This morning, in between the reading for work and the reading for pleasure, I passed the time playing a little bit of solitaire. I kept track of my score the way it does on the computer version, and wrote it down on a piece of paper. After a while, my mind began to wonder. I wondered about the Tarot reading I did this morning and how it eerily coincides with the birth chart reading I did last week. I wondered about the presence of the Hermit (which represents introspection, a vision quest) and the Fool (which represents folly, thoughtlessness, and lack of discipline) appearing in the same reading. The basis of the situation was represented by the Hanged Man (a situation that I will have to suffer great loss in order to achieve my goal), and the result of the reading was the Devil (Pettiness, weakness. Being offered a quick fix, which will be disastrous to accept). It is a warning. It is a for-telling of a transformation that must occur. A difficult one, full of deception and misinterpretation. I realized I had been playing for a while. Sitting on my couch; the only noise in the house, the constant rumble of the cloths dryer. I wanted to stop playing, but I couldn’t think of anything else better to do, and besides I was winning.

I couldn’t think of anything else better to do, and besides, I was winning.

I wanted to stop playing.

The snow is falling outside. It’s a perfect, frigid, winter day. There is plenty of work to be done… and I want to stop playing.

This morning I slipped the title and the key under the driver-side floor mat and left the door unlocked. I got into my sister’s car and drove away. At lunch, when I returned home, he was gone. The receipt, slipped into my mailbox, thanked me for my charitable donation to Colorado Public Radio. And so ends the final chapter of our story of Stu. Saint Stu. The car that never once stranded me anywhere that I couldn’t easily walk home from. (He conked out once in front of the local wine store, just blocks away from my house, after driving me to Colorado Springs and back.)

A couple of weeks ago, I got in, turned the key, and Stu turned over, then died. Again and again I tried to revive him, but he just would stay alive. So I told him he could have the day off and I drove my truck to work. A couple of days later, I tried to start him again, and he wouldn’t even respond. Nothing. Nada. A couple of days after that, one of his tires went flat. I took it as a sign that he was done.

All right old man. Thanks for the laughs.
Cheers.

So, there’s a company called Boulder Canyon Natural Foods that makes potato chips. One of their flavors is Sea Salt and Cracked Pepper. Upon tasting these little gems for the first time, I determined that they should just be called “Crack”. As is my habit on days when I am particularly hung over, I stopped by the store this morning, on my way to work, and picked up a bag of Crack and some Coke (which, for reasons that I hope are fairly apparent, is the best hangover cure ever). I also noticed this morning that Lay’s has a new flavor called “Chile Limon”, which I thought I would check out. So after devouring my first back of Crack, I lined up my third hit of Coke and sat down to sample the new merchandise. The notion that struck me when I first tasted them is as follows: This is like having the most perfectly cooked, most tender, filet mignon and then biting into a hamburger and trying to think of both of them as … beef. I mean, essentially, they are the same thing, but sooo not. Needless to say, my attempts at diverting my attention away from my Crack habit failed miserably.

The Crack and Coke are having their desired effect. I feel worlds better. Frank Sinatra once said, “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink because when they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.” Cheers Frank.