My sympathies to Meat Loaf (the singer/keyboardist of late 1970’s legend, not the dish) but as far as the pithy bits of life and love, he was spot on. It really sucks that the poor guy has asthma. It’s bad enough trying to sing – or do much of anything else- with constant sinus drainage and congestion, (even after sinus surgery I still have to sleep somewhat sitting up to keep from choking on snot) but I can’t imagine trying to sing and not be able to breathe. I can understand why he has a hard time performing- asthma, heat and humidity, and he’s not a young man. It’s a shame that a man of his talent would be so vexed.
I’ve always liked Meat Loaf, ever since I got the Bat out of Hell cassette tape and set it right on the “I’m breaking out of my body and flying away….ayy…like a bat out of hellll!” refrain at the end of the song so that’s what would blare from the stereo speakers when Mom started her old Ford. Never mind that I was underscoring the obvious, because Mom drives like a bat out of hell, always has, and everyone including local law enforcement knows it. That was funny. Almost as funny as when I put the “F— the IRS” and the “Bad Cop/No Donut” bumper stickers on that old Ford. Dad should never have let her have anything with a displacement over two liters, let alone a 350 Windsor. It didn’t corner for shit, and the suspension was shot, but that old Ford would go nine kinds of fast in a straight line.
I’ve seen many Cracker Jack boxes in my life, but the prize always seems to be somewhat disappointing. It would be my luck to get this one:
Apparently it’s a guide to clubbing in the Short North? This little booklet was a Cracker Jack prize at one time (I actually took this pic in a museum.) It must hearken back to more innocent times, when “queer” was just another way of saying “a bit strange.”
Some of the Cracker Jack prizes I remember from my own childhood were kind of cool- the plastic mini magnifying glass which you could use to either fry ants or melt army men, if you had the patience, was one of my favorites. I did have the patience, and I also had plenty of time since I really didn’t have very many friends.
There’s a statement to be made here. Fanny is a big, fat cat. She is every bit of 15#, which is just plain lardy for a female cat. Fanny, for some inexplicable reason enjoys napping on my AB Lounge. She is not amused when I dislodge her ample carcass so I can do my obligatory 50 daily crunches. Perhaps she is trying to convince me of the futility of the pursuit of fitness, or she’s just a fat cat who has managed to find a comfy place to nap that the dogs can’t get to.
Entropy is a fascinating concept to me- a sort of cosmic Murphy’s Law.