Wednesday, June 21, 2017

What Do You Do?

When I told my friend that I was a son of God, he laughed at me. As I tried to explain that he was too, he was busy calling me arrogant and conceited. Delusional. It's more uncomfortable when I fill out government forms. Worse yet, as the men stick their hands out as they enter the conversation at a cocktail party.

" Hey. Ralph ..., eminent gynecologist. What do you do?"

"Evenin'. Hal ..., wealthy personal banker. Member of the Yacht Club. My dad was, too. Sometimes I dress up like a pirate and throw up on my loafers. Is that your Maserati? What do you do? How much you make?"

I'm trying not to be judgmental here. Doesn't look good on a son of God. To tell you the truth it would be nice if the pay was better. A little better.

I've sold stuff and I've managed folks. I've played guitar, mopped floors and written newspaper columns. I've put sauce in bottles and I've battled within the government for the environment.

The fact is, though, I don't really do anything.

Oh, I write songs. If you hum and whistle while you work, you write songs, too. Johnny Mercer was a songwriter. I write songs.

Hopefully this doesn't sound like I'm whining here. I'm not too bad a guy. My ambition has been saving the world since I was eighteen or nineteen years old. I might have bitten off more than I can chew.

Don't get too close to me- I'll get love all over you.

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