January 6, 2004

  • With a brilliant yet concentrated stream of glitter
    extending from just under her chin, down her Modigliani neckline and deep into
    the tempting recess of her bosom, I remarked to the temptress that had
    approached my barstool: “What a wondrous canal your cleavage makes for that
    gloriously-flowing glitter.”  “What
    cleavage?” she responded teasingly.  
    “Nice glitter track regardless,” I poignantly pointed out.

    I’ve run 20+ miles since New Year’s Eve.  At this rate, I’ll complete my second virtual
    circumnavigation of the globe (amassing miles equivalent to Earth’s
    circumference) sometime in the year 2026. 
    If, for this purpose, I hold to my current stomping grounds, that will
    require about 16,000 more laps around the cemetery Dreamland.  Don’t freak out: that’s a conservative
    estimate.  If I get really aggressive and
    push myself into some marathon training, I might complete the tour by
    2020.  *marks 2020 down on e-calendar*  Okay, party time!

    It’s that time of year when Christmas trees and holiday
    decorations start to disappear from public places.  I love to watch the decorations come down: it
    means things are getting back to normal and life is moving on.  A couple of years ago, I observed the ‘dismantling’
    of a 45 foot artificial tree in a shopping mall late one night when the stores
    had closed but the mall was still available for walk-through.  The ‘elves’ (yes, the dismantlers were still
    dressed as elves) were elevated by cherry-pickers and picking the elaborate
    ornaments off the upper limbs.  One ‘elf’
    seemed particularly rambunctious, so I especially watched him.  He’d pluck the ornaments or strand of
    ornaments off the tree with compulsive swipes, turn around, and then send them
    crashing 40 feet to the floor where muffled bursts of exploding tree bulbs
    could be heard.  Apparently, this was
    standard operating procedure, more or less, premised upon the notion that
    replacing the broken ornaments sometime over the summer before the next installation
    seemed a cheaper strategy than handling them delicately with loving caress. But
    funniest thing was the song he was singing: “Deck the floor with broken
    Christmas, fa-la-la-la-la, I’m so stupid!”

    fa-la-la-la-la, nice glitter track

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