Pick the Cat's Eyes Out

I put on a download from Frank Conakry's wonderful blog, Voodoo Funk: "Cooked from Scratch," which I discover contains C.K. Mann's "Funky Hi-Life," a rapidly ascending favorite of mine. I've gone and accumulated a summer's worth of soil in the cracks of my toes (the price of wearing flip-flops), so I slowly soak them in a foot spa. Happy feet bubbles, vintage African records from the 1970s -- only one thing is absent.

So I have a Boddingtons close by and when I open it, the beer spouts everywhere (as those magical widget cans so often do). I hold the pint can over the foot spa and the beer falls into the water. In no time at all my feet are cured. Something should occupy the eyes: The light at this end of the room is good and I'm re-reading The Sun Also Rises. Jake Barnes just got his knob polished. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better."

It's a simple life, really, but we get on.