In Praise of T-shirts


In Praise of T-shirts

 southpart t


            This morning I put on my T-shirt backwards twice.   Twice! As with all t-shirts, one must hunt for the label to get a sense of direction. The label tells me which way goes front and which way goes back. I found the label, turned the shirt appropriately and slipped it over my head. It was backwards. So I took it off, found the label again, turned the shirt around and put it on. It was still backwards.

On the third try I checked the positions of the armholes, unfolded the garment carefully and held it in front of my body. The label was in the back.   I slipped it over my head and bingo!   I had it right side front.

            I mixed up oatmeal for me and Fox and put it in the microwave. When I turned on the microwave it made a very strange sound that caused me to duck and get out of the way of whatever radiation it might be spewing. I tried it a couple of times, cautiously, before concluding that this twelve year old microwave oven was kaput.

            We live in an RV and microwave cooking is a necessity. Our three burner propane stove top is fine for making coffee but that’s about all we do with it.

            My day was starting on a bad note.   T-shirts willfully misbehave in my hands. The microwave sings “Hello Dolly” but doesn’t cook a damn thing. It’s an Over The Range oven, which means that it’s a special item, requiring precise dimensions to fit properly into its niche.

            I’ll need another three hundred bucks in addition to the two hundred I just spent at the vet on our puppy. He has staph infections in his ears. We got him to the vet just in time to prevent the infection from running out of control.

            I had to email my uncle and ask for a hundred dollars. I ask him for money maybe once a year. I hate it. I’m in middle age and I have to ask my uncle for money.   My uncle’s not rich. He’s just richer than I am.

            When I was young and even more stupid than I am now, I thought college was for pussies. I was a REAL artist, I would learn my techniques by doing, not by studying.   I didn’t anticipate that being a REAL artist was the queue for poor deluded Sensitives who spend their lives being contractors for someone else’s building firm. I became a real artist. But I made a slight miscalculation along the way, and failed to put some money away for my old age.

            I look at my life and wonder which one of the bad decisions led me to this ridiculous situation. I have an ENORMOUS body of work to be proud of.   Music, photography, poetry, fiction, essays. I’ve recently published three e-books. I haven’t figured out how to sell them but I’ll stand on top of the RV and yell the titles of the books until I get arrested. Maybe I’ll do it naked. “The Gods Of The Gift!” “Confessions Of An Honest Man!” Come on, people, buy my books! “The Road Has Eyes!” They’re on Amazon, they’re on Smashwords and Snoblit and BookNook and PageVandal. “The Gods Of The Gift!” WWW. that’s doubyou dubyoudubyou roschbooks dot com!

            Uh oh. The cops are coming.




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