catching up

Dearest Marta Hari,

Receiving your e-mail turned another dreary day into late June. What has it been, twenty five, thirty years? Good lord. No longer the lanky buck that haunted The Jounce and Cheek with starry-eyed ebullience, time and poor choices have done their low work. I use a scooter to grocery shop. It’s unbearable. Last week I nearly came to blows with a fat woman over Wal-Mart’s last electric ride. Fortunately, another fat woman defied gravity and relinquished her scooter before the pitiful scene could bloom into physical folly. I’m positive that punching an obese diabetic goes against all things Zen, and guarantees my next incarnation will be spent dodging fly swatters.

You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when Timothy Beep mentioned your agoraphobia had abated. The last I heard you were raising chinchillas in Gotebo. At first I assumed chinchilla was code for pot, but later learned that you were actually in the fur trade. (Come to think of it, I don’t remember pot ever being called chinchilla. Maybe I was reading too much Harold Pinter at the time). It’s a good thing you have an unlisted number. A late night phone call inquiring about the price of chinchilla would have sparked an awkward exchange if quarter ounce was mentioned.

There has been a lot of water under the bridge since I last stuffed bills down your G-string. Sadly, my small fortunate is gone. Although I haven’t graced a gentleman’s club in many years, I don’t believe the dancers would appreciate an old cripple trying to insert loose change. Bar conversation now revolves around so-and-so’s latest medical misadventure. I counted four canes and two portable oxygen tanks at the last Table of Failure confab. Suffice it to say, exotic artists at The Stoned Crow would have to carry a defibrillator; Clorox would come in handy for the less bathed regulars.

I look forward to seeing you at Mr. Yellowman’s retirement bash. If you’re unable to recognize me, I’ll be the very slow moving Jay Silverheels with bad haircut and botched plastic surgery.

As always, peace, love and Bobby Sherman,\

Juan Don