Spitball Army

Approximate playing time: 78 minutes.

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He was also an ornery cat.

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My social media avatars: Young Me, Drawn Me, my literary ideal. But the damned mirror shows my true place on the entropic timeline.

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“Fifty Years” from Blues Dream (2001), by Bill Frisell

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A few weeks ago, I noticed that there were an awful lot of black hash marks on my swimming chart. Counting them, I found that I was closing in on one hundred miles.

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Holy time capsule! Where did some of these artists go? Rees Shad? Gillman Deaville? (Who is Rees Shad, anyway?)

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It may never have occurred to many of his critics that Ted Kennedy acted as a mirror, showing them not only the best, but also the worst, in themselves.

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Here are more found things from one corner of one room of my little house. This little batch, like the last two posted, are buttons, proclaiming support for certain “causes.”

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One of the pool’s occupants was a young black boy, about ten years old. I could see him jumping up and down in the four-foot free-swim zone as I was swimming my laps. His feet would leave the pool floor, then come back down - his knees would immediately bend and he would jump back up again. Over and over and over.

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Marlon motions to me silently to follow him to the third register. He appears to be in take-charge mode and is going to process my transaction himself. He enters the hard drive’s barcode and the price comes up.

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