Recently, I’ve been privy to a lot of peoples’, some known, others imagined, life-changing experiences. I don’t know how I happen to find myself in these situations, since the most deliberation I ever do is wonder how long I should steep my tea bag.
Here, for example, is what I have to look forward to today:
At 9 there’s a Mr. Dowbrook who has decided to sew on his missing button.
At 10 a Miss DeFlower has decided to let her bottom lip tremble.
At 11 I’m meeting a young man who is putting on his first pair of Speedos.
At noon I’m having a pre-lunch with a peeper to hear about his journey to a new pond.
At 1 I’m having lunch with a loser.
At 2 a Mrs. P. D. Crunch is going to tell me about shaving her armpits.
At 3, it’s Donald Swump’s decision to do the Times crossword puzzle in a zebra outfit.
At 4, there’s a beaver who’s decided to become a stump.
At 5, a Mr. Prong is going to tell me about canceling his subscription to the dirty magazine Soiled Greenthumb.
At 6, a young writer’s swapping places with a character he’s created who is a failed writer.
At 7, a couple from Blue Hill who have lice.
So, it appears I have a busy day.
And what a day it is here in Maine! I would call it perfect. Like a well-written sentence, the day has just the right amount of vowels; it has a rhythm that is palpable; it has warmth, light, shade, and sense in order; it has the imagery of something other; its has a tone that is not capable of being reproduced; it has artifice and honesty and possibility.
Did someone just mention Don McLean? That old wheeze bag with a face like a beaver and a backside like a platypus. I’ve seen more talent from a worm cut in half. Vanilla Ice was pure flop, but at least he fucked Madonna. What’s Don’s claw to fame? “American Pie.”
Which reminds me, I once had a pair of cords made by American Pie. They got me into trouble with a girl. She gave birth to two hot tarts. Had to take the cords down the back of the garden and plant them next to my Shangri-La jeans that got me only as far as Newport, Wales.
It’s funny how I can remember the lyrics to songs much more than I do algebra or engineering or nuclear physics or how to construct an English poesy.
And I can still dance to Hot Chocolate.