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My Journal
Rughh…I hate being sick. Hey, join the rest of the world, Sneezy. Yakkin’ up green goo is not high on most people’s to do list. Growwl…when I’m sick I lope around the house half-in, half-out of a Detroit Lions hoodie, snarling like a badger and acting much less pleasant…I either eat too much or I don’t eat for days…had an orange jellybean a half hour ago, that’ll do me until Saturday…I stare at a half-finished script featuring one of my all-time favorite cartoon characters, and all I can think about is draining that full bottle of ZzzQuil…hibernation mode looming…cartoon character tells me to get head out of ass, power thru and finish script…sometimes the ability to will these creatures into reality more a curse than blessing…did I say that out loud? No, only wrote it. Good, I start to ramble out loud, people will lock me up. Postman brings unexpected delight…advance copies of the Black Canary/Zatanna GN. Joe’s artwork sparkles. Book is an incredibly nice package. Thank you, Joey Cavalieri, miracle worker. Just remembered, have to Fed Ex one to Mom ASAP…on go the pants, down go four or five Tylenol, lurch toward the door…wait, don’t have book…cartoon character hands it to me saying: “Lighten up, bitch. Life is good.” I fight the urge to vomit into its smiling face.
About fifteen years ago I was listening to a lot of Western music. That’s Western, before it mutated into Country/Western and finally just Country. Western to me was everything from Gene Autry and “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” to Western Swing as performed by Bob Wills, Milton Brown or Spade Cooley, to just any old ballad about doomed gunslingers and strawberry roans. Sadly the “Western” element has all but vanished from contemporary Country music, but all I had to do was toss in a CD by one of those artists, or catch a “Riders In The Sky” concert and I’d be back on the rhythm range once more, at least, in my imagination.
So I went to See’s Candy yesterday to get Easter goodies for my mom. I normally dread See’s at Easter week — imagine 400 moms, grannies, aunties and the random male or two (usually sent by a mom, granny or auntie) fighting like Tartars over the last box of Scotchmallow eggs. The last time I attempted it, I shoved through the throng far enough to grab a lone milk chocolate rabbit, threw a wadded-up twenty toward the young sales lady cowering behind the counter and ran. Did not stop for the customary free See’s sample, just ran.
