Readin' & Writin'

Gingerbreads:
     The 105th day of my imprisonment has nearly passed. Outside the walls of my Fortress of Solitude, I hear the dogs of melancholy, baying mournfully, mocking my ineffective attempts to regain consequence. It is this fetid condition that breaks mere mortals; it is here that I wallow in unyielding despair, dangling just above the pit of doom unsurprisingly however, I remain blithely unaffected.
 
    
     It is because of this, my unflappable optimism and unlimited reserve of good, good, good, good vibrations <shout-out to Brian Wilson>, that I'm able to channel this positive energy for the benefit of mankind, rather than evil. I receive nary a one literally hundreds of inquiries each day, requesting information or (naturally) sage advice. Typically, my staff handles these missives with indifferent aplomb; lately however, my schedule is sufficiently cleared to permit me to respond to several of these myself. This exercise, commonly known as Speed's Mailbag, is a popular feature of this blather, so why not pander to the appetites of those less blessed than I? Let's dig in.

Q: Did I say something wrong?  -  P. Dean
A: Clearly, there is a threshold of how many sticks of butter one can eat - after which, the brain becomes like the tree around which Little Black Sambo watches the tigers run. My God, now you've got me doing it!!!!!!!!!




Q: Do you know a good lawyer?  -  A. Hernandez
A: Let's see: you had the house scrubbed, you tampered with the surveillance video, you lied to investigators; nope, there's no one that good.



Q: Do you think I'm a patriot?  -  E. Snowden
A: I suspect you already know what I think. I suspect you also know where I live, who my friends are, where I go, and what I had for breakfast. You're like Santa Claus, without any of the cheeriness.

Q: Why don't I get no [sic] respect?  -  J. Bieber  <Editor's note: this is just one iteration of the dozens of entreaties Speed receives from the Biebs - who seems to have some dark fascination with your beloved author>
A: For the life of me, I cannot fathom why anyone wouldn't consider you a legitimate artist. We take you as seriously as we can.



Q: Did I do the right thing by coming clean?  -  M. Douglas
A: Oh my; sometimes the truth doesn't set you free.

    

     That's all for now webelos; my G&T is nearly gone, and time is running out on this mailbag edition. I do want to alert you to watch for the next  installment, wherein I'll once again regale you all with a review of the 2013 Killa Flotilla. I anticipate clear skies, calm seas, and yet another sighting of my mermaid - the siren who draws me inexorably toward the rocks. Until then, pax vobiscum....

Hero Worship

Chicklets:
     As this seige enters its 86th day of enforced idleness, I look to others who've travelled this path before me, for inspiration. To combat the stultifying sameness that envelopes me, as a result of my cruel attachment to the IV drip of b...o...r...e...d...o...m that accompanies my unemployment, I study the techniques of those serving extended prison terms.

     I have no pets, as a result of the court order (still in force) obtained by my neighbors, when - in my youth - I admitted to pulling the wings off flys and scorching ants with a magnifying glass little interest in pets, so Alcatraz's Birdman is no role model; I have however selected another famous  prisoner to emulate - Papillon. His ability to maintain sanity and a sharp mind serves as a roadmap for the balance of my incarceration, however long it may be. I've copied his clever method to combat the numbness that each day just like the last can bring; I find that breaking each 38 hour day into manageable chunks works best. Here's how it goes:

Morning - Every article I've read about my situation advises to maintain, as best as one can, the former routine. As such, I rise each morning with the dawn, PCT. That way, with most of the morning already spent, I have but a few hours to kill before entering the next pupal stage of my daily existance. After a hearty breakfast (remember, the most important meal of the day), I watch the clock hand's inexorable swing toward noon.
Afternoon -  As most of you know, I'm an admirer of many cultures. So, after an expansive lunch, crafted by my own hand, I take a cue from our friends south of the border, and go to my quiet room for a well-earned siesta. Again, the beauty of this maneuver is the passage of time while I'm unconscious - thereby minimizing my suffering. This is, of course, pure genius on my part, and is a major irritation to completely fine with my house-mate.
Evening - Admittedly, this is the hardest portion to endure. While others are returning home from their achievement-laden day's activities, my commute is much more banal; I pace, aimlessly, from room to room, awaiting the dinner bell. Then, after sharing my repast in silence (another trick I learned from watching prison movies - if you say nothing, the screws won't bother you), I settle in for an evening of channel surfing and snacking. It's only then, after lights out, that I hold my Justin Bieber doll and cry myself to sleep.

     It seems that I've settled nicely into this routine, to the point of slavish compliance with the above schedule. Naturally, with so much attention being paid to passing the time, I've neglected some other areas of my life that no longer seem important - like bathing and shaving. Of additional benefit, is not having to choose a different outfit each day; the one I wore all week is just fine. I suspect my Father's Day gift will be an intervention.

     Later this week, I intend to try resuming activities to spur my will to live. The unfortunate cancellation and (potential) rescheduling of this year's Flotilla weighs heavily on me. I must return to the sea.................  Otium sugit