Up at 3:20 because I couldn't sleep anymore. I've been that way ever since I was little. That first sip of coffee tasted so good, so I had another. Quiet and dark, only the cats are awake then. I turned on the computer and read online newspapers and blogs. Then I drifted over to the couch to nap.
The young one arrived later and sat on my feet. Then the spousal unit came along making noises in the kitchen and the dog followed.
On my days off work I usually drive the young one to school and walk in with them, staying until the bell sounds and their teacher comes to direct the line of students into the classroom. The young one chats with me and runs around with friends for a bit, and I look around. A little girl with eyeglasses sits on her backpack and talks to noone. A tall boy walks by with a tear awash on the left of his face. One of the young one's friends got a lot of hair cut off over the weekend.
The bell rings and I say good-bye. As I walk out the late kids are running in. One of them was a little girl who was mumbling to herself.
Parents are still pulling up to the school to drop off their young geniuses. At that age, the inner true genius has not yet been scalded out of them. All the young one's friends still shine that way. I hope most of them manage to hang on to this despite life's pressures to abandon that flame as they grow older and learn how to drive.
"The more you drive, the less intelligent you are." (From Repo Man, spoken by "Miller.")
I like to combine trips so I went to pick up a few things at one of the grocery stores. Charles Goyette was on the radio, and he was chatting up his studio guest Steve Benson, the award-winning cartoonist and often lone sane voice in the local newspaper. Mixed in with the humorous give-and-take these two foster among one another, they took occasional phone calls to solicit cartoon suggestions for Benson to consider.
I didn't catch the name of the caller that suggested this:
Imagine Cheney sitting in the corner of a National Rifle Association classroom and he has on a dunce cap, and Bush is asking him "Hey, can I get one of those too?"
Goyette and Benson chuckled.
My condolences and good wishes for a speedy recovery go out to Harry Whittington, along with my sincere admonishment that he endeavor to hang out with a better class of people.
What's wrong with this story?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
He didn't shoot me, but I am still awaiting an apology. Remorseless villian. What was that a a psych nurse told me last semester? Poor sociopaths go to jail, rich ones go to the Whitehouse?
Quail of all things... they are tiny little things - ain't gonna be much of anything left after a shotgun hits them. I don't get it...
Post a Comment