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2014 is adjourning as 2015 is coming to order

Larry Cisar

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Without Dr. Cisar's yearly greeting from the Land of the Rising Sun, there would be no New Year to celebrate.


This is a tradition we've grown very fond of. :)


Yes indeed.  He used to send me drawings of delightful humans in plenitudes (lots of humans in each drawing, only one drawing a year:  the humans are the plenitudes) and I would imbecilically, despicably lose track before I would write back, and I guess he got discouraged, as who would not.  A couple  of weeks ago I walked to a the Rite-Aid market/pharmacy on Ocean Avenue at Avenue Z, a little over a half-mile, to buy a box of beer, because the Rite-Aid around the corner was out of the brand I stick with, which if I were rich I would disdain loathsomely, but ah! les princetemps! , as Jules Wells would say on his spaceship the Nostradamus; of course if I had a car I would have driven instead of walking, although the walking is good for me and my doctor told me seventeen or so years ago to walk three miles a day, but I probably rarely walk three miles a week, so it's just as well I don't have a car, necessitating my walking to that Rite-Aid when I want to go there.  Not having a car because I left it with Larry Cisar in Des Moines in 1983, and he promised to return it absolutely the next day, but you know what?  they found it at the bottom of the Des Moines River a month later, salt-water-soaked to ruin, bloodstains all over its cuirass; and Dr Cisar turned up in Japan, or Nebraska or something, the following week, and been there now thirty years, and you think it's a stinkin' coincidence, you Pollyanna pepsicles you.

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Part Two:  The Early Years.


Now, I made up some of that stuff, like about Larry and Des Moines and a car, but not about the delightful drawings, nor about the beer and the lovely chambermaid (perhaps these days, or centuries, they call them clerks or cashiers or Customer Associates or maybe Nostradamus) at the checkout counter, which is kinda getting to the point but I pretend it's about Larry Cisar and my car that he dumped in a river in 1983 so I got an excuse for typing it here on The World's Premiere Internet Parliamentary Forum instead of, say, on the Alicia Witt Fan Club website, which I would frequent if there were one, which there ought to be because she's just so wonderful -- you could watch drivel like "Christmas at Cartwright's" on the drivelly Hallmark Channel, which I did over a coupla days a coupla days ago, because it has the transcendentally magnificent radiant lovely Alicia Witt in it -- a sublimely radiant redhead, in case it weren't purely obvious, if not inevitable.


Ghod, you parliamentarian types are so easily distracted. No wonder you think One Thing At A Time is a fundamental principle of the universe.  You're desperate.  You probably all ought to be taking lithium supplements.  But maybe that's not such a good idea, you'd all  go off and do worthwhile stuff and/or get interesting jobs like conquer the universe for Halliburton and maybe some absurdity like getting Dick Cheney elected to the vice-presidency of a country that has a nuclear arsenal.

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Part Three:  Interminably More Early Years.


So I'm in this Rite-Aid store on Ocean Avenue and Avenue Z in southern Brooklyn (really really southern:  another ten-minute walk further and you're swimming to Antartica), and so I plunk this box of Natural Ice (Reg. U.S. Pat. Off.) on the counter and there's this radiant sweet lovely -- you do get by now that I'm sort of a Pollyannish slut, right? -- woman cashiering.  So because it's beer, she asks what my birthday is.  She has to because It's either a NYS law or store policy that she has to ask, or maybe one more thing I've overlooked in the Talmud, say.  Like where the Talmud says that the hardest rule [...] in the Bible is "Honor thy father and mother".  Yes, you may say, what would it matter about buying beer at a Rite-Aid in Brooklyn what the Talmud says about parents -- and really, is the Talmud going to have rules about buying beer?  OK, let's slough that off and move on.


So this cashier asks me what my DOB is, so I tell her April 19, 1952, because I have been so informed, and it's written on my expired driver's license, and I tell her because I'm instantly so smitten that I will tell her anything she might ask, but because I am brain-smitten and have no sense, I follow that with a putative witticism, I say to her "April 19, 1952 -- of course, you were only a little girl at the time."


For the love of God, Montresor.  What a monstrosity.  What kind of an imbecile -- well, obviously, my kind -- suggests to a woman who is a complete stranger that here I am, 62 -- and that she's something (OK, but maybe not much) older than that.


But you know what?  This sublime creature, without a pause or blink, grins slightly (and the universe lights up some more) says back to me, without suggesting her serene, casual irony, "You're too kind."


(Edited to delete some superfluous words -- stop laughing)

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. . . and so I plunk this box of Natural Ice (Reg. U.S. Pat. Off.) on the counter. . . . So because it's beer, she asks what my birthday is.  . . . and it's written on my expired driver's license . . .


As long your poetic license hasn't expired, we should be OK.

Unless you've been designated the getaway driver for the next periodic heist authorized by the bank-robbing society once the 10th edition of RONR was published and the chair could no longer rule the motion out of order. Because I would say driving with an expired license with an open beer in the car is illegal for sure, but we don't give legal advice in this forum.

(And don't worry, my quota for the number of sentence fragments I can post in 2015 is almost full. But watch out for run-ons!)

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