My forefathers saturated what were once pristine fields of this great nation with the blood of British regulars. It’s a fine proud history for the birth of any republic. The French did it differently. The French stormed a fortress guarded by old soldiers who had been permanently disfigured in combat. The French rounded up every fop with a patch and powdered wig and made them kneel under a blade. Continue reading “Music for a Revolution”
Do any of you have a house with one of those arch-shaped mouse holes in the floorboard? If you do, don’t ever reach into it. You won’t get bit by a mouse if that’s what you’re worried about. On the contrary, you’ll find the sensation of the mouse’s soft fur very pleasing against the tips of your fingers—so pleasing that you’ll never want to stop petting the delicate follicles. You’ll refuse food and water until you shrivel up to the point where you can physically pass through that tiny archway.
When you slide in on your belly, the first thing that you’ll notice is the odor. That’s because you have mildew in the crawlspace. I’m sorry, but you’ll grow accustomed to it. The next thing you’ll realize, once your eyes adjust to the dark, is that what you’ve been petting is a faux mouse-fur throw, draped carelessly over the back of a wee handcrafted leather Chesterfield that sits in front of a hearth with smoldering logs. If you’re hungry, you’ll have to figure out which morsels are cheese and which are arsenic. Continue reading “The Truth About Mouse Holes”