In the after-Earl we had a round here yesterday, zero (or close to it) humidity, cerulean blue skies and wispy clouds skirting across the horizon as the winds picked up, my wife and I did some grocery shopping and other errands. Don't know how many short-pant weekends are left on the calendar, but yesterday was definitely one of 'em and I was also wearing my fake Lacoste shirt (the one with the pocket where the stupid alligator goes) so, fashionistas, for me, I had my swerve on. I was even wearing sandals without socks which is NOT my default position--I'm still getting used to those itty-bitty socks you're supposed to wear with running shoes-whatever happened to crew socks anyway?
Imagine how hurt I was to get all the shopping done and the car back in the garage and no one noticing my toe nail polish color matching the shade of my bald spot. Where's Mr. Blackwell when I really need him?The least he could do is help unload the car, but nope, that's just me and the love of my life who went on ahead and opened the back door leaving me with two trips to empty the car.
I had already made the first trip when The Spirit of James Brown came over me. I have been told by people for many years, he and I could be twin sons of different mothers. I had on my ridiculously expensive sunglasses. Prescription, no-line bifocals with reflective coatings that can turn the sun exploding into cave darkness just by putting them on. That, as it turned out was the key to my undoing.
Stepping away from the tailgate clutching the warehouse club-size box of drier sheets and the case of soda, it hit me. Baby, Baby, Baby!--I was close to forty before I ever knew there were more words than that but I learned 'em, but I didn't use them yesterday. I was about to get on the good foot, when out of the shade from the trees in the driveway stepped quite cautiously a very wide-eyed mailman on his appointed rounds. V.E.R.Y wide-eyed.
He'd already delivered to us and was heading for the two houses on the Terrace before finishing up-suspect my recital will be impetus enough for him to be reworking that route between now and Tuesday. Which is too bad, because I should have the cape back from the dry-cleaners by then, and he'll miss that. My surgeon, on the other hand, tells me if I keep rehearsing the knee drops, I'll be back on his table in the clinic before I ever make it to the stage at the Apollo. What can I say? Glad I wasn't rantin' about Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. Black leather makes my hair look thin.