Gol darnit Mr. Lamarr. You use your tongue prettier’n a twenty dollar whore.

Thursday at the Mini Mall with Mike:

Sordid news, however welcome, is never to be dwelt upon. For lunch today I walked to beloved Westgate Mall. A series of adjacent parking lots separates my office building from the closest mall façade. An urban veldt, the yellow-stroked asphalt plain extends in a few directions for several hundred meters, punctuated by cars, moving or stationary; and curbed-in, trimmed oases with a single tree glittering green in the summer. It’s a good five minutes in either direction. On a snowy, wintry day or a beautifully sunny one like today, the stroll is magnificent – just be sure to bring the heavy jacket or sunglasses, respectively.

Today was a meteorological reprieve, with only a fraction of the kneading humidity Cleveland has endured for nearly a week. The blue sky was a purer blue, undiluted by haze, and allowed for the most wonderful sight off to the southern horizon as I drew towards the mall: sixty to one hundred miles away, cumulus clouds had begun vaulting upwards without the pacification of cooler, Lake Erie air. They all stood in a line, west to east, some further developed or more vertically brazen than others; a few shaped like overgrown bushes, most like geysers caught in a freeze-frame. All of them glowing yellowish-white against a deep cerulean. I looked straight up and saw an infinite clearing, counting my momentary blessings to observe a skyborne tumult from a distant perspective.

After eating, I exited the mall and began my return to the office. Lake air had begun to condense, finally; winds aloft had begun draping cirrus and altocirrus across the sky above me – again, west to east. Though I observed that blue sky and gold sun had become scarcer in supply – I detest a flatly cloudy, grey canopy – I couldn’t deny the timeless allure of the spotty, aggregate streaks. Against that same cerulean from an hour before were broken lines like scumbled, impasto zinc white from a Post-Impressionist’s palette knife. A stoic and a dreamer in one, I intended to breathe in deeply and relish the moment.

I settled with writing about it afterward. I’ll enjoy this more.


Actually the purpose of this post was to pass along a tip from a reader regarding entries for the highly coveted Ligua D’Ubaldi (noted here or below if you’re not into that whole brevity thing). Many qualifying quotes can be found on blogs written by authors sporting improbable Latinate or Greek (Grecian, if you’re George Bush) names. It just seems to go with the territory that when a blogger goes by a pseudonym with a classical suffix, unintentional hilarity ensues. Just look for blogger names like Thermopylae, Boethius, Startrekus, GawdImsolonelyus, Neverhadagirlfriendus, or Wankeravelli.

Happy hunting and don’t let the “scumbled, impasto zinc” get in your eye.



Yeah. Like I would tell you....