Monday, July 12, 2004

Moving on up...

That deluxe apartment in the sky now does smell of burnt beans because she who gave birth to yet another popular cultural icon Lenny Kravitz gives new meaning to the phrase, "What you talkin' bout, (Tom) Willis?" And Flo who left for 227, quite the far cry from Karen Valentine being bossed around by that Zorba of lesser Greeks, Michael Constantine back in Room 222, comforts George. So make room up there Lizabeth. No more let Good Times Esther Rolle. Though John Amos comfortingly does resurrects himself militarily in the West Wing. But that might only explain why the Dyn-o-mite Kid looks Barry Bonds bloated.

So what next? Chachie loves Joanie hates Isaac does Arnold. Mister Miyagi would be proud except that Korea is no longer spelled with a C. And sadly Weazie is dead.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Ides of July

Last summer it poured around this time and appropriately as if preordained, an off-remark said in total jest completely backfired. In a soaked crowd, the words first wafted overheard before sinking below flesh. The emperor surrounded by his senators fell. Unfortunately, the knife shone red in my hand.

And just as quickly the connection severed quite unexpectedly. Who knew the repercussions would be so totalitarian? But the proverbial handwriting on the wall started to drip even more blood. No need to fight the inevitable winds of change as it were because his final message required no translation at all.

Et tu, Brute, Hurtus Maximus begone.

So strange then it is, not having to shepherd the flock as the carnival outside sort of reflects the controlled mayhem inside. Yet the clock ticks slightly off still, probably the residue of habit. Six years straight tends to do that.