Fleetwood Mac

Eager to escape even the memory of her, he found himself running for hours. Led Zepplin and Pink Floyd screaming in his ears; the bands she would never listen to with him. His legs numb from the effort, his breath growing more shallow with every step, but his mind still determined to exhaust him past the point of dreaming. He couldn't take another night of smelling her perfume, being caught in her gaze, hearing her apologize and then waking to emptiness and the knowledge she would never be sorry.

The Name of the Game is "Late"

You know who I feel sorry for? The original members of Menudo. I mean, it's not like that racket they produced could be called music, but it was catchy in that wanna-shoot-yourself-in-the-head-cause-they-play-it-so-much kinda way, and those poor middle-aged men don't get credit for it anymore. All the new Menudo fans think the boy-group is just that . . a group of prepubescents who sing snazzy little Latin songs. The only possible thing keeping their fan base of today from skipping over the past members entirely is Ricky Martin. And, let's face it, he's not exactly in the news lately either. Poor past Menudo members. They're probably waiting tables in your local Mexican joint or selling bags of oranges along your beatiful highways and by-ways. They're definitely not Livin' La Vida Loca.

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"What've we got here?"

"Well, Dixie Ann, what you see here is the original Spam burger, hot off the grill."

"The original Spam-burger???? Ummm . . is there an unoriginal Spa . . . on second thought, I'd appreciate you skipping any explanations. I don't think I wanna know."

"Come on, Dixie Ann, give it a chance. You owe it to your Southern Heritage."

"No, no. I think not. I owe a great many things to my Southern Heritage, Jim Bob. My unladylike cheering at sporting events - including tractor pulls, my desire to slather everything in gravy, even my ability at age 6 to shoot a .22 and a 12 gauge with spot-on accuracy. But one thing I do not owe to my Southern Heritage is tasting SPAM. Possibly RC Cola, or Moon Pies, or even *bleck* Vienna Sausages. But not, I repeat not Spam. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not in a box. Not with a Fox. I will not try your grilled up Spam, I will not try it, no way man."

"Awww, Dixie Ann, why'd you have to go and make such a racket?!?! Now the young'uns'll know it's not really hamburgers. There ain't no way Bobbi Sue's gonna eat this now."

"As well she shouldn't. It's my right as an aunt to warn her away from such atrocities."

Late Again, Oh Bother

It was one of those bright summer days that seemed to blind you with it's brilliance. The sunglasses he wore were twice the size of his face, but he didn't care 'cause they were cool. The combination of high speed and a convertible top had produced a hair style that could best be defined as "wild", but it went well with his eyewear. And though he was a pound shy of the legal limit for the front seat, I didn't suppose the police carried around scales in their cruisers. When he said "Momma, go faster!!!" as he laughed uncontrollably, my heart swelled in my chest until it was painful.

"Baby, can momma have her sunglasses back?" He giggled and clutched them tighter to his face as he yelled above the roar of the wind, "NU UH!" Suddenly, the glare of the sun didn't seem to matter.