Bob Falfa

 
   "Bob Falfa"
   
   Is Bob Falfa, Boba Fett?  He piloted a 1955 Chevy in 1973, back earlier than that, actually.  Time is fluxing, boy.  You got Toad, the Pharaohs, and hot girls with cherry lipstick; plus, a magnanimous martyr.  Every girl likes it when a guy peels out, putting rubber to a road determined.  Mother Earth can take it, throw a cigarette butt out your window, just don't tell Her.
   Cowboy hat or buzz cut?  Western shirt.  White.  A man looks his best in a white shirt.  John Milner always wore a white shirt.  Didn't have a blaster, ya know--laser-like piece to shoot stormtroopers. 
   Mace once asked, in a periodical:  "Does Jabba the Hutt look like a bitch?"
   Carry your oil, your prayers, your faith, hope, and charity, never letting go of your portion, though sharing a tithe with others, at least.  Approach the bridegroom, always.
   C.S. Lewis, kinda/sorta:  "Jesus was either a lunatic, or the Son of God."  They didn't even have Prozac back then, and Jesus controlled His passion well.  Not a problem.  All in the northern direction of resurrection.  

Mercurial Blurb, Sorta

 
   "Mercurial Blurb, Sorta"
   
   Better in Redlands, California--always, mostly, sometimes, I guess.  Still, a Yankee gets up in the morning being brutally cool--instead of immediately "knocking the chill off" by way of resisting the frosty hell of winter, he kinda/sorta embraces natural adaption.  It's just a frosty hell, not a bitterly cold one; nevertheless, the southern man cranks on the heat, gets in his comfy fuzz, and brews him some java for enjoying the weather-girl from downtown; on the contrary, the Yankee people, and I've had protracted time with some northern kin; anyway, leave it cold at first, adjusting to the northern Earth of it all, do too brew the coffee, using baby water with added minerals and no fluoride; next, light a Lucky with a sulfur-sparked match, never flicking their Bic to betray old school, and watch the main anchor man with no contempt; however, still talk to the television and call him a toots.  
   And then, Lee made his surrender @ Appomattox, but never forgotten in the crystal-clear chronicles of history.  

SONIC commercial mindblowing

Pure Leaf

 
   "Pure Leaf"
  
   Make folks feel guilty--you are programming their sub-conscious, sinking doubt, making them anchor their possibilities.  Let them have their poison.  You first.  Life is a battlefield.  The pizza man can get killed by a hooker at a hotel with a blade and case of crabs--sleazy, real stuff.  Keep your hands up like a two-fisted product of the British Aisles.  Did I mention I like Roger Moore?  My Dad fancied him.  
   List ingredients--so we know why we die, yet live while able, on better than, or powerfully aided by, modern medicine.  You decide.   Pure tobacco leaf.  Organic.  Paper from recycled paper.  Cotton, from the modern south.  American smoked.  Smoke purifies, an Italian father told me.  We have many fathers, if we look.  Slow learners.  I know.  Get the crap out of the way first.  Love and thirst for being an old fox, or bird, or goldfish.  "What you talk'n 'bout Willis?"
   I used to like cereal.  Big Daddy pronounces:  "Sear-real."
   The dog is mangy.  Metaphorically, maybe--maybe not.  I'm not messing with her--she's totally tough.  Friend had a pit bull mix--I hung out with them.  Never said a word.  Was content being a friend.  Mutt took my cup of coffee, right out of my hand.  Two newspaper couriers, driving dumbly, but having dandy fashion--he wore glasses.  Was smart.  Has a graduate degree.  Likes pizza.  
   So, still no TACO BELL.  Charlie Sheen needs to advertise for them.  Wild and weird.  So domesticated under the coat.  

A-Team Intro High Quality

Boy, that's: hors de prix

 
 
   "Boy, that's:  hors de prix"
   
   When the rich, though non-regal, man offers up his own visitations, remind his bourgeois car's personality and false ego, though it's an android, and may pilot him off a cliff if he upsets the sentient chariot--just say, though not to the automobile--it reads your mind:  "Boy, that's hors de prix."
   Hell if I know.  My chien de meute always wants to evacuate poop on Holy Ground, and I feel like Highlander, minus the blade in a trench coat, for my blade is somewhere else; regardless, not in a state of limbes, though fascinated by the super-reality of real life over television.
   Never did make it to TACO BELL.  I don't think I ever will.  I just say it, so I can feel all-too-human.
   Nice weather.  I wonder about Michigan, and how Yankee college ball is exciting this year.

Pleasures of life

 
   "Pleasures of life"
   
   "Damn't dingbat--you are blocking my path to the blood-wine."  Any good Catholic would say it; indeed, the difference between Catholics and Protestants?  Catholics actually say hello to everyone at the liquor store.  
   Love thy neighbor, for your neighbor is a slayer.  The dude that bags my groceries is fluent in German.  How many college-educated people can speak German without flinching?  Not enough.  But in other countries they are multi-lingual.  Is language not a gift?  
   You phony doctors think you're so fuzzy, yet the dastardly dynamic Doc Holliday says:  "What a peach."  A simple peach, he repeats, so lovely, with platinum, though non-pretentious hairs, like my lover in the south, melting the whistling wax of wondrous white, all in child-like innocence, not for you to selfishly detail, but a musical mystery of gray birds not given the lusciousness of life to be noticed, yet she mystically mimics, like a collegiate circus person, until let lassoing loose on this here weird world.   
   Not going to TACO BELL.  A two dollar bill can only get you so far.  But all that potency on the flip side?  I love the 70's.  The 80's too.  Even now . . .