a thoreau reading of Bob. "my catsup has a first name..."

The fastidious trappings, trimmings and downright dirty traps of any epoch of the last so many thousand years:  not that you wanted, but were convinced you needed.  As a media man said a few days ago, "his cellphone costs more than a refrigerator".  Nothing prevented me from tai chi and a walk, a blessed tonic of silence, and then a blessed tonic of music.

The walk costed nothing but calories, of which i had a few to spare, i attest.

I was being asked what i liked; in lifetimes worth of advertising data harvested from my activities, they decided on a more low tech, far less subliminal or sublingual: just pose the question to me outright.  I could but give them my opinion, it shapes what little experience i have with meta platforms, so i gave of that infinite supply of coin; the question itself as much an overt concessation to the necessity of my presence in front of their advertisements.

Far more important people in my sphere more often took my opinion in a leaf of their opinion, without the dignity of an expressed question.  Such is impracticeable, yet all too common, as regular as rot, decay and the drydock of old age upon the ship of the mental facility.

There was a unicorn frollicking in a glade, approaching another unicorn nervously, head bowed, and then maddeningly-and most people dont understand the unicorn'shorn is an errogenous zone-they touch theirs together, like unto like.

Hunt's ketchup was in my value ground beef, having been a frozen little weiner-shaped berating of better product: the national chain not supplying as plentifully the better fat ratio product, i ate it with Hunt's on it, then thumped a penny from my middle finger, as of the grade schooler's paper football game, me in my indolensce, outside clothes, cloak and boots with an unfinished pint dangling at the pocket.  

That unfinished blondewood pint was my allie for that evening.

Meanwhile, Bob 1 and Bob 2, being interesting of their own pursuit of happiness, at the concert of one Reg Wight, and Bob 2 to announce, but utterly castrated moments before, left bleeding out during the expected event anyway, and old Bob, a Harley panhead or knucklehead in a lot full of metric on and off road fare.

They cut his topangadoes off and loved up on Bob 1, and it was then as it is now, 1993, Marvel Comics is "too big to fail" and Reg has weird sunglasses.