Saturday, September 27, 2003

48 and eleven months

1st, a PSA:

The wrapper of Columbus Dry Salami (Columbus Salami Company, South San Francisco) smells of bleach, or semen. I suggest you hang this sucker up in the cellar and let it age a bit.


It's all about middle-age.


Man, I'm having some serious middle-aged moments this weekend. There I was today, doing a 'chore,' and KFOG (see, I'm listening to KFOG - how middle-aged is that?) plays Magical Mystery Tour.

Oh yeah.......

roll up!

(hint, hint. or was that the beatles just being basically english? A: the walrus was paul)

for the mystery tour. rollaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhuuuuuuppp

And then there's the bridge, where they go:

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh.....the mystery toooo-ur."

That, my friends, is the purest dose of 1968 I could offer you.
Say it with yer best Liverpuddlian (Schoose) accent.
As in:
She's the kynd-of-a-gal,
whew makes the neyws-o-the-wald,
yes you cud say she was atrrrac-tiv-lee-built.


So, if you weren't alive and relatively conscious in 1968, you may still get off to the Beatles, but I doubt it's the same way I do. And, in return, I'm sure I don't get whole piles of your shit. It all evens out, in the end.


Middle age hits me, in the form of Beatles tunes and weekend projects. We're still doing the renovation. Of course. It's geting very old. Accumulations of fuck-ups pile up. Sometimes I worry this renovation is turning into a gaudi cathedral.


Middle age hits me, when I realize I'm feeling really OK, sitting at home, at 9:52pm, on a saturday night.
My honey-bunny is here... and she's better than anything.
Even if she's already sleeping.
I'm so middle aged.


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