kanji

15 June, 2003
not in kansas

It all began with a song in my head, even before I'd unburied my head from the pillows. No more than a few lines from the chorus, stirring around continously... from a tune I didn't even recall. A mystery, from the get-go.

Firing up the computer, doing a quick search (thank you, AMG), it turned out to be Bobby Womack's "That's The Way I Feel About 'Cha." One piece of soul history I'd not yet dug into. Not for long.

After taking care of some Saturday morning chores, and some smoked salmon for breakfast, we set out for CVille (again) to see if we could find a replacement for the straining deco table that the TV and stereo are weighing down. Not that anything would fit in a convertible, but at least we could start looking.

Not as easy a search. The arty furniture store priced way out of line. Second-hand place with lots of cool stuff (this is the week of the nasty 60's lamps), and a horrifying bit of sticker shock at the St1ckley store. You know there'll be trouble when a sales representative meets you at the door. Beautiful craftsman-style wood... at museum prices. Bed frames, $3000. Consoles, $2500.

I sneaked us out before they could charge us admission.

I was so proud of getting us out of the dark ages... leaving behind milk crates as items of furniture. Looks like there's some territory to cover, still. Makes those hideous heavy pine couches with the wagon-wheel motif seem... affordable. Not like that's going to happen.

The sun was blistering on our necks, sapping strength rapidly. Eventually, I wound the car back through the countryside as an army of storms skirted the horizon.

It seemed safe enough, as I was sipping a pilsner on the front steps at home. Most of the threat grumbling away.

That was, until I got some cheddarwursts grilling in the back yard. There, the sky was turning into a black midnight... where the sun should have been.

Mushroom cloud of the gods.

Quite a detonation... trees bent unnaturally, the mountainside across the way turning into mist, electric explosions overhead.

It's a mystery that we didn't wind up in Oz.

.


hit me with your rhythm stick




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