Wednesday, February 28, 2007

IF YOU REALLY WANT TO BE A GOOD COOK, THE CHEF SAID, WEARING SLIPPERS, DON’T REFER TO YOUR INGREDIENTS AS INCREDIENTS, HE SAID, TAKING OFF

IF YOU REALLY WANT TO BE A GOOD COOK, THE CHEF SAID, WEARING SLIPPERS, DON’T REFER TO YOUR INGREDIENTS AS INCREDIENTS, HE SAID, TAKING OFF HIS SLIPPERS, REFER TO THEM AS YOUR FRIENDS, HE SAID, AND THEN CONTINUED TO DISROBE, EXPOSING HIS FLESHY AND ROTOUND SHAPE EVEN AS HE MADE A VERY GOOD POINT ABOUT FOOD, FRIENDS AND FUN

I have five friends.
Each one of them can be found in the local grocery store in powder form.
They are: China Tung Cinnamon; (actually a type of cassia)
Powdered Cassia Buds;
Powdered Star Anise and Anise Seed;
Ginger Root;
Ground Cloves

They are five fun friends.

As I thought about my friends, I noticed that I capitalized all their names.
That’s because I like them and they are my friends and they are special.

I capitalize anything that is special: Sojourn; Miller Lite; Crab Nebula; Saltine Crackers. But not hatred: unless I am screaming something about hatred. Like: HATRED DRIVES ME CRAZY. Meanwhile, love can whisper, but even when it does, I capitalize it: “Love can whisper” it doesn’t have to even be at the beginning of the sentence: “Whispering? It must be Love”–you name it, you will find it larger than anything else in companion letters.

I didn’t the first time I mentioned it because I was trying to not emphasize it, and also I didn’t want to draw attention to it, so close to hate it was.

Hey! Listen up! Not every grocery store has them, my five friends. I tried a fancy store today and they weren’t there. All is Lost, I said, drawing attention to ‘lost’'–I felt a bee swish past my face. A Bee. You ask and I tell you: that’s because he didn’t sting me.

Intermezzo:

In the movie today, they put the grandfather in the trunk.
In yesterday’s movie, the wax figures murmured unspeakable things.
And then, before that, the stockbroker was ashamed of his father, the boxer.

Act Finale:

Rouge, while merely red in France, pastes the faces of dead people everywhere.

Where are my friends? They will be where I find them. Bon Appetite!

NIGHT


all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

FOR GOD'S SAKE

When Joseph Haydn was an old man, he had this terrific calling card that he kept with him at all times. It said, and I paraphrase, “I am an tired old man who can’t do much anymore. Please don’t ask me” and that’s about all although it would be nice if he had added, “Please, I beg of you” and/or “For God’s sake, let me die in peace.”

Small wonder–actually–big wonder, that he didn’t teach his parrot to say that, because he really did have one. Imagine: “Squawk!” says Polly, “ I’m dying! Let me alone!” Of course when a parrot says it, it’s funny. And so terribly serious when anyone else tries.

There is so much that we could learn from parrots: how to live gracefully, how to die, what to do with our red and green things, how to be nice to old people, how to write a billion symphonies, how to be funny no matter what.


all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006
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