Wit Of The Stairs #1: A Rerun

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Esprit de l’escalier For December 1, 2014

Pleased to report I didn’t get all loosely goosey with the bourbon pour this Thanksgiving. Easily could have gone the other way, as Chicago reported the coldest Feast Day in fifty years. But the weekend warmed to an out and about fifty, which Coda the puppy appreciated as his recovery now allows him to heel and slowly toe around the hood for a sustained fifteen minutes.

I but glanced at politics, skimming the usual suspects—NYT through WND—and all appeared lost as last year. I admit giving three quarters to the NFL, on Turkey Day, only to witness the Bears go all Butterball in Detroit. In fact, each fowl gridiron game ranged from stale to rancid. (But Any Given Sunday did reappear on it’s namesake.)

I shared special and costly cupcakes with SNZ, as well as bourbon, some wine, and then back to moonshine. After twenty seven years her eyes still light the way, for tag team high jinks, or comfortable go it alone binge watching.

And on gentle jaunts, with the 110 pound-aforementioned puppy, I nodded approvingly to a few (wise) neighbors, taking advantage of that aforementioned mild weather to festooned their abodes wearing flannel, a sweater, college alum, or again, aforementioned Butterball sweatshirts.

And I read a spell, and wrote awhile, and conjured a fictional character, who, for reasons both flimsy and financial, legally changes his name to, “Affatus Thanatos.” You are welcome to filch that moniker, if you have a mind to, but that might be a bit more self-defeating than my own wallow in low-rent pretension, don’t ya think.

Adding it all up: Not a bad holiday before the whore, ho, ho-ing of commerce working Christendom’s side of the street. And I needed a week before back to the saw-bones.

So Shalom, as I used to say, back when I was an Episcopalian.



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