BURNING MAN
Once, burning ants and small leaves and twigs in the backyard with my massive boy-genius magnifying glass and the sun, I suffered a critical miscalculation of judgement and burned a small hole in the garden hose just inches from the spigot. My mother deduced my culpability via her forensic inspection of the burnhole after the water came shooting out, and boy, was she mad.
My magnifying glass was confiscated, of course, and I only saw it again many years later on a visit to my parent’s dimly-lit grey living room during one of my father’s interminable discourses, an exhibit of which was a document with some small print. He went to the imitation French Provincial desk that has sat in the corner of the room since long before I was born and carries for me a resonance of permanency more persuasive than that of the Rocky Mountains, and he whipped out the weapon in question to better show me the paragraph he was ranting about.
I did not comment. It sits there still, I’m sure, in the top drawer along with his other stuff, magnifying dust.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
WAITING?
We at Mango Pudding Blues would love to write you something sweet and amusing and life-affirming that would spur you on your merry way through the week. We at Mango Pudding Blues realize that you’ve been looking at that same skimpy ‘mid-life crisis’ post for nearly a week now. We at Mango Pudding Blues understand that you have come here looking for that certain something that will amplify the electricity that flows through your circuits.
But we have nothing for you today.
Nothing.
Unfortunately, we saw a performance of Carmina Burana on Monday night that has rendered us mute. There just seems to be nothing more to say. We are speechless.
While you wait for us to gather our wits, surely you could make your bad little selves useful. Go write a poem or something. Get up and take a walk. Go play ball. Step away from the stupid internet for a goddam minute. Jeeze.
