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Why Good Men Go Bad & Don't Bathe "Some day, my son, all this will be yours." Joost
a wee drop Whenever she goes away, I usually fall apart completely, then slowly rebuild. First I stagger all around the house for three days, moaning and weeping and counting my sins, then sleep for fourteen hours straight. Finally I get up and eat. I eat and eat and eat. If it can be made with bread, cereal, milk, coffee, sugar, peanut butter, jelly, raisins, ice cream, vodka, or fruit juice, I'll eat it, and I won't do dishes until I run out of spoons. At night I'll sit in front of the computer visiting all the XXX-rated sites I can find until I feel really stupid and promise to go to church if God keeps the spam away. At some point, usually toward the end of the first week, the malnutrition and abuse will begin to subside and I'll do something constructive, like make the bed and fill the dishwasher. I may even decide to get caught up on my Applelinks work, you never know. By the middle of the second week, things should begin to pick up. At some point I'll remember I'm supposed to feed the cat and pay the bills, and perhaps I will. By then I'll be tired of unsexy sex sites and start to read the news again. I'll also be tired of granola and probably pick up a bacon cheeseburger or three at Sonic, which means I'll actually leave the house, hooray. When we lived in Maryland and owned a few acres with a nice chunk of woods [sob], I'd occasionally find myself alone and go sit in the poison ivy for a day or two fortified with things unmentionable until I had a decent vision or the ants and mosquitos drove me away. Damn bugs always won, and no drunken, half-naked friends' wives ever showed up. I never could figure that one out. Hope
springs eternal The encroaching wholesomeness will begin to make me uneasy, so by the fourth week I'll probably have rented some dirty videos and eaten a few store-bought pies. These diversions will leave me both spiritually & physically drained and fat as a walrus on dope, with the result that I'll take a series of long baths and start napping all day. At some point I'll remember I haven't posted a GRACK! column for three weeks and no longer be able to sleep for fear that someone actually noticed. This, then, is where the real accomplishment will kick in! Sometime during the middle of the fifth week, I'll start staying up until dawn writing the greatest prose and poetry of the early 21st century. Later I'll wash my hair and walk around town with a steely, confident glint in my eye. At my favorite restaurant, a certain waitress will finally let me know she's ready by brushing her fingertips across the inside of my wrist as she hands me the check, but I will turn her down... It's just as well, because when I get home I'll suddenly realize that I haven't dusted or vacuumed for a whole month and have the mother of all panic attacks. The next day I'll start what will turn out to be a week-long orgy of house-cleaning, bed-making, flower-buying, and flossing. If I'm lucky, I'll find the emaciated cat still alive inside the bathroom cabinet where he crawled to hide and still have time to fatten him up. This is doubtful, but if I leave him unbrushed, perhaps he will pass. Beyond
the headlights? Something tells me I'm going to be moving fast, one way or the other. If the cat dies in the cupboard, I haven't sold any writing by the time she reenters U.S. airspace, or I forget to send the dancing girls home before she walks in the door, there could be hell to pay. I won't, though, because as long as there's enough slack left on the Visa card, I can always strap the iBook and a bedroll to the back of a big V-twin and disappear. That's the American way, right? As long as there's credit and gasoline, hell can wait. Senior Applelinks editor and columnist John H. Farr plans to write about the simple life. Believe it or not, this is something he knows a great deal about.
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"GRACK!" is © copyright 2002, John H. Farr, all rights reserved
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