Weren’t we all supposed to be flying our cars around multilevel air highways like the Jetsons by now? And what about those space-needle apartments with robot maids? It’s 2008 and I’m still making my own coffee.
Never mind. It’s time to make resolutions I won’t keep.
Number 1: Go to the gym every day for three hours until I have abs like that gal on The Firm video.
Number 2: Finish every novel I’ve ever started and publish them all. Wear sunglasses to Kroger to escape adoring public.
Number 3: Serve champagne to the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes Prize Patrol when they come calling.
Number 4: Meet Mr. Right, the poet/cowboy/handsome/no crazy ex-wives/millionaire, live happily ever after, and such.
Number 5: Clean out the garage.
Done. If I’m going to disappoint myself it’s best to go all the way.
No Telling 
Seeeee? Like I said: <>Funny<>.As hell. Jet cars. Recently saw a whole program on Paul Moller who has been working on that very thing for 40+ years. Hang in there, Monda, and we should be off the ground shortly. Unless Paul kicks the airbag. Finish novel. I’ll settle for that—between the three I’ve begun and the current five or six short stories as well. Short attention theatre span whatever, what was I saying. And now for a quickie poem: <>short, sweet, over<> . . .Prize Patrol. They just left. Took check with them. I only had–gulp–<>Martinelli’s<> so they scrunched up their noses and said they were headed to your house by 5:30 or so.Thank you for this short and potent post. I’m laughing my ass off and—#4—looking for my old spurs. They’re somewhere in this durned garage, dangit . . .