Unlike most folks who have their faces crammed into the
leaves of People magazine and salivate at salacious gossip and celebrity
turmoil, I like stars too but with a tad more Celestial seasoning for flavor.
It is not unusual for me to creep around in the still of night peering out windows
with binocs, or a telescope sporting a twinkled eye for stimuli. Far past the
neighbor’s hushed huts and crisp night air, there is always a good show to be
had when searching for Orion’s belt, the Big Dipper, or if it’s unusually cold
out - the LITTLE dipper instead.
Obviously that means I spend an inordinate amount of time
skulking around this shovel-ready shed in a pair of clown-sized sloppy slippers.
I would prefer to tread lightly nightly to the poop deck in just a pair of wooly
socks, but that would require negotiating our waxy wood hallways with training
wheels and a mandatory field sobriety test. So unless I stay true to my
SOLE-less reputation or lash on some leathery overdone rubber steaks to my feet,
I have no chance against frictionless surfaces and earthbound gravity.
Actually on bare wood and slick surfaces my naked feet too
of are no use anymore, since like my heart they have become enlarged, calloused
and hardened to all true feeling. Oh don’t worry I can still run when necessary
to the facilities, but fortunately both the geezer buffet and bingo parlor are
of ample size and fully carpeted. Otherwise
my fat flat feet-skis are just permanently attached skates which are admittedly
convenient, since I’m always on thin ice with my wife and penguin fishing
buddies for hogging the krill.
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