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As I look out my window I see trees. There’s a
road out front; I hear the occasional car, or farm equipment. On the way to
work I stop for coffee and a pastry. There are no checkpoints, no mobs in the
streets. So although Americans must adjust to a new reality, our first victory
may well be the triumph of the mundane. I held this column last week in order
to comment on the attacks back east and apologize if parts seem stale. It
returns today as a simple salute to the ordinary.
*****
Some things slip past the lips before you know
they’re on the way. Catching an eye-watering whiff of my daughter’s pug, I let
out “Good heavens! You should be boiled!” Even Girl-Child admits the beast
“hecka reeks,” we just don’t know what to do about it. She seems impervious to
soap, shampoo, sprays, and everything else we’ve thrown at her. Am told it’s
part of a pug’s charm. Don’t know about that, but the aroma does match the
little gargoyle’s face. Which also won’t wash off.
*****
Former president Bill Clinton was spotted in a Rio de Janeiro
boutique last month, buying bikinis in the company of actor Anthony Hopkins.
Not sure what the pair planned to do with them, nor that I want to know.
Hillary’s not talking, Socks is out to pasture, and even a guy like Clinton
wouldn’t buy Rio-style bikinis for his daughter. Especially not a guy like
Clinton. That leaves Buddy, I guess. Nothing untoward I’m sure.
*****
Who is giving Michael Jackson career advice?
Publicists say his first release of new material in six years has a harder
hip-hop edge, and that he’s changed his appearance to more of a “tough rocker”
look. Here’s my review: The advance clips I’ve heard sound like his last five
albums and he looks like Marilyn Manson’s grandmother. “Invincible,” due out
late October, reportedly cost $30 million. Next time, Mike, invest less money
and more of that imagination.
*****
I write this column in a loose, conversational style, and have been known to
take an occasional liberty with the English language. Lately drew a gentle
reprimand from a reader for my use of a colloquialism for the past tense of
“sneak;” will not compound the offense by repeating it here. I don’t like to
annoy people, not by accident. Also, my wife, she didn’t like it neither.
Kidding, kidding, just got to slip in them jokes.
*****
Oh, country living. Recently had a skunk under
our house, which you notice even over a pug. This came shortly after the
apparent demise of a mouse somewhere in the kitchen wall, which was bad enough
but nothing like a skunk. Sort of like the guy who hit his hand with a hammer
and forgot his headache. It’s all clear now, but the episode brought to mind a
particularly bad odor from my son’s room a few years ago. We chalked it up to
his habit of losing things like tuna sandwiches and had him clean the place from
top to bottom, to no avail. Two years later, termite inspectors found a dead,
dried bobcat under his floor. Didn’t even know they lived around here, but
wouldn’t mind so much if they’d run off the skunks.
*****
I pay dead people. Federal auditors report the
Social Security Administration disbursed $31 million last year to people its own
records list as dead. That’s barely a bubble in a bucket in government terms,
but what about those who aren’t known to be dead but are? What are we paying
them? For something called a “trust fund,” I’m having a hard time working up
much trust.
© 1997- 2002 Brent Morrison
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