Take Note, Chip: Don’t Eat the Sushi

Trouble’s on the way.

I receive a warning as clear as a roar and rumble created in 1850 by 50,000 buffalo as they stampede across a wide plain towards a rickety wagon jammed with fever-blasted settlers. Listen! Here comes trouble: duck and cover, and hope for the best.

My indicator? Kathy is up at 6 a.m., at the piano, singing “No Ways Tired” at top volume, an octave too high. I cherish the Barrett Sisters’ version of the song; the only time I wept without restraint at a concert was when I heard the Barrett Sisters perform this song in the early 80s. Kathy’s rendition this morning could shatter glass. The tension is palpable, disaster of some sort looms. Continue reading

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Metaphors, Nightmares, Trucks at the Packing Plant

(Whenever my wife reads one of my pieces and says, “I’m not sure you should post this one — people may not know you’re kidding around,” I realize I may have hit for extra bases, perhaps even put one out of the park. Then again, it’s likely that I never left the locker room. Let’s begin.)

I imagine myself as somewhat similar to one of those Chilean miners, emerging above ground after being trapped in a pitch-black tunnel.

At last, I inhale fresh air; the light stuns me. Continue reading

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Cheetahs, Tacos, A Search For The Divine

I chat with my 6-year-old grandson, Bodhi Valhalla King, as we examine a “cruise ship” he constructs with short lengths of 1×2 pine.

We eat triple cream Brie with spoons. It’s 3 p.m., and I’m deep into another major league 70/30 vodka tonic; Bo sips a blend of sparkling water and Italian lime juice, on the rocks.

I respond to his question about the bite pressure of the cheetah.

“I don’t know the answer,” I say. “We’ll have to look it up.”

“God knows the answer,” says Bo. “God knows everything. He doesn’t have to look anything up.”

What is an Epicurean to do? Even one who picks Voltaire’s pocket, thinking that doubt is uncomfortable, but certainty absurd. Continue reading

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Buy Your Tickets Now, Blockbuster Pending

I fritter away precious hours dog paddling through the murk in the Web Swamp, checking out You Tube videos featuring performances by the young Lennon Sisters, and examining black and white pornographic photos snapped in the late 19th and early 20thcenturies.

It’s a typical day to this point.

I watch the Lennon Sisters sing How Much is That Doggie in the Window, Zippedeedoodah, and Mockingbird Hill. I watch the Mockingbird Hill video three times.

“Tra-la-la tweedlee dee dee it gives me a thrill…”

At the third viewing I experience vague warmth in my nether region as memories bubble to my aged surface. Continue reading

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