He tried to remember when he was a baby. He could only visualize a Polaroid photograph of a party in his stepfather's basement. There was his mother, all legs in a mini-skirt, his biological father, clueless, and, among an assortment of other mushroom-haired men, his future stepfather licking the edge of a hand-rolled cigarette. Lots of alcohol and joints were in play, and there he was, Paul,
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Some thoughts about that: if not in an opera house then here under the girders of a new civilization in which the contemplative norm is that of a cheeseburger with a face full of sesames. McCheese is one's neighbor and mayor, and his clown same-sex partner is a cook of sorts, and I guess a lot of people go there. I have to admit I stopped years ago. The fried fish sandwiches were about all I
Flame skunks. They is a problem to most home owners, be all they don't know it though. Pesky little fellers, git in your basement and start feedin off the lint of most furnace filters. You can tell 'em by their plumpish skunk bodies, but they's head's just like a gas broiler with the flames all lit and lickin up the sides like whispy blue whiskery cheeks. Natural fire hazards. Burnt up a
| Junk food | 13 Aug 2008 |
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| Fried Spam by Claudia Petrick | Comment (0) |
Speaking of Spam (see Tony Ellis's blog on the other kind of spam), my dad wrangled a summer job in a Spam factory when he was a college student in the late 1940s. His dad, my grandpa, worked for Lester Armour in the Harris Bank in downtown Chicago. Armour Meats was one of his companies. Meat packing and banking and I don't know what else.
Anyway, my dad loved to tell us about that job, how