“Unless you think you can do better than Tolstoy, we don’t need you”
James A. Michener.
Yes, that’s true, and also:
If you can’t be white milk, please don’t be milk at all.
No, wait.
If you can’t be mayonnaise, uh, be a saltine…Wait, if you can’t be sexually OK and also maybe wear a proper vest/socks arrangement and speak quietly with utmost appropriateness of shoe color and sensible automobile and please remove your shoes before I think OK maybe meet you at the lawn care symposium? Something.
The other Tuesday I was driving home and grooving to this song on the radio, have no idea who but whatever, and it’s juicing me, flowing my skin/nerves/belly, and I’m doing the arm fist-bump-to-fist bump dance from the ‘50s with one hand and doing the hand-caterpillar from the ‘80s with the other (guiding by baby-baby Subaru with my knees) and I’m just grooving life, caught in a moment, just living it zone free floating serotonin shivers…just flowing, just flowing, one of those thangs.
And it wasn’t Mozart or The Beatles, Mr. A. Michener. It was just a good pop song.
Word.
How would you children like me to take you for lunch at the Cracker Barrel? Huh?
