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Show Q8F - csrf g l by Randy Hanskat A Monday morning cure Do you like Monday morning? "Maybe," you say. "Who wants to know?" Admit it; Monday mornings can bite, right? "Sometimes," you say, "but not always." Well, do you like them as well as Friday or Saturday mornings? Now the truth comes out. Different people deal with Monday morning in different ways. For me Monday mornings aren't all that horrifying, just a bit treacherous. After all, I like my work, usually, and so I don't dread going in, but Mondays can be tough, even downright sadistic if they follow a good weekend. But I think I've found the cure for the sickness of Monday morning. A very rhythmic rhyth-mic cure if I do say so myself. Last Sunday night I went to Salt Lake for a dinner party at a friend's house, at least it was planned as a dinner party. For me, however, the affair turned into a wine-tasting wine-tasting party because each of the 10 people in attendance, myself excluded, brought a nice bottle of wine as a present to the hostess. I brought some fast-fading flowers from Safeway. I like wine, but I like cheap wine. Such tastes have been predicated on my lack of disposable income. For me a fine wine is on the order of Gallo Chablis Blanc. Some of you would probably rather drink a strawberry milkshake from Burger King than sip Gallo wine, but at least give me some credit I've put Boone's Farm far behind me. Such a smorgasbord of fine wine at the Sunday party was very enlightening for me, and I felt compelled to educate myself as much as possible. Well into the evening, as I slurped up more Beaujolais, followed by gulps of Chenin Blanc, I looked at the three cats which resided in the house of the hostess; it was easier now because I was down at their level on the floor. When I gazed into the blue eyes of a particularly large one named Pieces I had quite a start. The feline's eyes had a look in them that said, "I want to suck the breath out of you," on the lines of that old wive's tale about cats and babies. i ii i nir - ' ' At that point I knew I had tasted enough wine, thanked the hostess, and exited stage right. After knocking over and breaking a glass globe, I finally got into bed at 12:30 a.m., pleased with myself that I had successfully suc-cessfully negotiated a return trip to Park City. Six-and-a-half hours later I was rudely awoken by one of my own cats walking on me. She was plainly jealous of the smells of Pieces and company on my body. I thought the morning would be worse than any Alka Seltzer commercial ever depicted. My stomach had that knot which only wine can induce, while my breath smelled like cooking Parmesan cheese. And I was still half, maybe three quarters, asleep. A shower didn't help, nor did the butchery better known as shaving. I was sure such wonderful feelings would stay with me throughout the day. I was thrilled. Into the kitchen I hobbled, poured a bowl of Fruit Loops, and stared at them. I grabbed for my sunglasses to help with the glare from the red, yellow, and orange sugar-coated colors and would've welcomed some axe murderer to come and end my misery. But then I heard a whispering from my Walkman sitting over on the coffee table, commanding me to put it on my sludge-filled head. I weakly gave in to temptation, and soon Rick James was chanting, "Give it to me baby." At first I thought my head was going to suffer suf-fer some sort of mudslide, but gradually my body responded. Convulsions of nausea were replaced by rhythmic convulsions of soul. In minutes I was screaming, "The girl's a super freak," and performing dazzling spins on my linoleum floor which any break dancer would envy. My cats, now taking the opportunity to eat my Fruit Loops, stared at me quizzically, but there was no stopping me now. Soon I strutted out the door and to work. The salvation of soul. And I had no problems, except for some strong urges dictated by Rick, but that energy can always be channeled chan-neled into other areas. If not, lunch hour couldn't be far away! |