Tag Archives: philosophy

Dear Spouse: before you met me I was a philosophy major.

5 Jun

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A lawnmower that runs for only 10 minutes (or until it catches fire) is actually the universe’s way of  encouraging you to: take small moments for yourself (and spend them with gaskets and sprockets and wrenches and such); to let go of the desire to “fix this once and for all” while knowing that there can be only one once and no other once but sometimes you might have a “one night only, manager’s special” kind of thing, and, also, to enjoy the spectacle that is life’s rich pageant.

That and I spent all the money we saved for a new lawnmower on downloads like R.E.M.’s 1986 album titled “Lifes Rich Pageant,” and some disco-era stuff by the Stones.

(Don’t be mad.)

Everything I learned from cats (in that there is anything to be learned from cats) I learned from MY cat

3 Oct

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If you don’t like what they’re saying about you, scratch their eyes out.

Before you go outside, eat.

When you come back in, eat.

If forced to pee outside, eat something as soon as you are back inside.

Humans spend inordinate amounts of time mowing perfectly good grass.

Always find the sunny spot.

Sleep.

(That’s all.  He’s a cat not an oracle.)

Lou and Karl and me

28 Dec

Lou and I found ourselves in a midtown bar at 3PM on Tuesday.  Actually, it wasn’t hard to find us, we had been there since noon.  It’s not that we didn’t want jobs, we just didn’t have jobs.

Instead, we did the next best thing: drink and wax philosophic.  Like Karl Marx after one or two (or five) beers.  By the time Lou returned from a trip to the restroom, I had figured out everything that was wrong with his life.  He didn’t even have to ask me.  Why are there no jobs like that?

Quite simply, Lou’s life contains too many one syllable words.  Moving to the outer boroughs has made him boring.  My scrutiny revealed that:

he drives a Ford.

Truck.

Automatic or manual?  “Stick,” says Lou.

Color?  “Blue.

Married?  “Yup.”

To?  “Peg.”

Kids?  “Nope.”

Pets?  “Dog.”

Name?  “Mike.”

Breed?  “Mutt.”

Favorite food?  “Meat.”

Drink?  “Beer.”

Snack?  “Meat.”

Spice?  “Salt.”

Band?  “The Who.”

Sports?  “Mets, Jets and Knicks.”

And so on.

By the time we left the bar, it was dark out and we were hungry.

“If  I could just get Lou to utter more than one syllable,” I thought, “his life will change forever.”  Emboldened by drink, we stopped at a hot dog wagon- this was my chance:

“How many?”  I asked.

“Two,” he replied.

‘Ketchup or mustard?”

The curse of the Mono-Syllabic Man was about to be lifted.  No longer would Lou be saddled with a boring, non-conversational existence; he would engage and be engaging.  He and Peg would become the center of a social whirlwind that resulted in notoriety, opportunities and meaningful relationships.  All because of me.

“Lou- ketchup or mustard?” I implored.

“Both,” he replied.

We ate and then each took a train home.  Me to my basement apartment in Woodbridge, Lou to Queens.  As if you couldn’t tell.

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