My Hume essay is getting written, fueled by a box of Wheat Thins. And Dorthy’s Isle of Pines Root Beer. And Shostakovich. Bob Dylan. Stravinsky. Tower of Power. Tchiakovsky. Michael Brecker. Oops, Michael Brecker is making really bad noises in the cd player, so scratch that one [tossed in trash]. Jamiroquai. String Cheese (the food, you dolt). The Champagne of Beers. And one very pine-scented candle.
This was a hunker down day. I haven’t left the apartment except to get the newspaper, which I did quickly and indecently clad in woman’s sleep wear and slippers and curlers in my hair. I picked up the paper and shook it menacingly at the kids across the street.
“You damn hoodlums! You stop stealin’ mah sports section or Mama Pasty gon’ have you in a world a pain and Craftsman vise grips!”
“Sure thing, Mammy! [snicker, snicker]”
“Why you! I oughta… you go right inside now and tell yer Papaw to give yah good strikin’ with his belt… buckle first!”
“Good ol’ Southern kids. Always listen to their elders and do ‘zactly what their told. ‘course, there’s always the time when they don’t do and they come home huffin’ gasoline or throwing cats or making babies or something, but when they get to that age we gotta cut them some slack. Not easy growing up on the plantation. Too much goin’ on when the tabaccy fields start curin’.”
Where the hell was I? Oh yeah. I gotta clean my room.