A picture

is often worth a thousand words. OK. OK. Always worth a thousand words. Maybe more. Probably more. Awww. Who am I kidding? Myself? That was easy. I'll leave this at that and leave you with a glimpse of my South of France Lemon Cheesecake avec des Fraises. Bon appetit. Not!

My gang will get you!

You are part of the Rebel Alliance and a traitor. Take it away. Braise it! Mmmmm. Duck. Not fatty duck either. Tender juicy duck. Ignore that little brat in the background. Cloe can be such a scene-stealer. Come to think of it, take her away too!
I really need to pad this post a bit more so the words and the picture end up even. Not OCD even. Just neighborhood even. You know what I'm talking about Dear Reader? A casual glance wouldn't notice a thing. Wait for it. Wait for it. Almost there. Ooops. Too far. Newman.

Bossa Nova, Baby, Bossa Nova

Why wait for the wallop of a whim to write? Whim is my raison d'être. I'm not even going to look that up to verify the spelling. No one else will either. (Don't even think about it Dear Reader!) It's French. Not Portuguese. Which brings me back to the eternal conflict between whim and obligation. Yeah. Another comment was posted here. Well, rather, there, on (in?) my previous post. From an outsider who is now an insider. Even on a sunny Spring day. So, welcome Perfumes. Welcome to the struggle. The struggle between the ever-enticing siren song of sloth and entropy, and the do-we-have-to-do-it-now energy. The struggle to address the dearth of frivolity. The insurrection whose only goal is to exile vanilla (plain and French). At least to add some chocolate sprinkles. Maybe a cherry too. The Tidy Bowl Man and I swirling in inertia. (Just felt like it). But I needed to write something. An acknowledgement. A thank you. And a sincere one at that. If one is to believe what one reads. Could you be the fabled Girl from Ipanema?

You know who you are!

One of the newly-realized nice things about having a readership that can be counted on one almost-fully-fingered hand, is that I can personalize my posts. That is, when I get off my butt and actually write one of the buggers. So, that being said, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Ism, ist, isn't

"Time, forward march!" Another clue for you all. The walrus indeed was me. I? (Yet again.) Can you smell it? An alleged Latin link revealed to be myth. A lie. Damnable speck. Wash away, wash away, I beseech thee. (Boil that water. Boil it hard!) Mass consumption. Consumptive masses. Does Criswell belong? The exclamation point would indicate it to be appropriate. Temporal appropriation. Grand theft tense. I saw Elvis with your mother. That's right. On the snake train. Club the bastard. С хлебом. С хлебом! С хлебом!!! С Хлебниковом. Take that. And that. Here's one for the other cheek. Do not judge me. It's a trap. For you silly. Laugh it up. Laugh it out. Art for its own sake. Self-indulgent petty pretension. No initiative required for admission to the burning. You will be searched though. Dialectically. Directly. The forms of questions shall be employed in your responses. Or else! To be sure...!!! The future just isn't what it used to be. Could it ever have been? Even for a moment back at some point standing still gazing at the continuum. Two letters U. Two u's. Two ewes. (Insert kebab here.) Two yous. Two of us. Riding nowhere. On our way. Ooooh! Vacuum too. Tutu? No. Well technically yes, but not for my purpose(s). I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Bishop to king's pawn five. It might work. Might not.

Oh Volodya, how could you?

Didn't you go to Spring Creek Elementary? Mr. Shawver's fifth grade class, right? Me? Paul. From out of the blue, speeding headlong to nowhere fast. A dash of nihilistic pretension. Just a dash. You don't want too much of that stuff. Fleeing Rachmaninovian tedium. It should be underlined in red. The future was there. Well, it had been at one time. Before eating that bullet. Always wash your hands first. Boil the water. Always boil. Sing it to the heavens. Spit it on the streets. Ahh yes! PG3476. But which cutter? Hmmm. Hmmm? There is enough. Maybe too much. Cubist digression to throw the hounds off the scent. Dear Lily. Tiger. Water. Brik. Brick. Pardon. Border stone.