From the Desk of Madame Zuchini

A Purging of Non-Conformity

Madame predicts wet weather in some foreign part of the world. Foreign being a subjective term if you will. Madame spies with her big black eyes that spiders will be involved in someone’s nightmare somewhere in Detroit in the next six months. There will be white flaky things falling from the sky in several countries and even continents.  Soon.  I would stay indoors during this strange phenomenon, which oddly enough comes once a year much like Zimmerman’s comet. (Another story).

A dark haired man will yell at his wife, a yellow haired wife will put goo on her head to keep her hair yellow. Children will mispronounce words, and coffee pots will break. These incidents portend mayhem and should be avoided.

College students will protest the daily servitude to the time clock of conformity by doing what they’ve always done: Wear all black, and eat spoonfuls of Nutella before their most beloved class: “Anarchy. And other Board Games”. (Their least liked class? “Rites of Passage and other Bourgeois Rights of Passion.”

They will re-invent the theory of unintended consequences and re-sell it in angst filled music. For anguish is to alternative music, what pride is to conceit.  They will purport to give birth to new terminology and regurgitate old ones. They will play volleyball as if they will always be young and alive, and pretend to be unmoved by parental approval.  They will feel as though adults do not understand.

The wheels roll on and somewhat on and no one looks to the past for knowledge. They will believe in change, a change that no one before them has thought of, and elect powerful men into important offices, who will claim they stand for change, but don’t.  (In a strange synchronicity a man in a grocery store parking lot will ask you for change, and you will not give it to him. He will most likely say God Bless you, even though you haven’t sneezed, nor does he know if your Gawd is the kind that blesses.). Young people will protest injustice and volunteer to elect Mitch Gromsky leader for the  grape pickers union. Then they will go home and get high on something  they only discovered ten years ago. Ten years. Only. What a fragile piece of meat we’re in.

Madame’s microwave has beeped indicating that the water for  her Irish coffee is done.  So is Madame.

Word of the day: Transmogrify.  As in: The little boy transmogrified into a hideous monster when they reached the cereal aisle in the grocery store.