Friday Fill In #138

1. I remember, I remember the Alamo, the Maine, the time we first met, and, ah yes, I remember it well.

2. Dear pedestrian; I want you to know that my local tax monies have built you some fabulous sidewalks. Won’t you consider using them?

3. Is that my frog leg and goose liver sandwich you’re eating!!??? You know I’ve been saving that!

4. I’m trying to resist the temptation of a reasonably priced drum set with a 24″ kick drum. (Whew! Just went and looked. They’re all sold out! Temptation gone!)

5. I’m saving a special weekend getaway type date just for you Susan!

6. If I made a birthday list a drum set with a 24″ kick drum would definitely be on it!!!

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to a baseball game with the kids, tomorrow my plans include an afternoon gig but an evening free(!) and Sunday, I want to not completely muck up Sunday School services!

Dreaming of Buddy Rich & Eggs

I somehow was notified that I was requested to be a Buddy Rich’s* funeral. They needed a flag bearer, and they wanted not only a drummer, but somebody who was “religious.” My job was to stand on the side of the church/hall/synagogue (whatever it was), and hold the flag for the brotherhood of drummers. (There is no official brotherhood of drummers, and there really is no official flag, but apparently in this dream there was.)

I stood on the side. Nancy Pelosi stood behind me. It’d been a long time since I’d been a Boy Scout, so my flag etiquette was a little rusty. The American Flag led the procession. When it passed, I dipped the flag of the Brotherhood of Drummers. Next came the officiant. Next was Buddy’s coffin. As it passed, Nancy poked me and told me to dip the drummer flag in honor of Buddy. I didn’t think I was supposed to, but I did in difference to her.

After the procession was over, Nancy pulled me aside. She said “Why didn’t you make that sign of the cross thing, you know, like priests do? ” I said “Well, I’m not a priest. In fact, I’m not even Catholic! And, since Buddy was Jewish, I don’t think the arch diocese will mind that I didn’t make the sign of the cross.” And she said:

“The arch diocese is Catholic?”

Then I woke up. But then there was more! I fell back asleep, and was rewarded with this little number.

I was walking from my grandmother’s house to my mother’s house (they are next door to each other in real life). I was carrying three flats of eggs. These eggs had been in my grandmother’s fridge for many weeks, and no one was eating them.** I was taking them over to my mother’s house to eat them.

While crossing the lawn, I met Ron (one of my employees) and his wife Heather. Ron said “You’re not going to eat those eggs, are you?” I responded “I think they’ll be ok.” Then I said “Heather, you’re a farm girl; are these eggs ok?” (In real life, Heather’s family owns a farm.)

I pulled the top off the eggs. Each egg was in a little crocheted pouch. One was cracked. “That’s probably not one we should judge,” I said. “Let’s crack one open right here. You can look at it and smell it, and tell me if it’s ok.” Heather said she’d really rather not smell what might be a rotten egg.

The end.

*Buddy Rich was discussed at the office the last two days.
**We also have some eggs at the office. A customer brought them by for us. No one has touched them. They’ve been there for some time.