I am sitting in front of a gorgeous fire I just built. It has started to rain. The frying sound of the rain on my rooftop plus the metallic ticking of the wood stove are two of my favorite sounds. Slim*, my pussycat is curled up in her little plush winter bed in front of the fire. We both have full bellies and are feeling quite content.
Now, if only a million dollars would drip through one of my slightly open windows (I love fresh air through each season). Ok, if not a million how 'bout 250 grand? 50? Twenty bucks? A coupon for a dollar off Boca burgers?
*Slim: You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and... blow.
And here for your viewing pleasure is a photo of the “real” Slim:
Slim Hawks and Jimmy Stewart, ca. 1940
And the other “real” Slim: