Slice of Life

Slice of Life.



About a thousand years ago (199x?) I met up with some friends at a bar on Washington in downtown Orlando for a birthday.  It was a somewhat trendy bar (as to be expected, given the group of friends), maybe a little Early-Hipster.     I remember little about the event, other than the birthday boy said I had gained weight as I greeted him (why do we remember that crap?) and that there was a GREAT short story on the wall in the men’s room.    I shan’t repeat the story here, as I have to get off my butt and have a passport photo taken, but the final line of the story was, “Engraved on the front was the word ‘Zendafadori’; this meant nothing to him.”     I laughed (probably more a function of the beverages…) a LOT and even copied the story down into my address book, which I had with me for some bizarre reason.   I loved the build-up, then boom, nothing.   And what a cool word.   It  means nothing to anyone… not even Google.   But to me it sounds… exotic.  Happy.  Tropical (but not hot and sweaty).

Gotta go; Hogan is chewing a pair of clean underwear.   Word UP.