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Another soul has taken residence here at the igloo. Despite the blinding, slushy insulation that dropped with one big "flump" overnight, we wound our way to the Siamese rescue to spring a stunning jailbreak of one spattered-looking prisoner. Siamese, in that the color is in the traditional places--ears, tail, legs and snoot--just speckled in those places in sable, tan, and liver. In the ten hours it's been here, it has: logged on with one step on the right button; wound the purrbox up to levels heard across a room; played with the water from the kitchen faucet; and pushed open the bathroom door, sat on the edge of the tub and watched me take a leak. We have been infiltrated. It's home. I think it'll be named, Ooni. After "Uni," the japanese word for sea urchin roe. That's about the color of that one ear. Among the other episodes that have passed over the past few days, I lit out from work with Akebono to a sushi bar for said uni, salmon roe, clam and scallop sashimi. And two carafes of sak�. Very hot. And potent. Great fortification for the gawdawful ride back from Ground Zero in the thick of last night's mini-blizzard. Driving in snowstorms with the high beams on, is uncannily similar to the effect in film of "jumping into hyperspace"... pinpoints of snow rocketing at the windscreen from a distant convergence--which ever way you turn your head. Mesmerizing. Which is not a good state-of-mind travelling over fifty miles an hour on highways the consistency of snot. Literally. Behind plows and panicked motorists, past the blue lights and foundered vehicles, skidding past intersections to the final approach on the virgin snow on the lane. Overjoyed at coming to a halt. Swedish cars should do better in this. Which is why I'm entertaining the idea of a change. Perhaps to a red Miata that oour print salesman is about to unload. My co-worker and friend from across the Blue Ridge (whom I'll call "Jed" as in Clampett), was about to take it back home to tune up... and offered me the oportunity to pilot it for a bit. And I was bit. Sitting with my ass inches from the ground, five-speed manual to dance with, and the possibility of a reasonable price. Go, Speed Racer. Just might. Pushing two AM, Ooni's trying to type. Badly. Mountain Rasta called once about getting me to sub for him, tomorrow... and never returned my call. So, maybe a radio day after all. Time to vegetate. And get that speckled hussy to get her ass in the bed.
This is how I feel after the ninth telemarketer call... Fear My Wrath! |
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