Cold War Blues

The morning introspection had me realizing how much I like a good antenna, not just any, but the sort that point skyward like steeples to the gods of electromagnetism. Sometimes on stroll-abouts I note a fine specimen at a modest residence and wonder if there is a superannuating cold war spy inside the house making reports back to Moscow letting them know how massy our supermarkets have become. Being ancient, he no longer hears well and so somehow thinks that Gorbachev is still in charge, kind of like the out of touch post war Japanese trooper on Gilligan's Island. People really need to keep up with current events. If you want to make regular reports to Moscow, you simply must use Facebook. I know it's a shame, but there it is.

Speaking of reports to the home office, my enchanting source on the matter, a Mrs. ________ ______ nee _______, informs me that fidget spinners are no longer considered de rigueur, the market being, as I had foreseen, saturated to the point that all pockets of youthfulness are now incapable of accommodating anything else.

Deliver us, oh Lord, from the groin damages of rotational physics!

Please note that the aforementioned enchantress of spinner performance is also the informant par excellence on all timely matters that hold captive the multifaceted attentions of those blessed creatures that are her hallowed colleagues in the far flung galaxy of folksy aesthetics. These "crafty ladies" continually entice humanity with their bewildering arrays of tie dyed fabrics, beaded hookah pipes, and underground workshops of erotic quilt making! My ever seductive notifier on these affairs places into a kindly form of matrimony the heretofore unpopular personal attributes of both veracity and good taste.

A chap could just not ever ask for a better "ear to the rail" and so I insist that she receive copious commendation...

ever and anon!