401.Heavy is the Crown of Blogs


“I don’t read the blog if I’m not in it,” said Rob again at the outdoor table of Coffee Nation while pippy birds flew overhead and confused drivers drove the wrong way up Main Street.

“Whoa!  Look: two lost motorists driving upstream like confused salmon against the current, rushing to their ancestral spawning grounds and imminent deaths. I should have worn my salmon polo. Though I’m more of a lake guy, you know?  I’d like a boat, but I can’t get past the concept of a money pit in the water. I don’t mind going out on someone else’s boat, mind you. It’s their money pit, and that’s okay, no judgment from me…  On the lake I can get outside my own head, whereas at the beach I’m overloaded with stimulation, and….”

“Wow, Rob! What are you drinking this morning?  Is it an absinthe red bull or the mescaline macchiato?”

“Neither, I mean we always talk about nothing, especially unconnected bits and pieces of nothing, so I’m just sweeping up the crumbs of our conversation and repurposing them. Like scrapple after butchering a hog, you sweep up the eyelids and knuckle gum, grind it up with pepper and hog gelatin, add some secret spices and a dash of dry white wine and then, Voila!  Scrapple.”

“That’s beautiful, man. You are the good news steward of our verbal landscape, turning barristas into barristos. Kitty corners into catty corners. Cacophonies into cacka phoneys. Where would we be without you, Roberto? The Scrapple Maker of impoverished punditry. The Clemente Clamato of calamity. The Utter Otter of Disorderliness.   Thank you from the bottom of my shallow heart.”

“How shallow is your heart?”

“Well, if a worm crawled across my ventricles, he wouldn’t get his belly wet.”

“Wow. You are shallow.”

“The yard sprinkler of kiddie pools on a New Mexican highway in July.”

“In other words, dry.”

“Yep. But you are not shallow, Robbie Boy?”

“Me? No, I have a moral compass and compassion.”

“You know they are not the same word, right? Like the male and female genders of coffee bartender.”

“Yeah, of course I know lots of big words.”

“But you won’t read the blog unless it’s about you? Isn’t that shallow? Petty and self interested navel gazing?”

“I can’t see my navel.”

“In a mirror. I’m sure you’ve glanced on the way into the shower.”

“Okay, who hasn’t?”

“Sh, shhh, shallow. Wasn’t that a Stones’ song? Shadoobie, shallow, shallow, umph, shadoobie, shallow, shallow.”

“I think you know the song is Shattered.”

“Oh, yes, my error.”

“No, this is what you do– you drive people crazy and then they make an appointment with you to get uncrazed. It’s like when Wall Street collapsed and we bailed them out. Who did we give the money to?  The very same people who created the derivative alternate universe to begin with.”

“Rob, that’s harsh.”

“But true.”

“Which just makes it truly harsh.”

“Ugggh! I wish Joel were here instead of cruising the country on his Spyder cycle. I need legal counsel.”

“You are in luck. I have impersonated attorneys many times. Plus I will be delivering Joel’s eulogy, which I wrote for someone else, but no matter. Ask me a litigious question. Perhaps I can eulogize you too.”

“That’s just it:  you are the party I wish to sue for damages.”

“Do tell.”

“You are making me crazy with your double talk. I can handle bait and switch and various games of bunny trail, but you have corkscrewed my mind into broken knots of useless, unknowing nerve bundles. All I can do is scream!!”

“Go ahead, Rob. After all, it’s your blog party and you can cry if you want to. Cry if you want to. I would cry too if it happened to me.”

“No, no more. I can’t take another garbled song lyric delivered by a madman.”

“Hey, you wanted to be in the blog kitchen, partner. Now the heat is too hot for you? You can’t handle the blog truth. It’s a dry heat, or is it dry heave?”

“Yes, please release me from my crazy request. I will never plead for blog space again. Sensei, you are the master. I am the grasshopper. Please rescind all my previous demands and requests.”

“You mean r e s c i n d  or  r e s e n d?”

“Oh Merciful God in Heaven, not the latter. The former, please, I beg of you. I have a young child who needs a sane father.”

“I trust that you have learned your lesson, Young Crocus.”

“I have, sir, but why do you call me Crocus?”

“Because it rhymes with focus, and you need to focus, Crocus.”

“Hurry, Joel.”

 

 

 

 

 

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