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March 4, 2003 juke box "Hold on a minute."  The telephone had rung just as I stepped from the shower.  The window of opportunity for choice nose-blowing is quite small and this was it.  I tossed the receiver on the bed and scurried to the Kleenex box.  As is my custom, I blew alternating nostrils to the opening riff of Purple Haze.  I hear music in my head almost always and I try to match song selection to activity or circumstance. "Okay, I'm back."  I sat naked on rumpled chenille and glanced in the hall mirror.  I didn't look so good. "How are you holding up?  How's your son?" My friend was concerned.  She'd heard my son was having trouble and had gone away for a while. "I'm fine.  Really.  As for my son, I can neither confirm nor deny he's as crazy as a shit-house rat."  I winked at the mirror and realized I'd been watching too many Pentagon briefings.  Paula pressed it.  "Well, God never gives you anything you can't handle." I knew this was crap, of course.  How did she think He got the job?  But I decided against arguing the point and replied, "No, Paula, I guess not.  God sure wouldn't give me anything I couldn't handle.  Listen, I gotta run.  Thanks for calling." I hung up and lay across my bed staring at a crack that ran across the ceiling.  Deep river, my home is over Jordan....

©  2003 by the beastmaster