I awoke to the soul-
soothing hum of the
window AC, with my
leukemia-positive
rescue cat “Ma Ma”
at my side
on the tolerably-
lumpy futon in
the bedroom of
the not-at-all
mobile “mobile
home” I’ve lived
in now for 16
years. Then
I pried open the
cat-shredded
guitar case
beside the futon
and pulled out
my all-mahogany
Chinese guitar and
picked n strummed
for a while, stopping
only to wet my
whistle on the
can of generic
ginger ale I’d
started the night
before. Of course,
I had to pull the
sandwich-bag
affixed with a
rubber band
from off the can
first, a precaution
to prevent any-
thing creepy crawly
from getting
inside, you
understand.
Then I
stumbled to
the “living room”
to feed and clean
up for the other
cats. Afterwards,
I chatted it up a
on the net a bit
with a Vietnamese
cutie, whom I’m
afraid I’ll never
meet. But hey,
they just don’t
make ’em like
that around
here, know what
I mean? And
following that,
I read and
posted some
triggering
memes you’d
have to see to
believe. And
all this to
the sound-
track of the
park manager’s
lawn mower
mowing up and
down and down
and up the length
and breadth of my
considerably-
sized front and
back lawns. And
all this made
me yawn and
smile a special
smile on my
special day.
— Fyodor Bukowski, author of 
