Eating, this week has been out of control, so when someone suggest a non-eating event, I was up for it. Also, in my regular quest for new theater experiences, I was happy to accept an invitation to see some show in a city about 80 miles north of here. The ride in the dark through miles and miles of forest was quite spooky and I expected any moment, our progress to be blocked by a huge saucer shaped flying object hovering above the highway. Of course, it would turn out that the only reason the extra-terrestrials had traveled light-years through space was to probe me, which they proceeded to do over and over again for a Martian production of BukakkeEarthlings.com....Let's just say it wouldn't have been a pleasant experience. Fortunately, nothing happened and we arrived in time to see a production of that wonderful Christmas Classic, Death of a Salesman. "Willie, I made the last payment on the house today. We're free and clear. We're free. We're free. We're free." (curtain) Actually, there wasn't a curtain, but they did darken the theater long enough for the actors to exit before coming back for their curtain calls. I could tell a couple of cast members were not only hoping for applause but also a little probing but I was not much interested in fulfilling their desires because I had to anticipate a potential date with the beta-probes on the 80 miles return trip through the northern woods of Minnesota. While musing during the drive, I conceived the idea of making my goulash when I got home. During conversational silences I planned the entire cooking process while at the same time keeping an eye peeled for tumescent little green men. I saw none unless you count the naked Lucky Charms Gremlin and I will say nothing except the stories of his prodigious member suggest he has been kissing the Blarney Stone. I arrived home, removed my scarves, gloves, coat; kicked off my shoes and sat for a while at the kitchen counter, sipping a fine red (Kool-Aid), and getting my Gordon Ramsey Mojo on. I began by finding a huge pot to boil the macaroni. I placed it in the sink and began filling it with water. It seemed to take forever. As the pot slowly filled...(the directions on the pasta suggest 5 quarts)....I began to think of Willy Loman (Character in the play) and then I thought of Arthur Miller (creator of Willie Loman) and then I thought of Marilyn Monroe (who married Arthur Miller) and then I thought....why in the world did she marry him and that made me think of that lying Lucky Charms guy. (btw -- he sent me an angry IM insisting he is NOT a gremlin but is a leprechaun. As if I don't know that leprechauns are known to have big ones only exceeded by guys in the Czech Republic.)

I was jarred out of my reverie by the sound of water splashing. I turned off the spigot, poured 2 or 3 quarts of water out of the pot to bring the total down to around five, lifted it to the stove and that is where it sits to this moment.

I had 3 squares of pizza and half a glass of red stuff. I sprinkled them with Tabasco and Parmesan cheese and crawled into bed to read and chew.

It wasn't a wasted evening but it did prove the sagacity of the admonition to beware of people bearing extra tickets to out-of-town shows. Maybe the next time, I will make a north-woods love connection, Steven Spielberg will immortalize it and Willie won't have a heart-attack. I do live in a lollipop world. Tomorrow I will chop the onions. Until then, with fond thoughts, for a wonderful 2012, I remain....

Rob