Musicians' Holiday

In certain subversive suburbs
the best treatment for fear
is a good check-up.


After his bags and head were packed, and he was aimed toward the front door, his mother stopped him momentarily with these parting words, “Over in the heart of the City, there will be those who will tell you that being myopic is no excuse for not appreciating the audio-arts.  Son, most of the people who tell you this are gonna be musicians.”  (She paused for dramatic effect, then added), “And they’re correct; but boy, remember this also – So what!”  (Based upon the solid grounding of this exemplary cultural advice, the lad obtained scholarships in both sculpture and composing, and got a discount on his return bus ticket home.)


Then there was this other guy
who’d confide in himself,
especially on holidays...
(it didn’t do any good.)


A reader out there (who it seems has obviously written in before) wrote and says that he STILL thinks I just make all this stuff up; and this time he adds that he doesn’t know what to “make of this fact.”  (My secretary just asked whether we’ve heard the last of him, and her secretary asked if we’d heard the last of ANY body?)


“Hey”, said one chap, “If Life doesn’t know what it’s doing – who does!”  And a second chap resnorted, “Hey, that’s what scares me!”