The Six Commandments
1. Play a gig in the stream with your keyboard afloat on a lie-low. Wear galoshes. Let the fans swim past, gurgling cherished lyrics off-key. Learn to play the melodica underwater. Learn to bubble the nose harmonica. Skip the bass and ask Zeb to rev his motorcycle on the bank.
2. Fill your home with broken keys to fictitious tractors. Let the neighbours wander through and dream of filling their pockets. Returning in the night to try to open doors of sleeping lamborghinis. Wild hopes of free sports cars. Free sports cars are the ultimate american dream.
3. Buy monkeys. You can afford them. If not, Grandma will buy one for you. Perhaps it will be a Confirmation present, perhaps it will be a graduation gift. You will house them in your big brother's room while he is at college. You will ask Mother to buy them diapers and laugh when they bear their gums and hee-haww at the breakfast table. Shaking hairy armpits and braying at Father when he tries to steal a banana for his lunch.
4. Crochet hats. With bunny ears. Have no one particular in mind, but delight when your brunette girl friend gush at the growing head cosy. One day, it will warm her ears as she strolls past the envious nuns. Nuns imagining young girls as mysterious creatures, creatures of boundless energy and warm ears.
5. Get married. Widows. Dead husband--that's dark. Don't be afraid of him becoming a pot-bellied lout who visits strip clubs and leers over his cigar at the dancing strippers. He will not come home late and hunch his shoulders at the Chinese restaurant. You will find love. It will make your stomach twitter and give you reason to read Marie Claire. Love and its preoccupations will bring you shiny toasters and property.
6. Don't make nachos when the kitchen is clean. Don't eat the black spots on potatoes. Don't let burnt pants stop you from opening the oven door. Otherwise the pie will burn. Don't let the pie burn, and don't forget to stir the soup.
7. Wear potholders. We don't want you to burn your hands.
2. Fill your home with broken keys to fictitious tractors. Let the neighbours wander through and dream of filling their pockets. Returning in the night to try to open doors of sleeping lamborghinis. Wild hopes of free sports cars. Free sports cars are the ultimate american dream.
3. Buy monkeys. You can afford them. If not, Grandma will buy one for you. Perhaps it will be a Confirmation present, perhaps it will be a graduation gift. You will house them in your big brother's room while he is at college. You will ask Mother to buy them diapers and laugh when they bear their gums and hee-haww at the breakfast table. Shaking hairy armpits and braying at Father when he tries to steal a banana for his lunch.
4. Crochet hats. With bunny ears. Have no one particular in mind, but delight when your brunette girl friend gush at the growing head cosy. One day, it will warm her ears as she strolls past the envious nuns. Nuns imagining young girls as mysterious creatures, creatures of boundless energy and warm ears.
5. Get married. Widows. Dead husband--that's dark. Don't be afraid of him becoming a pot-bellied lout who visits strip clubs and leers over his cigar at the dancing strippers. He will not come home late and hunch his shoulders at the Chinese restaurant. You will find love. It will make your stomach twitter and give you reason to read Marie Claire. Love and its preoccupations will bring you shiny toasters and property.
6. Don't make nachos when the kitchen is clean. Don't eat the black spots on potatoes. Don't let burnt pants stop you from opening the oven door. Otherwise the pie will burn. Don't let the pie burn, and don't forget to stir the soup.
7. Wear potholders. We don't want you to burn your hands.
posted by Camille at 10:03 pm
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