No Smoking Joint

Smog-Free. Shiny-White. Clean Lungs.

yuletide smells firecrackers in chimney. cliches on sink flushed dishwater and throwaways. it doesn't have to be this way. 

my christmas flatten heavy if Indy Jones ran over by the rock. love and understanding, chewbacca-style, gift-wrapped with a bowcaster. 

sigh. 

merry christmas, then. 

the subject of a recent lighthearted familial squabble was that esoterically-mushy Rupert Holmes song "Terminal"---which, for no reason at all, started after I announced the fresh news of Dan Fogelberg's death (something that Yahoo! inexplicably never fails to deliver--celebrity obituaries like drive-thru to-go's for the biz news famished). 

with a split-second plunge on the keyboard, came the flurry of strings on search engines. Terminal. Rupert Holmes. Interpretation. the debate on whether that love stricken womanizing sucker ever laid a hands on the poor girl whose fluky physiological vernacular might have derived a rather prurient connotation. 

if anybody, anyone. please spare us the mystery.