If you haven’t had them yet, never fear, my fellow Americans, the warm days are coming. The curt, ungrateful, white-shallow sun is being replaced by the endless afternoon, and even the evenings are one more button loose from the collarbone. Those of you in New England… I sit in the middle of the California desert tonight, and we are blowing a hot mass of oxygen your way.
It’s not Breast Liberation Day (BLD) yet, not even in Santa Monica, but I happen to know you ladies are contemplating it. Nortons cooped up in strata upon strata of cloth will be soon be released into the wild, and the men around you will not respond with leering, or lascivious sexism, but with the joyous innocence of children thanking a benevolent God for His infinite Riches. Your breasts will remind us, in our deepest forefather DNA, that we managed to get through the winter with our stored meat intact.
Prince wrote a song called “Sometimes in Snows in April”, but the fact is, “It Always Snows in April”. There are always setbacks, sure, sure. The pagan demons of harsh ice never let their grip go without one last claw to the face, but that’s all they’ve got. Except for 1816, they’ve lost every year.
I am going to open up a nice scotch this week, sit on the porch swing and wait for the weekend games. The ceiling fan will be on HIGH and the hummingbird feeders are full.