw the snow-brush onto the back seat.

I then realized that I should crack the new “leather” air-freshener I had because the car needed it. I ripped open the plastic and hung the little air-freshener tree on the rear-view mirror.

It then began to rain.

The car, however, is now “winterized”.

The window of opportunity is, indeed, a brief one. It was shut last week with great prejudice….but, alas,…it was opened for a minute or two, perhaps for people like me who just need that second chance to redeem themselves.

I went inside and finished the cup of coffee that I had started earlier in the day.

It also just started pouring an hour ago…

Anyway…

“She’s the kind of girl,
who’s not too shy.
And I can tell,
I’m her kind of guy.
She danced close to me,
like I hoped she would…”


Herman’s Hermits
I’m Into Something Good

I hate it when people cut their toenails in close proximity to my being. Granted, it’s a task that needs to be done on occasion. I just don’t like to be near it when it transpires. I don’t think that makes me a “bad” person or anything. I just don’t like it.

Sometimes, though, it can’t be helped. The clipping of the toenails is one of those tasks that people don’t put high on their priority list. It’s just not that high up. And that’s OK….so they put it off until they’re in a hotel room with the one they love.

Usually it’s after dinner and before Iron Chef.

Personally, I do it on Saturday mornings when I’m not working. I usually do it in the privacy of my bedroom. (Saturday’s the day when I can be vain about my appearance…)

It’s just the audible that I can’t stand.

(clip, clip,…it’s like nails on a blackboard….)

Yeah.

Anyway…

“Sometimes it’s hard to believe,
That you’re never coming back to me.
I’ve had this dream that you’d always be by my side.
Oh, I could have died.

But now I see that you’re so happy.
And ooh, it just sets me free.
And I’d like to see,
Us as good of friends,
As we used to be,….”

Wilson Phillips
You’re In Love

I had to make the move today. It had to be done. I hate starting over but it’s a fact of life. It happens to the best of us, I guess.

I had to change the pass-codes on all of my devices today. I couldn’t bear typing in that same four-digit number again. Today was the day that it had to end.

I might miss 7734 in the future. I don’t know. The number has served me well since it’s been with me. It’s nothing against the number itself, of course. It’s just that the chemistry between us has grown stagnant in recent days. It was always there for me when I needed it….like when I would be standing in a checkout and there would be someone taking their good sweet time in front of me. 7734 was always there to help open up the wonders of electronic connectivity to the world that was just beyond where I currently stood.

It’s not 7734. It’s me and my selfishness that is to blame. I know this. But it’s better to have been served by 7734 than not at all! I would’ve missed so much of the world had it not been for 7734

I loved 7734.

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There were also those great instances in which 7734 would actually let me by-pass itself. It gave me the freedom to soar without choking me with inane legalities. If I ever wanted to use the calculator or the camera on the fly, 7734 was always fine with that. If I had to check under the hood on a rainy night, 7734 was there with the flashlight. That number always knew what was important and what wasn’t.

7734 always knew what was best for me.

If I wanted to access my personal information, it made sure I had it’s proper sequence before I did….and that’s ok. I trusted 7734 to always look out for my best interests all the time. 7734 always made damn sure I had it’s number before it would let me flit Higgledy-Piggledy onto Facebook, YouTube and even this blog you’re now currently reading….providing that you even got this far into this post.

(Which, by now, is pretty much a miracle in and of itself…..T’a’int it?)

I loved 7734….but I had to move on. Our relationship had become somewhat trite and banal. It was time for a change. I’m the bad guy in this scenario. I don’t deny it. I just had to walk away. Some of you may call me a coward,…I suppose I deserve that.

Anyway,…

“Para bailar La Bamba,
Se necessita una poca de gracia,
Una poca de gracia,
Para mi, para ti, ay arriba, ay arriba,
Ay, arriba arriba,
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere,…”

Ritchie Valens
La Bamba

Ya know, friends? We have this little thing here called “making a run for the border”. It seems to be the cogent thing to do now-a-days. Everyone’s doing it. They’re running for the border. Unfortunately, they’re running for our border and not theirs.

Be that as it may. I decided to run for the border today. I did. I don’t do it often. I don’t do it lightly,….but today, on October 23, 2014, I made a run for the border.

I bought a 12 pack of soft tacos from Taco Bell. I got the mild sauce and Salsa Verde as the compliments to the tacos,…(the soft tacos, I mean. I can’t do the crunchy ones. I simply do not like corn tortillas. They hurt my teeth.)

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I picked them up on the way to work. The box was as heavy as a small turkey.

As I drove to work, I wondered to myself as to the storage of these soft tacos.

I looked at the box. It looked at me. I knew I was going to have to transfer them to a non-descript form of packaging so as to guarantee it wouldn’t be pilfered from. I decided on a plain brown paper bag that was stapled 17 times lest some ne’er’do’well decide they would accost my coveted soft tacos.

I put a skull and cross-bones on the plain brown paper bag. I then wrote the word “poison” on it.

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That seemed to do the trick. The soft tacos were intact at the end of the night when I went to go and get them. The world was as right as rain.

I ate four at work. I’m about to have four right now. That leaves me three for tomorrow morning.

Aces!

(four plus four plus three,….)

WAIT A MINUTE!!! That ain’t right! Four plus four plus three,….equals eleven!

DAMMIT!

Anyway,….

“All Alone, I Sit Home By The Phone,
Waiting For You, Baby.
Through The Years,
How Can You Stand To Hear,
My Pleading For You Dear?
You Know I’m Crying Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh….”

Paul McCartney/Michael Jackson
Say, Say, Say.

The time is getting late. I have nothing to say because I’m in a panic to get to bed. I can’t get to bed because I feel like I have something to say. Even though I have nothing to say, I feel like I can’t get to bed until I say something. There’s just nothing to say. I want to say something but I don’t feel like it’s the right thing to say. If I said what I wanted to, I’m afraid I would regret it and I would regret the things I say. But words not said are words said in haste.

Like,…ummm,…Paul McCartney actually recorded with Michael Jackson? (You gotta be kidding me!? Really!? Good heavens….where have I been?…just take me out behind the garage and shoot me now!…)

Anyway,…

“I like mine with lettuce and tomato,
Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes,
Big kosher pickle and a cold draught beer,
Well, good God Almighty which way do I steer…”


Jimmy Buffett
Cheesburger In Paradise


“People need some reason to believe…


Jackson Browne
Running On Empty

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in the wonderful world of fast food. It seems they’re raising their prices in collusion with each other. They’re bumping up their prices in a silent solidarity with each other.

Have you noticed this?

A Big Mac sandwich costs exactly four dollars now. A Whopper now costs exactly four dollars now. Do you know why this is?

I do.

It’s because of that candy-ass crap a month or two ago when the fast food workers were going out on that wild-cat strike until $15 became their wage! It didn’t last long. It wasn’t even effective for the most part. Pretty much, nothing came of it. But corporate heads probably saw it a lot differently. They saw it as that whole “Occupy Wall Street” schtick that worked soooo well a few years ago.

So, what did they do in retaliation? They up the prices because the peasants that work for them have become a bit unhinged. It also begs the question,….If they failed in their quest and things are still as right as rain, why stick it to the consumer who simply patronizes their establishments?

The answer is this….(and this is the right answer because I know everything.)…the answer is, plain and simple, corporate greed. There! I said it! Corporate greed!

Yeah.

(pause)

What was I sayin’?….Oh, yeah.

Anyway, ya know how when you’re runnin’ on pure adrenaline for, like, three days straight? You don’t eat much, you sleep less…and are pretty much bitchy with people that surround you?….not to mention over-using the “dot, dot, dot” when you write an essay?

I’d like to say I was like that, but I really wasn’t. I was actually pretty cordial for the most part…..but I was pretty roached.

I’m getting old. Let’s face it,…my wonder years are behind me. Not old in the respect that I’m still in my forties. Forties are not old unless you’re my niece and wonder how short of a time it is before I die.

I mean, according to her, I could buy a dog as a puppy right now and there’s a very good chance that it will out-live me. That’s Ok. That’s fine…

But I have a fourteen-year-old dog who stands a good chance at out living me. He does! I don’t think this dog will ever die. I think he wishes to die when wakes up and can’t control his bladder long enough to get outside. Right now he’s in what I call, “Unrestricted hospice”. We keep him comfortable and feed him cheese,…but we know he’s not long for this earth.

Neither am I….

(pause)

What was I sayin’?….oh, yeah….

Jimmy Buffett really blows, man. I can’t see what people see in him….

He really sucks.

Anyway,….

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