I Ain't A Addict, But I'd Kill A Man For Another Hit

SO they say the first step is admitting that you have a problem.
I certainly don't have the largest collection of running shoes in the world. I have at least one friend/co-worker who admits to having upwards of 25 pairs of basketball shoes. But should I find it troubling that I can describe the era of origin, the manufacturing details, and, most of the time, the name of the designer? Should it trouble me that am collecting running shoes, despite the fact that I no longer run? Should it bother me that one pair, the Adidas Somoas in the upper right hand corner, I don't even wear, that I have them on ice, for when the original Samoas, lower right, finally wear out?

Nah.

Now here's a picture of deviled eggs, on the grounds that almost nobody doesn't like deviled eggs.

Actually, this is by way of mentioning a revelation. Every recipe I have ever read for deviled eggs says "salt and pepper to taste," but I have never quite been able to get my deviled eggs salted and peppered to my tastes. Then it dawned on me: garnish with salt and pepper! That way I can make them as salty and peppery as I want.

(There were six of these yesterday afternoon. I was going to save the last two for breakfast tomorrow. They may not make it that far. The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things . . . )


And then here's a pic of the dog, Gabby, because she's just so damned cute. (Especially in the Papa San chair, which we bought some years ago because I liked it for reading, and which the dog has absolutely nationalized since then.)

I was going to use all this as a lead-in to a poem about Bakersfield, California, but I've changed my mind.

I mean, that would just be cruel.

PS: And then there was ONE.