Late night or early morning? I guess it really doesn’t matter.
In either case, I’ll probably sleep right through “Wait. Wait. Ask me Another” … again.
Damn. That classic Saturday afternoon NPR show has become a staple of my Saturday afternoons.
Now, that would be a rather large “damn” compared to a tiny “damn” … like the one I screeched earlier this evening! Let’s just say that particular one involved Jon, a television, and Wanda, the remote control.
That episode led to a 45 minute long internet journey. Henry rolled the mouse, leaving the cursor prompting me to a page devoted to our ever-gilt guru, Gustav Klimt.
I figured it would drive me to curse or, at least, stir with some degree of distraction. My alter ego’s Id did share a tidbit: the beautifully and soulfully-executed patchwork of colors bore me just a little. (“She said …”)
I do enjoy Gustav Klimt’s murals, however. They stir my loins … this one especially. (That innocent lip-twixter refers to the mural not my loins.)
It would look great, albeit it dreadfully out of place, somewhere here at the humble home I share with my beloved. Frankly, I’d awaken each morning thinking “I’ve died and gone to Biltmore”.
Damn. Damn. Damn. We couldn’t even get it into the house to start in the first groggy place!
Ooops. There, I’ve said it again, Mr. Vinton. You too, Mr Carter. Please accept my untethered apology for my blasphemous lyric-sampling of your 1960’s gold records.
It’s late. That actually translates to: it is four o’clock without so much as a yawn.
(Image: Mural from Vienna’s Old Burgtheater, Gustave Klimt, 1889.)