Bunny Salad Sandwich

The end of a long week and the brain metaphorically is a TV remote with the cat sprawled across the channel buttons, cleaning itself.

Which is to say that snippets of mirth are in the occasional orbit of my consciousness but I can't quite hold onto them long enough, thematically, to weave them into a single post of the foolishness of the day.

So here's an Abbey Road side two of bunny; semi-coagulated glances at the passing hours.

The Royal Wedding: Nobody in the lunch crowd admits to having watched it, yet everybody had a commentary upon it. I didn't watch it. Sleep these days is in short supply and frankly more interesting than the day to day. Besides, I generally regard weddings as tragic things. Another two souls admitting that perhaps chaos theory is a poor lifestyle choice for them.

Apparently Elton John, Sir Elton John, was in attendance. Now there's a relaxation of protocol because it was my understanding that Westminster only admitted one queen at a time. Knights, those knighted by her majesty, carrying the titular; "Sir", used to be so recognized for deeds of courage and daring. The idea was the monarch had about them, proven warriors and defenders of the crown in case things ever got stinky again.

Were Elizabeth to be threatened today, well, between Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Elton, the brazen attacker would clearly be subdued by being dressed in clashing colors and sued for copyright infringement.

In other words, modern England is easy pickings. Oh, do watch out for the SAS. They still do it the old fashioned way.

Back home, Ben Bernanke's press conference managed to excite the markets with his creative use of puppets to illustrate complicated economic precepts.

Ok, what is it that gets drivers of Honda Elements inspired to pull out in front of me during rush hour? What Element are they referring to? Slowium???

Thumper's kid seems to regard me as a mis-shapen Care Bear who will benevolently put up with being poked, hugged, petted and covered in spring flower petals without the slightest thought of attack or retribution. Just wait until the college graduation party when the "mining for nose boogers" slide show comes out.

The first night I spent in New York City was in a hotel on Eighth Avenue, up in the fifties. I got in to town at four in the afternoon, walked about twenty blocks north from Penn Station, checked in and hung around the room until dinner. I ate in the hotel restaurant and forgot to tip the waitress. Then went back to my room to do what I had been doing all afternoon: Staring out the window, freaked out at being there.

In 1963 the old man had to drive to New York City to pick my mother and me up from taking a boat home from Europe. It was his first time in New York. He was braver than I was, he left the hotel and, camera in hand, nervously shot a few snaps of Times Square at night. Next day he hung around the dock all day and into the evening (the ship's arrival was delayed because of heavy weather.) I'm finding this all out now because I'm editing the slide collection. All I can hope is that all those years ago he didn't fuck up and not tip.

Bunny on.