A Few Inflammatory Remarks

My life was in flames last week, making it impossible to blog. Smoke obscured the computer screen; the keys were beginning to melt. At one point, I doused my laptop with lighter fluid, finger poised on the "delete blog" button. I was in a destructive mood.

Switching metaphors, the economic vise grip squeezes ever tighter. Marty's salary is inexplicably tied to the stock market, plunging with each passing week. We in turn have tightened our belts to the point of strangulation. Maybe we shouldn't have them around our necks.

The Joyce Carol Oates novel I'm reading, My Sister, My Love, is acting as a flame retardant on my highly combustible outlook. A dose of Oates is purgative. She forces you to peer into the deepest darkest depths of despair, and suddenly you find yourself on the sunny side of the street.

Grab your coat and get your hat ...