Season of My Discontent

The end of August always is a little depressing to me. I get so geared up for summer every year and have so many plans for adventures. Inevitably, some of those plans fall by the wayside, as there are a limited number of weekends and Company Policy dictates I be in the office if I intend to get paid for the portion of my life I've agreed to sell them. Damn The Man. Write that down. Put it on a t-shirt. Damn. The. Man.

I so love kicking back, sweating away a hot summer evening sipping a drink and disengaging my mind. The orange glow of evening coaxes the fluids from your pores almost as soon as you raise the glass to your lips. Add in some good friends and you've got your world right where you want it for a few hours. But the thing that puzzles me about those slow-burning summer nights is that the more of them you have, the faster the summer goes. How can a summer of slow nights pass so quickly? I didn't keep a journal last year, nor this year. But as I'm taking inventory of how this year has passed me by, I realize I've kicked a not-insignificant amount of butt. I need to put pen to paper and capture the details of these adventures before they get caught up in a brain dump.

Now that September is here, maybe I'll find the time to catch you all up.

Humungus Feels Nostalgic, Crushes Feeling

Dear Milliwalk-a,

You speak, of course, of the vaunted Жемчужина России. The memory takes me back to sweltering, humid summers, the 19-year old Lone Ranger and his Mexican sidekick Tonto, pausing on the corner in our suits and ties, drops of frustration beading on our foreheads, Russian Pearls in hand. All around us strode the finest Jezebels the city had to offer, hustling bralessly to-and-fro in sheer shirts and shrink-wrapped miniskirts. We stood like the Cliffs of Dover in our white missionary shirts, the waves of temptation crashing, breaking, receding. I fondly remember the Russian Pearl.

But comparing the two confections is impossible. It's like trying to quantify the joy you got from your high school car. You loved your ’85 Prelude by itself because it was jet-black and hawt. There's a second layer to why you loved it: for the role it played, namely, giving you independence. But you were different and the situation was diffent back then. Similarly, I loved the Pearl both intrinsically and extrinsically. Intrinsically for the way it cooled me off and gave me a brief glimpse into heaven. Extrinsically for its uncanny ability to distract me from the gently bobbing bosoms nodding "good day" to me at every turn. "Well hello, yes, good day to you too, ladies. No. No thank you. I can't stop to chat. I have to finish this Pearl before it melts." I became a paragon of self-discipline thru scripture study and ice cream.

Zebra Cakes possess the same intrinsic ability to rouse the tastebuds. And in this wasteland of thirtysomething dating, I’m nearly as monkish now as I was then. Nevertheless, I have strong doubts that a Zebra Cake could provide the same safe harbor in the face of such temptations today. Even the shelter provided by the mighty Жемчужина России might be swept away in such a storm. These days I'm down to a threadbare tarp for protection from the elements. On the right day, a faint breeze bearing the right perfume could topple my lean-to.

Equine Love Poem

Zebra Cake, you wizardly beast.
Half sugar, half crème, all magical feast.
Are you white with black stripes, or white stripes on black?
My eyes see all rainbows when I make you my snack.

My fat cells all squeal with porcine delight.
You’re just what they’d wish for, were Christmas tonight.
I’d blend you, inject you, right into my vein.
But my taste buds and stomach all beg me refrain.

Your waxy, white frosting, no mere flavor dam.
Twirling black ribbons, more seductive than ham.
You beckon me near, my heart starts to race.
There’s rarely such joy, as in your embrace.

The pleasure you bring me is fleeting, yet fun.
But now I must leave you to go for a run.
Now lacing my sneakers, the penance is near.
Alas, you can't stay there, parked in my rear.