MONDAY AFTERNOON
Having slept, now I wander in a haze muttering to myself that I have so much to do, I have no idea where to start, and should maybe go back to bed because Mt. St. Helens will explode triggering massive earthquakes, death and apocalypse. (I can contrive really massive excuses to go back to bed.) But here, in the very act of writing this, I have broken the deadlock of creative sloth and the day begins.

Yesterday was the 40th birthday of Underdog. Tomorrow is the 102nd birthday of Larry Fein of The Three Stooges, or it would be if he wasn’t dead.

And take a listen to "Fortunate Son" by Creedence. The relevance is eerie.
Some folks are born made to wave the flag,
Ooh, they're red, white and blue.
And when the band plays "Hail to the chief",
Ooh, they point the cannon at you,
Lord, It ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no senator's son, son.
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no,

Yeah! Some folks are born silver spoon in hand,
Lord, don't they help themselves, oh.
But when the taxman comes to the door,
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yes,
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no millionaire's son, no.
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no.

Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,
Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord,
And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"
Ooh, they only answer More! more! more! yoh,
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no military son, son.
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, one.

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JANET LEIGH RIP
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CRYPTIQUE – Just walking around to save funeral expenses.

The secret word is Duck