The Morning Soup

By a certain age most people adopt a set of rituals, a rhythm that bounces, hops, stumbles or rolls, that gets them through the day happily. I have a very important set of morning habits that establish the platform from which I launch my day, everyday. To be able to enjoy these little pleasures habitually everyday might seem perfect but I argue that it's in having them fulfilled occasionally that makes them so enjoyable. In living at the Pelican I've learned this valuable lesson. If we were able to fulfill these 'perfect world habits' everyday they would quietly transform into mundane tasks and robotic movements creating no real sense of pleasure. Does that sound perfect?

So I'll cherish the next time I get to enjoy a morning breakfast as I read the paper with some music rolling quietly behind me. But today I awoke to a kitchen blaring the Today Show as listened to my mom recant the previous evening's episode of Dancing with The Stars while my dad wandered around looking for something that was somewhere else. Mom told me about a race car driver who 'dances good for a race car driver' and I'm not afraid to admit that I'm not even sure what that means.

Dad walked by confused.

She kept on this tack for a few minutes and, in order to not be rude, I responded with mumble noises of delight or displeasure although they were probably the same two sounds anywhere else outside of my head. Then she shifted, seamlessly, into previews of upcoming episodes of Dr. Phil.

'Sure I can take the dog out, dad'

I learned about how Phil's next episode fills (Phil's fills?!) a house with social malignants with the promise of curing them of each of their bitter hate mongering illnesses. She told me of the black lady who does not let her kids play with black people. I thought about Dave Chappelle dressed in a white sheet playing the part of a black White Supremecist. Well, apparently Phil got wiley and planted black people in the audience who were uber-successful in order to teach or, maybe, publicly humiliate the lady. Then he rocked her world by dressing them in hip-hop garb and the 'hater' began hating and Dr. Phil told her that they were Dr.'s and lawyers and producers and the lady's world came crumbling down and the audience cheered and Phil said something profound like 'pay your bills on time' in his twang and talked about his wife and kids and stood on his pulpit and broke into an Aria along side that blind Boccelli guy. The audience wept and he got an emmy and a sponge bath from Angelina Jolie dressed like Laura Croft, Tombraider.

I think you can guess where I had stopped listening and sunk into my new favorite place: my 'inner' quiet morning nook. It's sometimes better than the real thing.