Harder to Forget Things that Never Happened

The great thing about telling the truth, not that the Pantload living in the White House would know anything about the word 'truth' (to include, I suspect spelling it) is that you don't have to struggle to remember any lies you may have told. 

The twists and turns of living in the material world can often ensnare you and divert you from living your one best life to, instead, perpetual damage control. That's not what was happening when I first wrote this, though the title at the time may have suggested otherwise:

Bustin' Broncos on the Mac & Cheese Ranch

Brushing my teeth yesterday, that turn of phrase popped into my head. I'm not sure where it came from and when these things happen, I get more than a little nervous. 

Has anyone ever said to you, 'what were you thinking?' and you struggled to recount the process that had resulted in your suggestion to drill a second hole in the boat in order to let the water out? No one has ever done that with me and I'm finally starting to understand why, and in this case, knowledge is not necessarily power. 

I have a brain that's more like Captain Billy's Whizbang, a turn of phrase supposedly from "The Music Man" (I adore every Lullaby on Broadway (but prefer Hackett's Lamb to Charles') as my collection of Iron Maiden attests) with which I have no familiarity and to which I tend to add 'Closet' though I don't know why. 

The lobes are filled with badly-remembered snatches of melodies from decades of rock and roll songs, some of which went plywood in Indiana while others are anthems (C'mon! Let's all Do the Clam!) none of which are improved when I sing them aloud at the top of my lungs, along with film clips projected on the inside of my skull (I can see them when I close my eyes) in random order and with no reason and less rhyme. 

I don't even like Mac and Cheese. Well, hardly. I did watch a recipe on TV the other day that added bacon to it and then it was baked, or maybe boiled (I didn't watch that much of it) and now in my head it runs into a snippet of a TV commercial for a fast food restaurant where somebody demands 'will somebody please make a bacon latte?' though the ad isn't for coffee. 

I've been holding out for decades for pony rides for my birthday but I don't think I'd go out to the North Forty in search of a Chestnut Mare. Besides, my sister, Evan, is the equestrian; I'm more of a pedestrian (and the world is better for both of those choices), so there's not much danger I'll be moving to Montana soon(er or later). 

I think the only way this could turn out well would be if I end up riding Mr. Ed into the sunset-perhaps dueting like Dale and Roy, hopefully without ending up like Trigger. 
-bill kenny