Stare directly at the sun

  Dear Fonz,

Is it just me or is there something sort of sexy about this picture?  Something sort of sexual.  Stare directly at the sun.  Feel anything?

I know the Fonz isn't real by the way.  I'm not totally useless as Bubbles used to say on AbFab.  There's even a real person named Henry Winkler who is inhabiting the Arthur's body and, with the grace of an uncle, leading it through the ages of life in Hollywood, whatever those may turn out to be or not to be.  No, don't worry I'm not going to start talking about suicide again.  Doo bee, doo bee, do; or not doo bee, doo bee do.  Now *that* is what I call a question.

But dear Bleaders, I didn't have a blog for so long.  I used to say, "I'd have been a great blogger if I were alive today," because the only explanation for my not blogging would be temporal misalignment, and when I finally did start in with this art of porthole hollering is when John Chaneski, my excellent and remarkably tall husband, pitched it to me as a epistolary relationship with my secret hero and delight, Arthur Fonzarelli.  I will tell you why I have a special taste for the Fonz, but I will not tell you now.  For now, we'll just go with the obvious.  We all love him.  We love him because he is cool.  And a good listener.  I feel when I am talking to the Fonz, just that extra bit of freedom to just say what I'm thinking.  And drink what I'm drinking.  And rhyme drinking with weekend.  (Heh doesn't that make your lips feel funny?)

So, even though over at Best American Poetry Blog, where I also blog (mostly on wednesdays but lately i've gone rogue and answer to no law) I have come to know and love my audience as Bleaders, which I made up early on over there at Bap, I shall continue to speak both to you, dear Bleaders, and to the Fonz, who doesn't exist but also does, much like the rest of us.  Anyway, I've reached some kind of satori Fonz, and am feeling extremely fine.  Life is over, the factory bell has sounded, the orders are all in.  Nothing left to do but notice all the huge piles of time all over the place each filled with millions of long moments.  All the time in the world.  Relax.  Do something small and pleasant.

Love, 

Jennifer

(adapted from a novel by Sapphire.)