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| slavery, business, angelina jolie, puff daddy, norman field (ii), gale harold, wikipedia, jim henshaw, reference, michael griffiths (ii), landgrant review, storm, fresh yarn, music community, eric gilliland, | I will have to remember that more often, when I can't change the regional internet registry things that I can't change -- which is a lot. When my mother told me this on the phone, after a load of silence regional internet registry all I could think to ask her was, "What color were they? The crayons?" She told me that she really hadn't thought about it, but that they were blue and yellow. Blue and yellow? Blue and yellow? Are you fucking kidding me? Blue and yellow? I'm gonna go ahead and say, "Robin's Egg," and regional internet registry "Daffodil." I think that sounds better. My dad knew how to appreciate a good laugh, even when he was dying. That's how he was. We should all be so lucky. -friendly version for easy reading ©All material is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced without permission home///current essays///contributors///about fresh yarn///archives/// submit///links///email list///site map///contact © 2004-2005 FreshYarn.com |
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| But he saw the colors. All the colors. The old colors. The more exotic ones. The ones from far off places with names like "Burnt Umber" and "Fawn." And the ever-ambiguous first cousins "Violet-Blue, and Blue-Violet." You see, he saw the colors, man. The colors! All the colors, spinning, in a Jimi Hendrix, Mellow Yellow, puff daddy Timothy Leary, Lyndon Johnson, Green Tambourine, Purple puff daddy Fucking puff daddy Haze, man. And he never stopped laughing. My mother said that when the Six Teenage Christian Crayons finally finished praying, "OMINA-AMEN" -- when they began to leave, my father could be heard pleading, and waving after them, "Come on back. Come back again." He wasn't stupid. How often do you get a fucking Giant Christian Crayon Floor Show praying in tongues over your body while you're dying, and your wife has to watch? Not that fucking often. After that, my mother and I agreed that there was no rhyme or reason to this world. |
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