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There must be some unwritten law, since the quantum shift in the weather has allowed us rain... that Tuesday is designated Dreary Funk Day. Day-long twilight. Torrents of cold precip. Trees, cloaked in Peter Max clothes, yesterday... now denuded. Said garments deposited across the landscape, slickly on walkways and pavement. Wet drawers. And work, too. FIE! FEK-FEK-FEK-FEK! Tuesdays are not my friend. Perhaps, a little jealousy is coloring the mood, as well. Slick Willie jetted off for vacation # I-don't-know-which-the-fuck yesterday. This trip, flight to Santiago, junket to Buenos Aires, shipboard along the southern coast of Argentina to Cape Horn, and Tierra del Fuego. Wowie, I got to do junkyards this summer! >Insert pitiable selfish wailing here< Add to this, a Possible sad note... Biggles et famille may be taking the long walk back across the pond. Seems that his youthful indiscretions have made it impossible to renew his driver's license... instrumental to his income. Since leaving means never coming back... everybody goes back to Old Blighty. Another unwritten law... those most dear will one day be taken away. There is no forever. But, I bet there'll be one hell of a tour guide waiting when my posterior gets to Heathrow. Pub Crawl From Hell. Music the way it should be. Throwing up on Stonehenge. The Ugly American. So much for fantasy... and a positive spin. All good things coming to an end. But, as Brother Bob sang, "When one door is closed, another is opened." Looking forward to closing the door on this print-shop purgatory, tomorrow about this time. |
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