for my bemusement

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Hey Kids,  Laurie Kendrick here.  

Next month, this blog turns three years old.   Hard to believe that the fruit of my literary loins has survived long enough to reach this ripe old age.

I would imagine that I have a few readers who have been with me since the beginning or as they say in Scranton—“there abouts”.   Others flake in and out and that’s OK.  Some stay for hours; others happen upon a post, see the title, lose interest immediately and leave faster than a cheating boyfriend.  

Cool.   I totally get it. 

To be honest, I don’t read that many blogs either.   Why, I’m not sure.   I think it’s because this one takes a lot out of me.   Once I publish a post, I leave my blog and my computer altogether.    I might be dependent upon my email for specific correspondence, but that doesn’t mean I live on my computer.  It is a focal point in my life and a very relevant one, but not the only one.   I have to get away from time to time.  We all do.  Otherwise we’re slaves to this plastic and metal  know-it-all master. 

It’s been a rough week.  I’ve done nothing but interview academicians.  I love you guys.  I really do.   You’re brilliant and wacky and I now know you have  to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit of college systems, regents, gacked out students, flaky assistants and professional staffers who take themselves and their gigs waaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy too seriously.

You my dear professorial types, have suggested that more money can quell the academic evils you endure.   I believe bigger salaries will as well, but might I also suggest a lifetime supply of Klonopin.

And gin.  Lots and lots of gin.  You need it and you deserve it.  Cheers.

Other than that, I’m tired.  Practically seeing double.  I got that crazed, punch drunk kind of tired.  So tired that my judgement is off.  I actually laughed at an episode of  “Full House”.

Yeah, I know, right?

I’m going to take a few days to sleep the sleep of angels, so do me a solid, OK?  It’s your turn.  Leave me a comment.  Any old comment.  Inquire as to the welfare of my lovely cat/daughter, Charlotte.  

My puppy Grendel.

My new Japanese fighting fish, Pablo Pescado. (That one is yours, Teeta)

My new quarter horse, Caligula’s Favorite Hobby.

My toucan,  Dr. Beaker.

My new vehicle made in Hanoi,  my Ho Chi Minnie van.

My new festive liver recipe which includes a piquant yellow butter sauce and  saffron rice.  I call it my Jaunty Jaundice Surprise.   

My  Valentine’s Day dinner party which I’m planning.  Everybody will bring their favorite entre, salad or dessert.  Cambodian food only, please.  I’m calling it my Pol Pot Luck party.

 Ask about all the dust bunnies huddled in the corner of my bathroom.  Surprisingly, they’re feasting upon something that looks like it probably could have been a carrot at one time or another.

Inquire about the latest crop of mold that’s hanging down from my A/C vents like common Spanish moss.

Ask me something; tell me something.   How about telling me something about you?   Your cat.  your job..spouse or your damned kids.  Tell me about your gerbils which by now are probably very frightened of dark, dank narrow…oh let’s call them “hallways”, shall we?  

Peyton Manning: Angel of the Pigskin or Satan’s Handiwork???

Salt pork:  Yum or Dumb? 

How ’bout them polyps?   Surgery required?

Discuss Seneca, the Stoic Roman statesman and philosopher:   genius or total hack?

It’s your choice, so come on.  Everybody now… even you readers who never, ever comment.  

This is the ALL SKATE of commenting.

Let me read something  of yours for a change, but I know you won’t leave anything. 

You never do.  And after all we’ve meant to each other.

Now, play this music while reading the rest of this post.

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Fine.  Be that way.  The kids used to ask about you, but they don’t anymore.  I told them you were really The Amazing Kreskin and you had spoons to bend at orphanages in Guam.  They bought it.  They’re not the brightest lanterns in the Coleman’s arsenal of “things that light up”.  

But what do you care?  You’re out and about; chasing skirts and swillin’ gin.  You’re short and your back is hairy.  You;re a pocket-sized desperado wanna be with a brain that’s about a pint short of IQ sauce.  

And here I am, alone–a two-bit dime-a-dance kind of dame with hungry mouths to feed at home and heart that’s so broken, you can hear its shards clank when I walk. 

But I’ll be okay, see?  Yeah, sure see?    Why?  Because I got Johnny Law on my side, see?  And what a restraining order and a court mandate can’t do, a good head bustin’ will.  I’ll use thugs and heavies as a convincer.   This time I’m fightin ‘ back, see?  They’ll put the screws to ya and you’ll sing…sing like a canary, I tell ya.  You’ll be back.  You ain’t gotta choice,  see?  I just hope I’m home when you do.  I wanna do the honors of slammin’ the door on your foot.   And I hope your dogs are really barkin’ that day.

Yeah, I hate ya, but really, I still love ya, Johnny.  Yeah, it’s love, ya big lug.  Ya galoot.  Ya…ya…dirty, rotten, no goodnik.    It’s love alright, but it sure stinks.  Like you, Johnny. 

Like you.

You’re a cheat and a swindler.   And like any con man, you’ve stolen something from me.

My heart.  Or what’s left of.   

Let me hear from you, Johnny.  Call me, OK?  And soon, too,  Yeah, spend a dime on me for once.  Just call.  You know how to do that, dontcha Johnny?  You just put your lips together and whistle.

Or is it blow?   Doesn’t matter.  You were never that smart.  Just look up at the moon at 8 next Monday night. I’ll be lookin’at  it too.   That don’t cost nothin’.   And when we’d park along Lover’s Lane, the moon was always the most romantic thing in the sky, well next to  the flashing Lenny’s All Nite Bowl-A-Teria and Juke Joint neon sign. 

I remember how it lit up the back seat of your Packard.  Red then blue then yellow. Bright yellow.  I remember how that color made you look like you had Hepatitis.  I got an idea as to what you’d look like as a chronic alcoholic by 1962. 

Still, that was some night,  wasn’t Johnny?   I made you a man and you made a mess on my skirt..  I can still smell the Bryl Creme in your hair.  Never got that off my skirt neither.  Boy, does that stuff stains.  Who knew?   But we squeezed your bangs to help grease the seat to move back…remember?  Anyway, that was fun and even though you’re a cad and a heel,  I  do wish you luck.  Say,  have your neck boils  healed up?  .  

I miss ya so, Big J.  You’re the reason I use Green Stamps instead of Scotch tape, ya dope ya.

Someday Johnny….

Someday…

Love and Max Factor,

 

 

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