Wednesday, December 20, 2006


11:15 a.m.: Following a text message and hopefully a phone call, I stumble rather gracelessly out of bed and into my day.

11: 25 a.m.: I read an article in Esquire Magazine. Something about the future of driving. I page to a decription of a $600 pea coat that I could imagine myself being able to afford in roughly 25 years.

11:45 a.m.: I boil some coffee, pour myself a bowl of Crispix and sit out on the lanai.

12:05 p.m.: I write a love letter. Sign it. Date it. Address, stamp, and seal the envelope.

1:07 p.m.: I read Sedaris for a couple hours.

3:15 p.m.: In the process of getting ready [messenger bag-check; letter-check; iPod-check] for my daily ride to the post office, I accidentally take a nap.

4:30 p.m.: I am on the road, riding as close as I can to the shoulder, for there are no bike lanes here. Passersby in their big trucks and SUVs give me dirty looks. I take a short cut through the retirement community. Get dirty looks there too, despite the fact that there is no traffic to hold up.

4:45 p.m.: Deposit said love letter a cool 15 minutes before the last pick-up. One thing I love about vacations--LEISURE.

6:00+ p.m.: Oh, neither this nor that. Maybe I'll read. Maybe I'll lust after MacBooks. Maybe I'll watch one of the Godfathers. Mostly, there is a lot of daydreaming. And the occasional flashback. Once in a while, I'll flash forward, though I try not to do that very much.

My Florida Routine

4:00 a.m.: I get up a half hour before my alarm goes off. I put on my robe and slippers, fire up the coffee maker [decaf--it's better for my blood pressure, doctor says], and turn on the evangelical network on TV.

6:00 a.m.: I wait for them to unlock the doors at Denny's. Tuesday is Senior Day and I can save 15% on my Grand Slam. Sunny side up, please. Bacon. Wheat toast. I bring my own Metamucil.

7:30 a.m.: First foursome on the fairway--myself, Gino, Frank, and Redd. We get in a quick nine, as I don't have the stamina I used to. Just ask my wife, hehheh.

HACK! I have trouble laughing these days, you know. All those Pall Malls during the War.

10:15 a.m.: Lunch at the Country Club--Pastrami on Rye. My doctor says I should stay away from the stuff, but I've got to live a little, eh?

11:30 a.m.: Home again. Catch the last half of Price Is Right. I hope and pray for Plinko! It never happens.

11:42 a.m.: Slumber to visions of myself standing atop the multi-color platform with plastic pucks in my hand. From my perch, I look down the shimmering tops of Barker's Beauties. PlinkPlinkPlink-PlinkPlink-Plink Each chip lands in the tray labeled $10,000.

11:57 a.m.: I wake, covered in drool. My downbelows are throbbing. Where's my damn wife? Sheila! She's putting the roast in the oven. Roast again? Seems like the fifth time this week!

12:03 p.m.: Damned local news is on again. Nothing but a bunch of crazies out there, you know? I flip on the golf network and fall back asleep.

3:45 p.m.: My wife rouses me from sleep with a wooden spatula. I thought you was dead, she yells. This happens every day. Nothing but a bunch of crazies. I love her to death, though.

4:00 p.m.: Dinner is served--pot roast and scalloped potatoes. My favorite. Fifth time this week, I swear.

4:45 p.m.: While eating my sugar-free vanilla ice cream, I see this doofy kid riding past on his bike. He's got on some queer looking satchel. Sonofabitch is probably taking a shortcut to the Post Office. Problem is with kids these days, always taking shortcuts. Doesn't he know this is a gated community? I rent this trailer from September until April so I don't have to deal with these hippies. Third day in a row I've seen him cutting through here. Next time, mark my words, I'm gonna say something. Kids these days. Bunch of crazies.

Thursday, December 14, 2006


You will feel the heat radiating as you leave Kent. You will see the glow as you crest and descend rolling Pennsylvania mountains. The light behind the trees will cast long shadows as you wind around the crooks and bends of I-80. Closer and closer, brighter and brighter.

New Jersey will pass by [thankfully] like a blur, for your eyes will be swallowed whole by the pulsing ember across the estuary of the Hudson. The beacon will shine into the heavens, casting a spectrum like aurora borealis, a wafty wave streaking comet-like across the night sky. This falling star will never fade. It only serves to guide you across one border, then another, then another. One bridge, then another.

Soon you will be standing before the pillar of light three-thousand feet tall. The art nouveau elevator is powered by bellows, great tufts of air that lift you up, up, up.

Atop the spire.

Exactly where you belong.

It is warm here.