Yep, it’s Friday once again, and there’s a tradition at our house — we serve fries on Fry-Day. They’re golden brown, great aroma, and they are, I’m told, very tasty.
The thing is, they’re not on my diet, but I can still enjoy seeing them, and remembering how they tasted — for me, the memory alone is strong enough to satisfy.
Speaking of memory, how could you possibly be upset that you can’t remember a past life, when you can’t remember what happened yesterday?
And as for telepathy — it starts with reading your own mind, first, then eliminating that from the local mental chatter. It’s really quite easy, once you get the hang of it.
Immortality is another issue, but not what you think — once you’re immortal, you’re hooked and, like cigarettes, once you’re hooked on a habit, it’s so hard to stop.
Like breathing. Even the doctors are in on it — they slap you to get you to breathe, and before you know it, you’re totally addicted to oxygen. It’s curable, over time.
That’s, of course, a joke, but not in this highly-charged political climate, it isn’t.
Actually, I could write a song about all of those issues right here and now, see if I don’t.
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Speaking of Vogon poetry, here’s my latest sample, written on this very page. Every so often, I use an old clothbound rhyming dictionary dating back to the 1800s, but the rhymes are still basically the same. You can rhyme “train” and “rain”
“Fry-Day Philosophy”
(A whimsical folk-rock tune with playful undertones)
[Verse 1]
It’s Friday once again, tradition’s in the air,
Golden fries are on the plate, with a tempting flare.
The aroma’s pulling memories, golden, crisp, divine,
But I’ll just sit and savor ‘em in the backroads of my mind.
[Chorus]
Oh, life’s a habit we can’t break,
Breathe it in, the fries, the ache.
Telepathy starts with your own mind’s groove,
And immortality, well, it’s got its hooks in you.
[Verse 2]
Yesterday’s a blur, so who am I to moan,
About a past life I can’t recall, and I don’t remember to phone!
But here’s a little secret for this oxygen addiction,
The cure’s out there somewhere, but only in science-fiction.
[Chorus]
Oh, life’s a habit we can’t break,
Breathe it in, the fries, the ache.
Telepathy starts with your own mind’s groove,
And immortality, well, it’s got its hooks in you.
[Bridge]
Doctors slap you when you’re born, and off you go,
Breathing in the big addiction—you didn’t even know!
Hooked on oxygen, you’re part of the plan,
And living through these cycles, trying to understand.
[Verse 3]
I’m sure glad it’s Fry-Day, with fries on the side,
To memories of better days and golden-brown pride.
I’ll sit here with my thoughts, my traditions on display,
And write a little song about the mess of life today.
[Outro]
Oh, life’s a habit we can’t break,
Golden fries and dreams we make.
Telepathy starts with your own mind’s groove,
And immortality, well, it’s got its hooks in you.
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Tonight, I’ve been combining efforts between several different — actually, how about 6 different screens. I seldom put up more than one, but this is different. This is war.
I’ll work on some verses, then switch over to my hard drive to check something or other, and then back again, and then when I’ve got up my Suno and Hedra pages, I’m veritably swimming in electronic architecture.
See You At The Top!!!
gorby