$3 Makers
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Three stools down, to my right, is John. He won't drink it if it's not Absolute, he informs me. Next to John is a nameless man, hands stained with paint, who came in with him. He's on the phone apologizing for a septic tank that's backed up. He'd installed it last month. To my left is another John, white and beardless and old and leathered. He's driven a truck the last twelve years. Half the time while drunk, he says, but he's never had a ticket, he says, and that's the trick, he says, but he never says to what. I'm in the middle but not in between, and that's important. They've got the radio on:...
"Pickled sausage isn't on my Wake-Me-Up Stuff list."
Glory be. I'm back. I imagine I've been put right on the cusp of being completely forgotten. I could hardly blame you. I almost forgot myself. First, my laptop (which oddly rarely found its way to my lap) was struck by lightning. This is not , I'm sure you'll agree, all that conducive to a blogger's life. I was still able to access my poetry, scripts, musings, etc. but was unable to connect to the Internet. The techies were no help either, over the phone, as on their end of things it registered as "connected." Heck, even on my end, the blame thing was...
The philosophy of Frogism.
One time, when I was small child, a friend of mine and I beat frogs to death with red, plastic shovels after a rain storm, mid-afternoon on a Saturday. It was just one of those things that you do when you're a kid. I was never a particularly violent child. Though, perhaps I skirted the state line of crazy for a band of years during my adolescence, like, ages Birth to Present...but, believe me, it's in our blood. I've managed to escape, cleanly enough so far, and that's it's own definition of success. To this day, I pray for those frogs' souls, though. And, for good measure, I...
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