Mother dearest... the only e-mail subscribed to my blog feed... I've abandoned updates on this, but after I post this, you'll get an automatic e-mail. You'll check it on your orange iPad2, while watching 60 minutes or a pre-recorded reality show. And damn those automatic e-mails! So hasty, and you forward them to all your tennis friends before I get to edit all the grammatical errors. And to be honest, you only have one tennis friend... Hi Sandy. Maybe Sherry too, but I don't think she cares for you much.
And did you both enjoy your Palm Springs rendezvous? I'm sure you did.
You're probably expecting a sappy Mother's Day letter. And no siree. This is public, so I'm not going to get all mushy. I'll say one thing. This past Sabbath, when I was Orthodox for a day (and don't get me started on that bitch Erica Schwartz), I missed you painfully. But, maybe I'll regress and mention Erica for a quick second... in her bucket hat and skirt suit. Besides the obvious truth that I'm a lucky bastard that you're my mother, as chance would have it, and not the bitch Erica, I'm lucky you're so hip... a bit sacrilegious...but, the most spiritual individual I ever did see. See, Erica's religious, but cold as stone... spiritually void. When I'm down and out, you say something so darn zen about energy or the universe, or some new age crap like that. And all those SECRET-type books on your bookshelf... Divine Wisdom...guides to a centered self. I remember your meditation story... about how you met Jesus one afternoon in our backyard. Erica could never manifest the spiritual divination of Jesus, even if she really wanted to.
Does it bother me that your cooler than me? I think that's subjective. Who's to say what's really cool... and what isn't. But, no, it doesn't at all.
So, mom... I'm going to put on a mineral mask with you and Chelsea... I'm going to post this and, if all goes as planned, I'll join you on the couch, catch the middle of 60 minutes, and maybe during a commercial break, you can read this. I'll watch you read it, of course.
Happy Mother's Day.
And did you both enjoy your Palm Springs rendezvous? I'm sure you did.
You're probably expecting a sappy Mother's Day letter. And no siree. This is public, so I'm not going to get all mushy. I'll say one thing. This past Sabbath, when I was Orthodox for a day (and don't get me started on that bitch Erica Schwartz), I missed you painfully. But, maybe I'll regress and mention Erica for a quick second... in her bucket hat and skirt suit. Besides the obvious truth that I'm a lucky bastard that you're my mother, as chance would have it, and not the bitch Erica, I'm lucky you're so hip... a bit sacrilegious...but, the most spiritual individual I ever did see. See, Erica's religious, but cold as stone... spiritually void. When I'm down and out, you say something so darn zen about energy or the universe, or some new age crap like that. And all those SECRET-type books on your bookshelf... Divine Wisdom...guides to a centered self. I remember your meditation story... about how you met Jesus one afternoon in our backyard. Erica could never manifest the spiritual divination of Jesus, even if she really wanted to.
Does it bother me that your cooler than me? I think that's subjective. Who's to say what's really cool... and what isn't. But, no, it doesn't at all.
So, mom... I'm going to put on a mineral mask with you and Chelsea... I'm going to post this and, if all goes as planned, I'll join you on the couch, catch the middle of 60 minutes, and maybe during a commercial break, you can read this. I'll watch you read it, of course.
Happy Mother's Day.
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