I was making croutons for the ceasar salad, for the lunch I'd invited my new colleagues to at our house this morning, damp tea-towel flung across my shoulders, when I said 'f--k' to myself. Just before that, I'd been inscribing and addressing Christmas cards to a few friends, for what was basically the first time in my life. In a couple, I'd added as a postscript 'When the hell did I become this adult?' and now here I was, puttering and polishing the grime off the salt and pepper shakers.
I'm trying to age gracefully. I'm neither Updike's Rabbit, nor the amusingly and serendipitously named Charlie Stavros
but I surprise myself sometimes, that a rough-cut boozehound like myself, all scarred and grizzled from mapcap adventures a-plenty, veteran of cliffhangers and close shaves galore, can find himself so happily domesticated, whistling the Montovani Orchestra's version of 'Uncle f--ka' as he whips up some salad dressing in the kitchen.
At least until he realizes what he's doing, balks briefly, and then as a sort of sympathetic magic, while the wife is off at the shops, cranks up Black Flag's Damaged, and continues his happy homely activity, with just a bit more animation.

rocco said
December 5, 2003 4:44 AM
stavrosthewonderchicken said
December 6, 2003 9:17 PM
stavrosthewonderchicken said
December 6, 2003 9:20 PM
dg said
December 8, 2003 1:31 PM