Our waitress sets the frothy amaretto martini before me and the scotch on the rocks in front of Husband. She smiles. I smile, too, and correct her. “He’s secure in his manhood,” I say. “He’s not afraid to order girlie drinks. The whiskey is mine.” Husband makes some sort...
“Mindful breathing is an indigenous praxis.” What fresh hell is this? Who writes a plodding incomprehensible sentence like that one? You can bet it’s someone with a thesaurus in hand, hunting for fancy words to make himself sound important. It’s someone trying to sound much older and wiser than...
The corner is a crime scene – 8 bodies slump over after a brutal execution-style slaying. Only the police tape is missing. Traffic slows to a crawl while we all drive by and rubber-neck, hoping for prurient details. Is anything more wretched and weary than a deflated inflatable? Yes!...
It’s 5:30 AM, and Returned-To-The-Nest Son #2 is in the kitchen stir-frying something with lots of fish sauce. It’s the smell of coffee I want wafting through the house first thing in the morning, not that of rank fermenting sea-faring death. Warming hints of cinnamon and vanilla work, too....
The local mortician is a mover and a shaker – he’s kicking things up out there by the interstate at Sweet Memory Haven Funeral Services and Sleep Gardens. There, you can rest in the bosom of the baby Jesus without losing touch with the bustle of commerce. With a...