A chicken Dinner --Is It Worth It?

My good friend Todd in Colorado commented recently that my blog is too damn happy. Worse -- I reference stuff like taking my spoiled family to Ritz Carlton's and talk about the laughs and great meals we share.

Hey --isn't the first lesson of Creative Writing l to "write what you know?"

I AM an overfed, overpaid, over-lucky son of a bitch. What can I say?

And Todd is ALSO overpaid (sometimes by my firm) and overlucky, though NOT overfed (he weighs 140 soaking wet).

I guess I could expand and analyze on my demons. Just this very morning D2 left for school, and a few minutes later I heard a not too distant siren, and immediately my defective (inherited from my dear Dad) brain conjured an image of her body crushed in her little red car.

Each time the phone rings, my rapid fire neurons concoct a narrative from an Alachua County Deputy Sherriff, telling me that D1 was picked off by the latest campus spree killer as she sipped a pre class latte.

So there it is --the real crap I have to beat back constantly to keep my sunny (from my mother Sunny) disposition. Sometimes the demons visit at 4 am, after a truncated night's sleep. I go over every variety of disease and calamity, and unwillingly match them up with my loved ones. It really sucks, let me admit.

Instead I choose to dwell on the happy, and positive, on the manifold blessings that have come my way.

And I know Todd doesn't begrudge me this. Ah, to begrudge. I learned in Pat McCarthy's Irish Literature class about a poet named Brendan Behan, who was a Dublin pub denizen until he hit it big in the book world. One of his drinking buddies told Behan that some of the old gang begrudged him his wealth and fame. The poet, a learned man, a poet, famously remarked: "Fuck the begrudgers!"

So there will be more about the joyousness, and privilege, and especially the laughter. I just read recently the obvious: some young will die; the old MUST die.

Before then, I choose the light, the good, the true friendship.

For example, my beloved Canes won a huge game, and I watched with some fine buddies. I remarked that OUR quarterback, unlike the Gator signal caller, is no virgin. Dr. Barry thinks I should market that as a t shirt slogan.

Speaking of the Black renaissance, the Pres is on, so I'm off.

It's not just chicken --there'll be brisket at the table of life, as well. Ah, that I don't choke on it.