The work of art should contain the seeds of its own destruction. This can be accomplished by presenting both sides of the story, in one way or another. Here, I do it by leaving comments open, at least until the spammers show up.

Also, there should be a narrative arc of some sort. Yesterday, in the performance that is my life, I hurt someone I love, not to mention broke my own heart by being a jerk in the morning, to which I plead frustrated booga-booga middle-aged male menopause freak out, and was in the evening restored by a hug from Beta.

Personally, that is about all the narrative arc I can take in a week. On the other hand, how nice it would be if every day could end the way that did, without starting the way it did.

Although, actually, that’s not the way it ended. In fact, it ended with me going to bed happy, after locking the door and turning off the outside light so that when Alpha got home from her business trip she couldn’t get into the house, and it was snowy outside, and she tried knocking but no one came, although I was on my way, running down the stairs as fast as my little pig hooves would carry me in an effort to get to the door before she gave up knocking and rang the bell, maybe waking Gamma but she gave up before I could get there and rang but luckily Gamma didn’t wake up.

I suppose that’s not the nicest welcome home, is it, being locked out in the cold.

A narrative arc is a joke, but it helps hold reader interest, as does the beginning-middle-end thing, but it’s not life. In life, everything is middle, isn’t it.

To be honest, I’ve had enough of this snow. I’m waiting for spring like a kid who already knows he’s flunked and has to repeat a year waits for the end of the school year.

I was driving to work this morning. The roads were much better today. They were dry, for one thing, and snowless, although the fields were quite snowy, as if I had said, enough snow already, what’s with all this snow, and god answered, the snow is your fault, it’s going to snow until you finally paint those pictures of snow you are dreaming of painting, to which I replied, but I don’t have enough different whites to which god replied, snow’s not white. Also, leave me alone, I’m late already for a golf game with Bill Gates, Paris Hilton and the Pope. To which I respond by asking, why don’t you just turn back time then you won’t be late, to which god replies, I could do that, but where would the fun be? The whole structure of the universe would be an empty joke if I turned back time and went all omnipotent on everyone’s ass all the time.

Which I can totally understand, even though, personally, I am not omnipotent.

Today the roads were dry, yesterday all hell was loose. We had some crazy snow.

Maybe you remember CRaZy SnOw. That Gyypco product that never really took off back in the days of the Slinky and Silly-Putty? It reminded people too much of radioactive fallout. And then it got used as a prop in that zombie sexploitation movie Debbie Does the Dead, and it’s wholesome family image was in the shitter. That was it for CRaZy SnOw. You don’t remember CRaZy SnOw?

You remember Gyypco, though, right? Remember those commercials, kids frolicking happily with some crappy new product, singing, “Gyypco, Gyypco, go with the flow-o?”

I never got why they had to add that extra “o” at the end, it already rhymed.

I can imagine, though, how they arrived at the slogan. Boss says, at the meeting, we need a slogan that rhymes with Gyypco. Something short that rhymes and fits into a jingle.

And everyone around the table brainstorms going, How low can you go? It’s better than blow! Give us your dough! It never breaks until after the guarantee expires, yo! Favored by Jacques Yves Cousteau and Adrienne Barbeau! Put it in your trousseau. I think we’ve reached a plateau.

And someone says, Go with the flow.

And they all stop and say, hey. And young Samuel Jackson says, your momma’s a ho and walks out of the room and catches a bus to Hollywood.

And the boss says, eh, why Go with the flow? That’s what hippies say.

And the first guy says, so hippies will be our spokesmen. We coopt them, see. We coopt youth culture. It gives us a young image. And it’s, it’s, it’s Taoist. Imagine the Chinese market, when it gets translated into Chinese!

To which the boss says, China’s a market? That’s where we produce our shit, not sell it.

To which the first guy says, some day, some day. And the boss says, whatever, you guys hash it out, I’m late for a golf game with Annette Funicello, the Pope and Billy Graham.

And walks out, and takes the bus to Hollywood with Samuel Jackson to discuss projects with some producers.

That’s the kind of crazy snow we had yesterday.

No wonder I freaked out.