I am in a sour mood today. There is nothing particularly unusual about this as I turn my perennially jaundiced eye on my surroundings. If you knew me in person you would know that I am a curmudgeon, lovable, yes, but a curmudgeon nonetheless.
A parcel arrived in the mail yesterday which made me happy. The parcel’s contents are in my pocket. Somebody has carved me a pocketknife without my expecting it. He engraved my initials, MK, on the handle. The M stands for Mister. I took a photo of it with my previous knife, which I am not abandoning but temporarily relieving from active duty.
My stained knife is on sabbatical. If I let it rest too long, it will get rusty. Discipline is destiny. Unused muscles atrophy and there is nothing worse than a rusty knife when its owner wants to cut some radishes.
My old knife has reliably performed day-in and day-out for years. It deserves a rest from opening packages and sharpening pencils.
In other news, Vincent went to the Saints game the other day. I forget what day it was. I remember that is was not a Friday. It was an unusual day, except that the Saints lost, which, I understand is becoming routine.
Vincent went dressed as a pope. He does not do this regularly. It was something he wanted to do. I know you have no idea what I am talking about. If you lived in New Orleans, you would.
What are you waiting for? Happiness loves company.
I am sitting across from three large, bald, black men in expensive suits. They are about my age. Though I am a businessman, like them, my aesthetic is now different from theirs but, when gentlemen of distinction meet, they acknowledge a well-put-together outfit. You either have got or you have not got style.
A hat is not a hat unless it is rakishly tilted.
I am sorry but I have to put the paywall up here. This part that follows, which is already written is really, really, really good. I cannot just give it away today for free and look at myself in the mirror with a clean conscience tomorrow.