Because if there is, I’ve caught it. Not that I’m a writer, per se, not like published novelists, revered historians, hate-mongering extremists–oh wait, they aren’t ‘writers’ either. They just spew stuff out, it splats onto the computer screen, some greedy publisher knowing crazy sells puts it between cardboard, and voila! They’re labeled writers. It slays me when Bill O’Reilly ‘writes’ a history of Lincoln–with some obscure name attached on the bottom. He did pen a suspense novel, I have an inscribed copy to prove it. Did I read it? No. The ghost on that one was truly invisible.
But I digress. (Those thoughts did increase my word count though.See below.) I’ve been attempting to enthuse about some subject related to books, book-selling, collecting, eating–no the last is what I’d rather do instead of thinking about what I’m not writing. Eating a nice big bowl of Campbell’s tomato with basil soup. I nearly passed out when I saw the price of one damn can of soup! How are people surviving? Families? No increase in salary, but food prices keep a’goin on up. I guess others have seen the price of soup climb over the years–they are the ones making the trek to the ‘local’ supermarket–or just market, nothing super there, push a squealing cart in each cramped, can tottering aisle, wait for years checking out behind foreign language screaming kids (which language? Pick one, you’ll hear it in NYC) and then stumble carrying 80 pounds of cat litter, and 15 bottles of soda by the 24 hour fruit market, realizing some oranges would be nice, so pause, put down two of the bags, while navigating around a precarious pyramid of small tangerines, only to find an elbow has dislodged turnips which fall like giant puple raindrops and roll down slanted cement, tripping passerbys, finally coming to rest in the line of traffic. They’re just another casualty in the Naked City. After retrieving kicked deflated bags, oranges idea soured, they play bumper car for the final blocks–‘whoops, sorry,’ ‘hey, watch where your’e going, that was my former eyeball you just poked’, the 5 floor walkup materializes, and the arduous Mt. Everest climb begins until panting and too exhausted to eat, they’ve reached the rarified top floor, sans penthouse.