All of this pea soup fog we’ve been getting of late has really got me down. Don’t know whether I’m up or down, especially when I’m trying to drive safely out on the Rim and can’t see a blasted thing, except fog lights coming at me and taillights in front of me. Although, if I follow the taillights, they help me stay on course, unless the car in front of me goes off the side of the mountain. By the way, it’s against the law in California to drive with your emergency blinkers flashing.
Also, by the way, if I drive over the side, I’m gonna sic my attorney on them and win and, no, I’m not talkin’ bout Sweet James or The Law Brothers. You can call them, if you wish. No siree, I’m talkin’ bout the crack law firm of Dewey, Cheatum and Howe. One fellow who did go over the side of the road couldn’t see through the fog, but that didn’t cloud his judgment. You know what? On foggy days, it feels like the clouds are throwing a ground party.
A foggy day in London town had me low and had me down, I viewed the morning with alarm, the British Museum had lost its charm. How long, I wondered, could this thing last? But the age of miracles hadn’t passed. (“A Foggy Day in London Town” – Frank Sinatra – 1954)
As the crack philosopher Mehmet Murat Ildan once said, “Sometimes a thick fog comes and covers your life. First, you are surprised, then you are scared, then in all that uncertainty and helplessness you start to learn something and finally, as the fog clears, you turn back and look at the fog and wave goodbye, thanking it for teaching you something important about life.”
Finally, the all-seeing, all-knowing sage and philosopher Mr. Natural was once asked, “What is the meaning of life? to which he responded, “It don’t mean poop.”
Keep it flyin’,
Uncle Mott
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