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Like one of those sixty-ish photojournal-chaotic films, where there's snippets of frames that pass by so quickly that you recognize the image after five more have gone by... that's a fair assessment of the past twenty-four hours. Not so different than driving a car that's got a fuel-fault miss (which the Miata has manifested a time or two), going from spluttering to light-speed... another useful analogy. Thank god it's (my) Friday. The usual hide-and-seek here at the veal-fatting pen... spiced by the Surfing Chef's new baby: a brand, spanking new MINI, white roof/black body. Which I got to test-drive, twice. HOT. DAMN. Good thing I'm allergic to new car payments. This thing goes like stink. Sopranos soundtrack on the juke, instruments glowing orange, little nudges on the "+" and "-" on the auto-stick... the only substitute for connubial bliss. Tiny on the outside, a cavern within. That sounds a little graphic, as well. Got a one-track mind. And loaded for bear. I haven't got the heart to write more, tonight. I need a cigarette. |
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