So, nothing like a honking big piece of glass lost in the sole of your foot to take your mind off the pain in your head. Walking around the Brimfield Fair in sandals and somewhere in the gravel, my enemy.

As a related side note, Merrell sandals have got to be the most cushionest thing into which I ever jammed my feet. I borrowed some plastic tweezers from some pretty ill-equipped first aid kit in Brimfield and failled to dig the offending glass out of its new burrow. Still and all, I was able to wander the fair with no twinge. The second I got home, kicked off the sandals, boom, pain.

It’s like that pebble in the shoe tune from Godspell. Only, it was glass, and I didn’t see Jesus or nothing. And, I didn’t sing. And, it’s not 1971. Besides, if it were 1971, my awesomely comfortable sandals wouldn’t have even been invented yet.

Come to think of it, Jesus wore sandals, so why in hell did I mention “zen” in my title? Oh yeah, right, excruciating foot pain, while digging out the glass, is the key toward better focus. Pain, that’s what you need to take your mind off troubles.

Guess that’s why the kids enjoy cutting.

I started righting something last night at about 3 a.m. invoked the gospel of pranksters and clowns. It decants down to this — At the end of the day, you can trust the people who fool around and make jokes, because they say you can’t trust them. But, it’s the motherfuckers who earnestly pretend to be acting “decently” who will stab you every chance they get.

Tonight’s episode of best harmless prank: Crowded upscale bar, table of comedians. One, the lead prankster, decides we need to pick some one out and buy him a drink. A fancy drink chosen from the retro, upscale cocktail list, “A bullet for Joey,” which seems to be like a screwdriver but with bourbon and a splash of Grand Marnier. A note is written, but then it is overwritten by too many cooks. It is ripped up. Finally, five notes are written, each showing the style of its writer, a drink ordered and delivered. We wave creepily, the guy reads the notes and laughs.

I am just empty of shit to write about — although there’s a metaphor of an elephant that haunts me.

Other than that, I fixed my new fun gadget here to allow upload of smallish images. I keep thinking of all the fun pranks to be had by sending out cards with faces, etc. on them. I think I know too many people with websites, which makes it pretty easy.

Other than that, the only good thing to report is that between the final arrival of warm weather and the huge amounts of stress that are dogging my soul, I think I dropped a few pounds. The bonus will be when I see M. next month, I probably won’t bear a striking resemblance to Jabba the Hut.

This completely amuses me for hours on end:

virtual card mailing! If you click on the link in the middle, you can browse my photographs and send a virtual card from any pic.

I don’t know why it amuses me so, but it does. And, quite frankly, I need the giggle these days.

It isn’t Thoreau that guides M., it’s Ralph Waldo Emerson.

By God, does this mean the foundation of our relationship is based on a complete misapprehension by me? Have I been deluding myself into what a man he is and how he perceives the world? Should I question it all, because HDT and RWE are simply two different men?

NAHHH, he’s still a sweetie, and he knows a transcendentalist when he sees one. So, no biggie.

As an interesting side note, while I was a kid here in the USA, I read a lot about Buddhism and Hinduism and your basic Eastern philosopy and differences in Eastern spirituality compared to the Western Judeo-Christing thang. Meanwhile, somewhere on the other side of the planet deep in the mystic East, M. was reading the Western canon and studying RWE and American individualism and essentially American philosophies.

Very yin yang, I think.

When I first met M., the very first meeting, we walked all over the city and talked and then talked some more. One of the things I liked about him was that he liked to quote both Bruce Lee and Henry David Thoreau, kind of interchangeably. He talked a lot about Thoreau and, I think, reading him is part of why he, M., has an American dream.

It wasn’t the pretentious Cambridge-guy version of Thoreau, with quotes hauled out merely to impress with erudition. It was more passionate, and I guess the word HDT would use would be “deliberate.”

I keep thinking about HDT and M.

Maybe I should just rent a Bruce Lee flick.

Conceivably, there is NOTHING I hate worse than sitting by the phone and waiting…

waiting…
…waiting…

…waiting…

WAITING.

Meanwhile, in my ever voracious appetite to waste brain cells on the puzzles of web design and web tomfoolery, I’ve added a new fun feature to the site. If you go here, to my photo gallery area, you can click on a link above any picture and send it as an e-card. It just makes me laugh!