It’s morning.
Kathy has been up for an hour. She drank three cups of herbal tea, watched a video alerting her to the dangers of lectins, and is at the keyboard, singing at top volume, rehashing show tunes from her time in musical theater.
I’m in bed, the covers pulled to my chin. With “Two Midnights Gone” in the background, I come to a realization: I need to undergo a change before my final act moves to resolution. A big change. Soon. Continue reading
It is late autumn, the aspen have turned. We crest the summit of the pass.
A strong tailwind pushes us as we begin our descent.
Me, Boris.
Boris Ballsack.
My new name, according to my wife, Kathy.
I come by the first name following a visit to a Russian market in Denver.
My new surname is prompted during a road trip with extended hours at the wheel, and ill-fitted underwear. As a man gets old, precious body parts sag, and when caught up by similarly sagging inner thighs and fabric… Continue reading
I’m old, cruising into the home stretch. I don’t have a lot of time left. I couldn’t care less about most of the crap I deemed important years ago. I’ve dumped a lot of luggage at the roadside during this last leg of my trip.
I don’t require much now, so I take a spin as a temporary Man of the People. Or “Pepple,” as my friend Johnny says.
I’m in the MoP mode for a month. Continue reading
Every three months I receive a page-poor promo magazine in the mail, sent from the school I attended — then a college, now a university —and at which I taught for a number of years. Note: a reader should regard “attended” and “taught” as generous descriptions of my activities.
The mag arrives today. I deploy a dropper’s worth of my pal Joe’s special elixir, whip up a refreshing beverage, and give the publication a once-over during the cocktail hour — 2 to 7 p.m. weekdays, noon to 10 p.m. weekends, though I intend to ask Wanda, my personal physician and consultant regarding all things physical and metaphysical, if it’s safe to extend the weekday block by an hour or three. Continue reading
