Another successful outing. $700 for an hour’s worth of work, all expenses paid.
A jazz club - that shall remain unnamed - has fallen on hard times. Bookers can’t seem to find acts to play the place, and audiences are even scarcer. Most people are drawn in by the velvet decor, but the stage’s position, no fewer than sixty-five yards from the nearest booth, ensures that a majority of the sound waves are absorbed in the alluring fabric. Ya might as well be listening through a wall of sopping wet moss. 
Luther, the club’s owner, maybe that’s his real name, but then again maybe it’s not, can’t seem to come to terms with his declining business. In his eyes, a jazz club that exclusively serves clams is a model for success in 2k13. Perhaps I’m not the person to tell him different, and I’m a sucker for clams so this clam of mine keeps shut. 
That is until a group of impressionable youngins make their way into the joint. Most will have never heard live jazz in their lives. My cool enthusiasm usually wins them over. Halfway through the set I’ll throw off my shades in a huff. This sudden and almost violent act leads way to me staring agasp at the stage for upwards of fourteen minutes, hands clasping and pulling my hair to the back of my dome. 
All signs point to me being blowing away by the quartet’s performance. 
Luther has got himself customers for life. 
-@TaylorCommaJack

Another successful outing. $700 for an hour’s worth of work, all expenses paid.

A jazz club - that shall remain unnamed - has fallen on hard times. Bookers can’t seem to find acts to play the place, and audiences are even scarcer. Most people are drawn in by the velvet decor, but the stage’s position, no fewer than sixty-five yards from the nearest booth, ensures that a majority of the sound waves are absorbed in the alluring fabric. Ya might as well be listening through a wall of sopping wet moss.

Luther, the club’s owner, maybe that’s his real name, but then again maybe it’s not, can’t seem to come to terms with his declining business. In his eyes, a jazz club that exclusively serves clams is a model for success in 2k13. Perhaps I’m not the person to tell him different, and I’m a sucker for clams so this clam of mine keeps shut. 

That is until a group of impressionable youngins make their way into the joint. Most will have never heard live jazz in their lives. My cool enthusiasm usually wins them over. Halfway through the set I’ll throw off my shades in a huff. This sudden and almost violent act leads way to me staring agasp at the stage for upwards of fourteen minutes, hands clasping and pulling my hair to the back of my dome.

All signs point to me being blowing away by the quartet’s performance.

Luther has got himself customers for life.

-@TaylorCommaJack

Cort has been keeping people moving for twelve years now, ever since Vanessa missed her bus to the book fair on the dock. Vanessa’s off to college now. Cort and I can hardly believe it.
Upon finishing another successful piano lesson, Vanessa rushed to get her things together and bolted out the front door. It was only after sprinting two blocks that she realized she’d left her book straps behind. Deals could always be, as they can to this day, found at the bi-annual Dock Book Fair; meaning she was planning on bringing back quite a few new volumes. Volumes spanning every genre: fiction, autobiography, manualbiography. 
Being confident in her youthful energy, she figured turning back for the book binders would be a “no sweat” operation. It wasn’t to be. Her parents had just left for the botanical gardens, leaving the straps atop the tip of the living room shelving, out of reach. Not all was lost, as she eventually made way to the Fair, but far fewer volumes was she able to carry. 
Disrupting a reading opportunity gets every goat in Cort’s petting zoo. Much less depriving a budding academic their chance at further learning. So Cort began standing at the bus stop just down the street from the hours of 7 to 10:30 AM, ensuring that all those heading to school would make their bus. He even encouraged those who found it harder to find motivation - offering freshly baked buttered-almond croissants to every student. 
Thus 3 AM would mark the beginning of Cort’s day, placing the newly risen dough into the professional-grade oven, lightly coating the in utero croissants with a butter-laced paint brush every 45 minutes (he baked them on a very low heat) until 6:50 rolled around. 
After he’d enough time to learn names, Cort began wrapping and labeling each croissant in wax paper for each young co-ed. 
Most of the children are off to college as Vanessa is. The neighborhood is quickly transitioning into a haven for empty nesters. Still Cort bakes a few croissants a day and waits - just in case - seeing students in transit from other neighborhoods is enough. 
- @TaylorCommaJack

Cort has been keeping people moving for twelve years now, ever since Vanessa missed her bus to the book fair on the dock. Vanessa’s off to college now. Cort and I can hardly believe it.

Upon finishing another successful piano lesson, Vanessa rushed to get her things together and bolted out the front door. It was only after sprinting two blocks that she realized she’d left her book straps behind. Deals could always be, as they can to this day, found at the bi-annual Dock Book Fair; meaning she was planning on bringing back quite a few new volumes. Volumes spanning every genre: fiction, autobiography, manualbiography.

Being confident in her youthful energy, she figured turning back for the book binders would be a “no sweat” operation. It wasn’t to be. Her parents had just left for the botanical gardens, leaving the straps atop the tip of the living room shelving, out of reach. Not all was lost, as she eventually made way to the Fair, but far fewer volumes was she able to carry.

Disrupting a reading opportunity gets every goat in Cort’s petting zoo. Much less depriving a budding academic their chance at further learning. So Cort began standing at the bus stop just down the street from the hours of 7 to 10:30 AM, ensuring that all those heading to school would make their bus. He even encouraged those who found it harder to find motivation - offering freshly baked buttered-almond croissants to every student.

Thus 3 AM would mark the beginning of Cort’s day, placing the newly risen dough into the professional-grade oven, lightly coating the in utero croissants with a butter-laced paint brush every 45 minutes (he baked them on a very low heat) until 6:50 rolled around.

After he’d enough time to learn names, Cort began wrapping and labeling each croissant in wax paper for each young co-ed.

Most of the children are off to college as Vanessa is. The neighborhood is quickly transitioning into a haven for empty nesters. Still Cort bakes a few croissants a day and waits - just in case - seeing students in transit from other neighborhoods is enough. 

- @TaylorCommaJack


There aren’t many places you can sit down and immediately be handed a piece of reading material.

A restaurant is the single place that fits this criteria, and good luck thinking of any further places. Give it a shot, though.

In response, are you by chance thinking of a library or an informational booth at which you are given a seat? Both responses are admirable, but I have to give them a grade of “whoopsie poopsie; this idea smells like a toot.”

Rarely are you lead to a seat by a librarian, as you are by a restaurant host, and informational booth workers would never offer you a seat - for fear that doing so might lead to a conversation lasting longer than their accustomed twenty-five second period. Similarly, full onus is put on you to grab the available texts at either location.

Here we have it, the end of the debate, a conclusion: restaurants are the only public area where you can be expected to be escorted to a comfy seat and promptly handed literature.

It seems this isn’t your first debate, another rebuttal I see.

Well sure, this is a loose definition of literature. You’re not the first person to point this out to me.

Myself, for one, I pointed this point out to myself.

I was on your side of the argument when originally discussing this topic with my friend, Todd. He claimed, as I do now, that restaurant menus are, and should more widely be categorized as, literature. And as you do now, I said that all that are on the darn things are unrelated words. Any imagery in the patron’s head is connotative. Write “Pesto Pellets” and any customer will picture pesto pellets in their mind.

That’s why I’ve taken to transforming local restaurant menus into literature. No, I wouldn’t exactly call it ad-lib inspired, but I’d be lying if the end result doesn’t somewhat resemble their model.

I take a restaurant’s menu and link their items together in story form. Menu items, and their price, are emboldened to help customers keep everything straight.

Here’s an example from a neighborhood Gastropub’s menu I just completed: 

The town farmer in an imaginary town likes to be close with his livestock. One day, the town’s farmer took to making physical contact with his cattle, especially around their face areas. He took a liking to the cattle’s cheek, thinking, “…wouldn’t this Cow cheek be fun to chew alongside parsnip, rice, fermented bean,  and ginger?”  The sole farmer in this imaginary town was convinced. “I wouldn’t mind giving a waiter $30.75 for such a meal,” he exclaimed, alone in the barn.

That was but a small excerpt from the ‘pub’s menu. I’m really happy with how it turned out. The characters alive, all of ‘em. You’ll have to visit the establishment to read the whole piece!

- @TaylorCommaJack

There aren’t many places you can sit down and immediately be handed a piece of reading material.

A restaurant is the single place that fits this criteria, and good luck thinking of any further places. Give it a shot, though.

In response, are you by chance thinking of a library or an informational booth at which you are given a seat? Both responses are admirable, but I have to give them a grade of “whoopsie poopsie; this idea smells like a toot.”

Rarely are you lead to a seat by a librarian, as you are by a restaurant host, and informational booth workers would never offer you a seat - for fear that doing so might lead to a conversation lasting longer than their accustomed twenty-five second period. Similarly, full onus is put on you to grab the available texts at either location.

Here we have it, the end of the debate, a conclusion: restaurants are the only public area where you can be expected to be escorted to a comfy seat and promptly handed literature.

It seems this isn’t your first debate, another rebuttal I see.

Well sure, this is a loose definition of literature. You’re not the first person to point this out to me.

Myself, for one, I pointed this point out to myself.

I was on your side of the argument when originally discussing this topic with my friend, Todd. He claimed, as I do now, that restaurant menus are, and should more widely be categorized as, literature. And as you do now, I said that all that are on the darn things are unrelated words. Any imagery in the patron’s head is connotative. Write “Pesto Pellets” and any customer will picture pesto pellets in their mind.

That’s why I’ve taken to transforming local restaurant menus into literature. No, I wouldn’t exactly call it ad-lib inspired, but I’d be lying if the end result doesn’t somewhat resemble their model.

I take a restaurant’s menu and link their items together in story form. Menu items, and their price, are emboldened to help customers keep everything straight.

Here’s an example from a neighborhood Gastropub’s menu I just completed: 

The town farmer in an imaginary town likes to be close with his livestock. One day, the town’s farmer took to making physical contact with his cattle, especially around their face areas. He took a liking to the cattle’s cheek, thinking, “…wouldn’t this Cow cheek be fun to chew alongside parsnip, rice, fermented bean,  and ginger?”  The sole farmer in this imaginary town was convinced.I wouldn’t mind giving a waiter $30.75 for such a meal,” he exclaimed, alone in the barn.

That was but a small excerpt from the ‘pub’s menu. I’m really happy with how it turned out. The characters alive, all of ‘em. You’ll have to visit the establishment to read the whole piece!

- @TaylorCommaJack

What used to be a turtleneck is now a scoop neck.
It’s not as though I needed to rush with the sweater, I had plenty of time to kill. As usual, I had awoken two hours before my appointment, really no rush at all. Yet, on cool mornings, I make a point of putting a sweater on first thing. Ive got weak skin that can’t too much of a draft to start off the day. My floorboards are draft-friendly, so as you can imagine getting that wool on my torso double time is of utmost importance. 
Drowsiness and stubbornness led to the misshapen neck slot you now gaze at. I went neck - rather than waist - first over my noodle and kept on pushing. Thought the elastic just needed to be warmed up in the morning frost. 
As my neck teed off with my shoulders, I knew I was in murky waters. By this time, I began to blame the launderers for being too aggressive on my last visit. It would’ve been silly to get angry with them for trying to rid the wool of any blotches, so I quickly stopped blaming them. Doing so wasn’t easy, I mean, experienced launderers should know of wool’s sensitive properties.
Getting my head through the turtle-top had proven easy enough, my shoulders another story. Great writhing brought very little progress. Both my hands clasped to the neck, attempting to shimmy over my, in any other circumstance, narrow upper body. Looking back on it, lifting my arms to reach the sweaters neck like this only increased the amount of body for the fabric to overcome. I was nonetheless determined. 
I held my breath as the wool transitioned from stretching to tearing against my skin. My fear transitioned to anger. 
"If you can’t put your darn sweater on, you better just call this one a day." To do so would be impossible, I had an appointment at the orthopedist. 
At this point, my head hole was taught around the ol’ shoulder blades. 
Stubbornness is hard to wrestle, though, so continue to tug and pull I did. Not much more progress was made, only more abrasion, resulting in my collar’s slack jawed appearance. 
But things happen for a reason. You see, the day ended up being more temperate than originally expected. Warm fabric was still needed and welcomed, but the more generous breathing room for my neck lead to a beyond comfortable day. 
Here now I rest, pleading with the universe for more happy fashion accidents. 
- @TaylorCommaJack

What used to be a turtleneck is now a scoop neck.

It’s not as though I needed to rush with the sweater, I had plenty of time to kill. As usual, I had awoken two hours before my appointment, really no rush at all. Yet, on cool mornings, I make a point of putting a sweater on first thing. Ive got weak skin that can’t too much of a draft to start off the day. My floorboards are draft-friendly, so as you can imagine getting that wool on my torso double time is of utmost importance.

Drowsiness and stubbornness led to the misshapen neck slot you now gaze at. I went neck - rather than waist - first over my noodle and kept on pushing. Thought the elastic just needed to be warmed up in the morning frost. 

As my neck teed off with my shoulders, I knew I was in murky waters. By this time, I began to blame the launderers for being too aggressive on my last visit. It would’ve been silly to get angry with them for trying to rid the wool of any blotches, so I quickly stopped blaming them. Doing so wasn’t easy, I mean, experienced launderers should know of wool’s sensitive properties.

Getting my head through the turtle-top had proven easy enough, my shoulders another story. Great writhing brought very little progress. Both my hands clasped to the neck, attempting to shimmy over my, in any other circumstance, narrow upper body. Looking back on it, lifting my arms to reach the sweaters neck like this only increased the amount of body for the fabric to overcome. I was nonetheless determined.

I held my breath as the wool transitioned from stretching to tearing against my skin. My fear transitioned to anger.

"If you can’t put your darn sweater on, you better just call this one a day." To do so would be impossible, I had an appointment at the orthopedist.

At this point, my head hole was taught around the ol’ shoulder blades.

Stubbornness is hard to wrestle, though, so continue to tug and pull I did. Not much more progress was made, only more abrasion, resulting in my collar’s slack jawed appearance. 

But things happen for a reason. You see, the day ended up being more temperate than originally expected. Warm fabric was still needed and welcomed, but the more generous breathing room for my neck lead to a beyond comfortable day.

Here now I rest, pleading with the universe for more happy fashion accidents.

- @TaylorCommaJack

My dame will be here soon, fresh off a consultation. One she’s been looking forward to. A friend of hers is developing wooden block bracelets for new mothers. The birthers will be able to wear these bracelets and feel good about themselves. Classic, understated maple. The newborns and toddlers will be able to tinker with the blocks while in their caretaker’s arms. 
Geometric bracelets like this exist. But not all are marketed in the right way. Until now, they’ve been presented purely as a fashionable accessories. It’s up to my gal’s pal to make the ol’ maternal light bulb go “ding” in the consumers’ skulls. 
For her advice, my lass gets the title of Marketing Consultant, as well as a cut of the eventual profit. 
Whether or not to scent the blocks is a point of contention at the moment. No matter what, the blocks are going to smell like something, natural or artificial. Many love the smell of wood, so the question is who are we trying to please? The mothers or the young? 
I’d say knock the tikes over the head with the wrist cubes and they won’t know the difference, but that’s probably the baby boomer in me talking. 
For now, I save a prime spot for the light of my life. She’ll probably kid around, “You givin’ me a TICKET?????” My oh my do I enjoy that playful spirit. We’ll share a wink and a smirk and head in for our Wednesday morning yogurt parfait. 
- @TaylorCommaJack

My dame will be here soon, fresh off a consultation. One she’s been looking forward to. A friend of hers is developing wooden block bracelets for new mothers. The birthers will be able to wear these bracelets and feel good about themselves. Classic, understated maple. The newborns and toddlers will be able to tinker with the blocks while in their caretaker’s arms. 

Geometric bracelets like this exist. But not all are marketed in the right way. Until now, they’ve been presented purely as a fashionable accessories. It’s up to my gal’s pal to make the ol’ maternal light bulb go “ding” in the consumers’ skulls.

For her advice, my lass gets the title of Marketing Consultant, as well as a cut of the eventual profit.

Whether or not to scent the blocks is a point of contention at the moment. No matter what, the blocks are going to smell like something, natural or artificial. Many love the smell of wood, so the question is who are we trying to please? The mothers or the young?

I’d say knock the tikes over the head with the wrist cubes and they won’t know the difference, but that’s probably the baby boomer in me talking.

For now, I save a prime spot for the light of my life. She’ll probably kid around, “You givin’ me a TICKET?????” My oh my do I enjoy that playful spirit. We’ll share a wink and a smirk and head in for our Wednesday morning yogurt parfait.

- @TaylorCommaJack

"Well, that’s me," I said to Clara. I put my dishes in the busser’s tray and my hiney in my front seat. 
Today’s post was in the financial district, a day to lie low and go mostly unnoticed. Businessmen and women look in my direction and are reminded only of themselves, comparing their make of car to mine. Younger workers look at me with thoughts of their future, they see a reason to keep going. Other days spent in more financially strained areas can feel like an “all eyes on me” affair. 
These are just the reactions my superiors expected from the various areas’ inhabitants. 
They place me station me on order to trigger these reactions in people.
My bosses have the sole purpose of keeping the dreams of citizens financially charged.
Every thirty minutes I get in my car, fidget around with fake documents and day planners, make phone calls to imaginary business clients, pass out fake business cards to passersby who take a keen interest in me. 
The company pays local eateries to let me park outside of their establishment. 
In between car sessions, I take a seat inside and wait for other fake moguls to sit at my table.
We meet.
Often times our conversations center on our shared work and what we did before. Bar none, this is the highest paying job any of us have ever had. 
We assume our pay is validated with results. 
The only way to quantify these results is comparing the career paths of our children. For they are the only spectators we get feedback from. Part of our contract is a clause prohibiting telling any family member the true nature of our task. We must continue our act in their presence. 
Meetings with other actors are ones we approach with reverence, with relief.

"Well, that’s me," I said to Clara. I put my dishes in the busser’s tray and my hiney in my front seat.

Today’s post was in the financial district, a day to lie low and go mostly unnoticed. Businessmen and women look in my direction and are reminded only of themselves, comparing their make of car to mine. Younger workers look at me with thoughts of their future, they see a reason to keep going. Other days spent in more financially strained areas can feel like an “all eyes on me” affair.

These are just the reactions my superiors expected from the various areas’ inhabitants.

They place me station me on order to trigger these reactions in people.

My bosses have the sole purpose of keeping the dreams of citizens financially charged.

Every thirty minutes I get in my car, fidget around with fake documents and day planners, make phone calls to imaginary business clients, pass out fake business cards to passersby who take a keen interest in me.

The company pays local eateries to let me park outside of their establishment.

In between car sessions, I take a seat inside and wait for other fake moguls to sit at my table.

We meet.

Often times our conversations center on our shared work and what we did before. Bar none, this is the highest paying job any of us have ever had. 

We assume our pay is validated with results.

The only way to quantify these results is comparing the career paths of our children. For they are the only spectators we get feedback from. Part of our contract is a clause prohibiting telling any family member the true nature of our task. We must continue our act in their presence.

Meetings with other actors are ones we approach with reverence, with relief.

The gradient hadn’t been much steeper than any I’d walked before but the pain was more severe. Something about the pavement must’ve really took it to my knees. It’s impossible to use the exact same concrete, replicate the exact same mix, to pave the entirety of a town’s hills. Who would I be to expect such a feat.
What makes me comfortable with blaming the street surface - rather than a previous happening, for my discomfort - is my profession. I’m a hill hiker by trade, a volunteer tester of this here town’s steepest inclines. I’ve hiked ‘em all, and I’ll hike each one again upon their re-surfacing. 
Being of advanced age, I am a valuable tester.
The city puts a great deal of effort into making itself as pedestrian-friendly as can be. City council members recognize that the city’s bountiful humps cannot be smoothed over, but the materials with which they are paved can be improved upon. 
Volunteers from all age groups give their time to the betterment of their hometown, but my age group is the least represented. Many of those in my age bracket simply use a motorized vehicle to scale the urban peaks, but not all.
We who continue to trek by foot are proud to do so and don’t plan on letting up soon. 
Originally, the leaders of our metropolis turned to corporate sponsors for alternative paving materials. Well known names like Nerf tested their products, and the results left us wanting. Falls were made softer, but our consumer angst agitated. We were none too happy to be walking atop an advertisement. 
That’s why we’ve stuck to the hard stuff. 
My knee has the faint tingle of fast-approaching arthritis, and that’s how I know we are on the right path. 
- @TaylorCommaJack

The gradient hadn’t been much steeper than any I’d walked before but the pain was more severe. Something about the pavement must’ve really took it to my knees. It’s impossible to use the exact same concrete, replicate the exact same mix, to pave the entirety of a town’s hills. Who would I be to expect such a feat.

What makes me comfortable with blaming the street surface - rather than a previous happening, for my discomfort - is my profession. I’m a hill hiker by trade, a volunteer tester of this here town’s steepest inclines. I’ve hiked ‘em all, and I’ll hike each one again upon their re-surfacing.

Being of advanced age, I am a valuable tester.

The city puts a great deal of effort into making itself as pedestrian-friendly as can be. City council members recognize that the city’s bountiful humps cannot be smoothed over, but the materials with which they are paved can be improved upon.

Volunteers from all age groups give their time to the betterment of their hometown, but my age group is the least represented. Many of those in my age bracket simply use a motorized vehicle to scale the urban peaks, but not all.

We who continue to trek by foot are proud to do so and don’t plan on letting up soon.

Originally, the leaders of our metropolis turned to corporate sponsors for alternative paving materials. Well known names like Nerf tested their products, and the results left us wanting. Falls were made softer, but our consumer angst agitated. We were none too happy to be walking atop an advertisement.

That’s why we’ve stuck to the hard stuff.

My knee has the faint tingle of fast-approaching arthritis, and that’s how I know we are on the right path.

- @TaylorCommaJack

What gets overlooked is wrist health. Not enough people consider it worth their time. We assume that it will always be there, just waiting to rotate and contort.
What’s important to remember is that power tools are expensive and it would be a mistake to think we’ll have them at our disposal during these trying economic times. In poor wrist health, a manually operated screw driver will leave us out of luck, our screws out of drive. 
Our shelves will fall apart just as our sense of self-worth does, for if you can’t make a shelf you can’t construct a life. No life, no dice. 
Above, you see a man in excellent wrist health. The bus on which he rides was in decay prior to his stepping in. Under his watch, all arm rests are fortified, all chair bottoms fastened.
Wrists keep you zoomin’ in comfort. 
At the end of a long shift, this man withstands numerous aches. But he  injects camomile tea into his wrist bone’s marrow and all is forgiven. 
You’re not required to inject camomile into your joints, but you will if you value the amount of give in your tush-cushion. 
-@TaylorCommaJack

What gets overlooked is wrist health. Not enough people consider it worth their time. We assume that it will always be there, just waiting to rotate and contort.

What’s important to remember is that power tools are expensive and it would be a mistake to think we’ll have them at our disposal during these trying economic times. In poor wrist health, a manually operated screw driver will leave us out of luck, our screws out of drive.

Our shelves will fall apart just as our sense of self-worth does, for if you can’t make a shelf you can’t construct a life. No life, no dice. 

Above, you see a man in excellent wrist health. The bus on which he rides was in decay prior to his stepping in. Under his watch, all arm rests are fortified, all chair bottoms fastened.

Wrists keep you zoomin’ in comfort.

At the end of a long shift, this man withstands numerous aches. But he  injects camomile tea into his wrist bone’s marrow and all is forgiven.

You’re not required to inject camomile into your joints, but you will if you value the amount of give in your tush-cushion.

-@TaylorCommaJack

At the bottom of the cart’s cage lay a glistening yogurt top, two-thirds of the way licked, with the words “Why not go for seconds?” printed on its metallic belly.
What struck me as weird was that I had had a cup of the exact same stuff that morning.
The previous evening, my wife, Lilly, couldn’t pipe down about the new yogurt she’d bought for our next breakfast, mere hours away. Shopping holds a special place in her heart, and I try to be reinforce this passion of hers, but I’d finally had enough. “I wish I had a top for YOUR yogurt hole!” I yelled after ten minutes of her ecstatic rambling. It was a response to an imagined insult. She had not been attacking me on any front, and my aggression was the result of pent up anger with her daily rant about her newly bought rations. 
Now Lilly is not one for confrontation, so she took it as a sign I needed to be alone. She even went so far as to set a solitary place setting for me at the breakfast table the following morning, including a note:
"Everyone needs their space once in a while, I’ve left you a cup of the yogurt in the fridge. I thought you might be able to give it a fair shot without me around. I’ve given the remaining cups to Trudy and Tom down the street (They really are ‘gurt fiends). See what you think! I’ll be with the girls down at the flea market, enjoy your round of 18 with Geoff!"
The yogurt had been undeniably delicious. 
Which is why seeing this upturned, used lid, while on the way to buy a water for the upcoming round of golf, was too serendipitous to ignore. 
I headed the lid’s advice, bought the largest case of the ‘gurt the store carried, called to cancel the round with an characteristically understanding Geoff, and made my way back home.  
Lilly was still out and about with the girls, giving me enough time to set up a surprise lunch.
"I’m oh so sorry, my sweet. You’d better check the fridge," my note read. 
- @TaylorCommaJack

At the bottom of the cart’s cage lay a glistening yogurt top, two-thirds of the way licked, with the words “Why not go for seconds?” printed on its metallic belly.

What struck me as weird was that I had had a cup of the exact same stuff that morning.

The previous evening, my wife, Lilly, couldn’t pipe down about the new yogurt she’d bought for our next breakfast, mere hours away. Shopping holds a special place in her heart, and I try to be reinforce this passion of hers, but I’d finally had enough. “I wish I had a top for YOUR yogurt hole!” I yelled after ten minutes of her ecstatic rambling. It was a response to an imagined insult. She had not been attacking me on any front, and my aggression was the result of pent up anger with her daily rant about her newly bought rations. 

Now Lilly is not one for confrontation, so she took it as a sign I needed to be alone. She even went so far as to set a solitary place setting for me at the breakfast table the following morning, including a note:

"Everyone needs their space once in a while, I’ve left you a cup of the yogurt in the fridge. I thought you might be able to give it a fair shot without me around. I’ve given the remaining cups to Trudy and Tom down the street (They really are ‘gurt fiends). See what you think! I’ll be with the girls down at the flea market, enjoy your round of 18 with Geoff!"

The yogurt had been undeniably delicious.

Which is why seeing this upturned, used lid, while on the way to buy a water for the upcoming round of golf, was too serendipitous to ignore. 

I headed the lid’s advice, bought the largest case of the ‘gurt the store carried, called to cancel the round with an characteristically understanding Geoff, and made my way back home. 

Lilly was still out and about with the girls, giving me enough time to set up a surprise lunch.

"I’m oh so sorry, my sweet. You’d better check the fridge," my note read.

- @TaylorCommaJack

Recreation had left me by the wayside, and any thought of physical activity was one of nostalgia.
I’d been Gamesmaster of my elementary school, an actual title. Were any disputes to come to light, my peers would come to me for a ruling. I knew the rules to ‘em all: four square, tetherball, kickball, kick the pole, competitive ring-around-the-rosie, blacktop frogger, tic-tac-thereyago-hide-and-I’ll-seek, toss the wand, and others.
As you might imagine, I was named Gamesmaster because of my reliability in the realms of sportsmanship and general fairness to players regardless of team. Such a show of confidence in my character had to be repaid tenfold. Trips were made to the school counselor in efforts to alleviate grievances with fellow classmates, reffing classes were enrolled in, informative meetings were held with every physical education proctor in the school district, I wore two pairs of socks at all times.
I was at the ready. 
With the transition into high school came the lack of recess and a consensus that playing was out of the question. Peers I’d seen toss a wand further than any previous student forgot the sound of their hiss above the tossing course. Any attempt to remind them of their past accomplishments wound up with me face down on the very pavement we once romped on. The guys walloped me good.
While passing through the chain-linked fence on one of my nightly bike rides ‘round the old playground, my face was thwapped with the brunt end of a wand. The wand tossin’ champ and his goons proceeded to pummel me with play equipment, laying me across a line of dodgeballs only to pelt my bare stomach with jacks. There was no verbal harassment and the beating ended abruptly with all the members of the goon squad deciding to scram in silent unison. 
This beating occurred every night for four weeks straight. Like nothing had happened, I’d greet the wand tosser and his companions at school. Their facial expressions those of confusion. The reliability and uniformity of the scraps made them seem a dream. Though the scars were clearly visible, I’d convinced myself I’d simply imagined their origins. Fever dreams. Consequently, I figured these hallucinations were  subconscious signs to leave the games behind. 
Post high school had been playless for me until I stumbled upon a neighborhood playground. For weeks at a time I’d walk by on my way home from work, keeping the ‘ground in my periphery. One day I joined the little nincompoops for some four square. They wiped the floor with me, I was rusty as all hell, but the return the gamesman of old was welcome. 
I’ve since begun mentoring today’s Gamemasters, starting a nationwide coalition. 
- @TaylorCommaJack

Recreation had left me by the wayside, and any thought of physical activity was one of nostalgia.

I’d been Gamesmaster of my elementary school, an actual title. Were any disputes to come to light, my peers would come to me for a ruling. I knew the rules to ‘em all: four square, tetherball, kickball, kick the pole, competitive ring-around-the-rosie, blacktop frogger, tic-tac-thereyago-hide-and-I’ll-seek, toss the wand, and others.

As you might imagine, I was named Gamesmaster because of my reliability in the realms of sportsmanship and general fairness to players regardless of team. Such a show of confidence in my character had to be repaid tenfold. Trips were made to the school counselor in efforts to alleviate grievances with fellow classmates, reffing classes were enrolled in, informative meetings were held with every physical education proctor in the school district, I wore two pairs of socks at all times.

I was at the ready.

With the transition into high school came the lack of recess and a consensus that playing was out of the question. Peers I’d seen toss a wand further than any previous student forgot the sound of their hiss above the tossing course. Any attempt to remind them of their past accomplishments wound up with me face down on the very pavement we once romped on. The guys walloped me good.

While passing through the chain-linked fence on one of my nightly bike rides ‘round the old playground, my face was thwapped with the brunt end of a wand. The wand tossin’ champ and his goons proceeded to pummel me with play equipment, laying me across a line of dodgeballs only to pelt my bare stomach with jacks. There was no verbal harassment and the beating ended abruptly with all the members of the goon squad deciding to scram in silent unison.

This beating occurred every night for four weeks straight. Like nothing had happened, I’d greet the wand tosser and his companions at school. Their facial expressions those of confusion. The reliability and uniformity of the scraps made them seem a dream. Though the scars were clearly visible, I’d convinced myself I’d simply imagined their origins. Fever dreams. Consequently, I figured these hallucinations were  subconscious signs to leave the games behind.

Post high school had been playless for me until I stumbled upon a neighborhood playground. For weeks at a time I’d walk by on my way home from work, keeping the ‘ground in my periphery. One day I joined the little nincompoops for some four square. They wiped the floor with me, I was rusty as all hell, but the return the gamesman of old was welcome.

I’ve since begun mentoring today’s Gamemasters, starting a nationwide coalition.

- @TaylorCommaJack

Somewhere along the line orthopedics become a necessity. You’re walking along and then you notice that doing so is no longer an option, you have to take a rest right then and there. Again this happens, just a little further down the line. The distances between these breaks become closer and closer. Your flesh soles perpetually sore. 
Then you realize that they make flubber shoes minus all of the bounce. All of the controlled stepping brought to you by everyday shoes, with thirty times the comfort to boot. Not to mention the neutral colors offered. 
Much fuss is made over their appearance. Many people scoff. Next time, follow their scoff with a question, “Are you prepared to walk to the ends of the earth? If so, join me. But I cannot guarantee that your shoe-stuffers will travel unscathed.” 
-@TaylorCommaJack

Somewhere along the line orthopedics become a necessity. You’re walking along and then you notice that doing so is no longer an option, you have to take a rest right then and there. Again this happens, just a little further down the line. The distances between these breaks become closer and closer. Your flesh soles perpetually sore.

Then you realize that they make flubber shoes minus all of the bounce. All of the controlled stepping brought to you by everyday shoes, with thirty times the comfort to boot. Not to mention the neutral colors offered.

Much fuss is made over their appearance. Many people scoff. Next time, follow their scoff with a question, “Are you prepared to walk to the ends of the earth? If so, join me. But I cannot guarantee that your shoe-stuffers will travel unscathed.”

-@TaylorCommaJack

Sure I’ve lost the shades, but I’m still the same man.
Behind the polarized ovals was a confident guy. Confidence leads to innovation, fame, respect. I became acquainted with all. Few bounds were known to my confidence, which made starting a fashion trend a cinch. 
No one had had the gall to put denim on their upper halves. Individuals would visibly shutter at the suggestion. Say you were sitting on a crowded bus, chances are you’d shriek at the graze of a standing passenger’s jeans on your arm. Social taboo at its most pure.
No one had considered jackets, though. 
Once I got the ball rolling at the Petaluma, word quickly spread to the hip nooks of Berkeley, then to the pavement of San Francisco. The shrieks had transformed to exasperated oooo’s and ahh’s. The things attracted tang and tusk alike. No matter your gender, you could count on a few phone numbers being slid into your breast pockets throughout the course of a day. Jacketed job candidates were hired upon initial shaking of the hand of their superiors. Restaurant tables were made available to you before you could utter the number in your party. 
Times were steady, the money was good, the praise was abundant, but the excitement diminished. It wasn’t until I took a trip to the remotest of towns in the Appalachians that I found my life’s true calling. One that’s fire will never extinguish, for it is, in essence, timeless.
Seersucker. 
The Appalachian country club members wore it like I’d never seen before. No matter the hem, the ‘sucker fit right. Wonderful breathability makes the material perfect for any climate. Casual or formal, you’ve earned the respect of your fellow man. 
I’ve since taken to the understated in both fashion and life: ray-bans for bifocals, and everything bagels to plain ol’ raisin. I live a timeless life, and am forever thankful I do. 
-@TaylorCommaJack

Sure I’ve lost the shades, but I’m still the same man.

Behind the polarized ovals was a confident guy. Confidence leads to innovation, fame, respect. I became acquainted with all. Few bounds were known to my confidence, which made starting a fashion trend a cinch. 

No one had had the gall to put denim on their upper halves. Individuals would visibly shutter at the suggestion. Say you were sitting on a crowded bus, chances are you’d shriek at the graze of a standing passenger’s jeans on your arm. Social taboo at its most pure.

No one had considered jackets, though.

Once I got the ball rolling at the Petaluma, word quickly spread to the hip nooks of Berkeley, then to the pavement of San Francisco. The shrieks had transformed to exasperated oooo’s and ahh’s. The things attracted tang and tusk alike. No matter your gender, you could count on a few phone numbers being slid into your breast pockets throughout the course of a day. Jacketed job candidates were hired upon initial shaking of the hand of their superiors. Restaurant tables were made available to you before you could utter the number in your party.

Times were steady, the money was good, the praise was abundant, but the excitement diminished. It wasn’t until I took a trip to the remotest of towns in the Appalachians that I found my life’s true calling. One that’s fire will never extinguish, for it is, in essence, timeless.

Seersucker.

The Appalachian country club members wore it like I’d never seen before. No matter the hem, the ‘sucker fit right. Wonderful breathability makes the material perfect for any climate. Casual or formal, you’ve earned the respect of your fellow man. 

I’ve since taken to the understated in both fashion and life: ray-bans for bifocals, and everything bagels to plain ol’ raisin. I live a timeless life, and am forever thankful I do.

-@TaylorCommaJack