Émil

Let me show you how I came to be, rather than fashioning an ennui similar to staring at a brick wall, a tendency that goes hand in hand with those that tell you who they are. At the age of three my nightly romance with Mozart had aided me in reading, writing, and the arts. I sculpted whimsical figures of blue dogs that bit the heads off your toy soldiers and barbies from my mammoth Lego collection. I engaged in a myriad of sports and activities during my awe-inspiring childhood. Perhaps my genetic disposition played a role in my limited, but commendable success. No, I doubt that. My parents are traditional European folk with petty worries so insignificant I wonder if my sister had been telling the truth when she tantalized me of a misspelling on my birth certificate. Shall I employ the old saying “pennywise and pound foolish?” Now bear with me for a moment and assist me in attaining insight to their thought process. They would scold a boy for leaving the refrigerator door ajar while he decants a cup of Milk, embedding the notion into his skull that it went into their pockets -merely a pretext for them essentially saying “I know how to work and save, nothing more.” The masses of this country fail to remember the advantages of capitalism and in making money work for you, versus slaving the monotonous nine to five. Likewise do the two that raised me since my heavenly delivery.This is how I became so sovereign of my own life. Generally, people learn in a positive way. Laugh with me please, for this was not my actuality. My parents ripened into what the psychologist, Albert Bandura, duly referred to as Negative Role Models. So, I will perpetually be indebted to my friends for figuratively taking on the position of my idiosyncratic sculptors unwittingly. I owe only slight benediction to my parents and even less to my city for instructing me on the basics, inclusive of fundamentals such as good manners. Ah! Yes! The lack of etiquette in New York makes for a wonderful stroll through Central Park when cabbies heedlessly maneuver down Central Park West and just about run over your toes as they flip a birdie, fabricating a new fate for the fifth little piggy from the celebrated nursery rhyme.The last one went “wee, wee, wee”….Shit. Forgive me, I have lost my train of thought.© 2006 All Rights ReservedFor all you hookah smokers, come join my hookah group. http://groups.myspace.com/I3HOOKAHS
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