I was on my knees giving thanks for cheap likker and Trader Joe's cult-like secretive subliminal seductive marketing manifesto (if you smoke the brussel sprouts and listen to the happy consumer muzak slower and backwards while staring stonedly at a Tatty Ho's hawaiian shirt, you'll hear the mind control messages -- I do want every possible permutation of eggs and I'll keep buying the conditioner even though it actually makes my hair so knotty i could cry. or you'll hurl) when i saw john denver's feet walk in. Sing it with me -- rocky mountain hi-i-i-i-igh colorado. thank god i'm a country boy and not some middle-aged cinnamon broom huffing ruin.
(I just rediscovered colored text and have determined to do a bit of holiday decorating. note to Booger: where is the blinking function?)
Hot flash: thank god john denver's feet did not come with the rest of that grinning tool and his awesomely large wire-rimmed glasses but rather this warmly dressed child who we will call tiny timette. or cindy lou who. While it's true she may have realized she was dangerously low on alcohol only minutes before the sabbath dry 24 hours so she threw on the closest articles of clothing to rush over for some OK shiraz. But i prefer to imagine she artfully arranged the layers in descending size and entertaining shades of khaki, blue and green, topping it off with a toque knitted with love and skill by a friend, for some creative problem solving, namely how to venture out of the house without losing some aesthetically pleasing body parts.