It’s Friday night, and being hardcore, I’m doing some laundry. Actually, I’m doing all kinds of shit, and it suddenly occurred to me that I had to pick up my laundry at the laundromat. I jumped into my car, turned on the iPod, and hit shuffle. Something fast and heavy came on, providing a great soundtrack as I raced to the ‘mat with caffeine fueled fervor, as though some street urchin might use my drier as a urinal before I get there. The song’s long fade out ended just as I was pulling into the parking lot, and suddenly the TV theme “Good Times” came on. As I pulled into my parking place, blasting “Good Times”, the usually somber and morose old woman who runs the ‘mat was standing just outside the door, looking right at me, smiling and dancing along to the music.
Ain’t we lucky we got ‘em.
In 1970, my future brothers-in-law became old enough to be drafted to fight an increasingly unpopular war. One of them jumped into a van with his brother and some friends and drove south to live in Mexico until the war was over. They lived the fun-lovin’ hippie life of being beaten by Mexican authorities, having injuries with no adequate medical care, and being stranded with a broken vehicle in the middle of a desert where they may have died were it not for the help of an indian tribe who took them in. My other brother-in-law enlisted and after training, was stationed in that Vietnamese hell-hole known as Hawaii. He endured the rigors of war such as volleyball, diving, and pina coladas. After two years, he was sent home with money for college, but to this day he’s so encumbered with his traumatic experiences he still can’t eat bananas.
I know it sounds sexy, but before you apply your tongue-moistened fingertips to your stiffening nipples, know that ‘wet purr’ is not a pleasant thing. A few times a week, between 4am and 5am, my cat vomits. After my awesome beautiful superhero wife gets up and cleans it up, the cat jumps on the bed, climbs on top of me and purrs. But it isn’t a normal purr. There’s a drippy, dank quality to it, and it is accompanied by the occasional gulp or hiccup. And he’s apparently most comfortable doing this when his muzzle is within an inch or two of my face. I try not to sleep with my mouth open.
