Fly your weird flag proudly

Bad Religion is singing “Stranger Than Fiction,” and I couldn’t agree more.

“The worlds is scratching at my door.... Cradle for a cat, wolfe looks back, How many angels can you fit upon a match? I want to know why Hemingway cracked, Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction…”

As I type this, my fat-assed cat is streatched out on the floor at the water dish, sticking his paw into the water, pulling it out and licking the water from it. He’s been a pain in the ass since 6 a.m., when he ran into the bedroom, onto the bed and across my chest.
His weird flag is flying.
Proudly.
Everyone’s got a weird flag (the idea was snatched up by me from the movie, “A Family Stone”), and we decide whether or not to fly it.
Consciously or unconsciously.
Mine weird flag is more of a skull and crossbones. The Jolly Roger of fabrics, where also sorts of signal flags are thrust below. Hurricane warnings (malevolence, but that flag has so mellowed); the little yellow and blue number (steer clear of me, I’m maneuvering with difficulty); the solid yellow one (everything is fine and I am receptive to all weirdness).
It’s a quiet Easter weekend and the Jolly Roger catches no wind. That’s fine by me. It’s been a week of success and strangeness, friends and fun.
Things happened that are too weird even for the Tension (just so you can imagine; I may be able to mask some of it, wrap it in fiction for later, but what’s truth and what’s fiction? Truth is stranger than fiction…)
“What’s with the shit-eating grin you’ve been wearing all week?” a buddy asked.
The Jolly Roger has been flying.
Proudly.
Strongly.
But in the quiet of a Saturday morning, with no plans, no agenda, no itinerary, I have lowered my weirdness flag. Sometimes, quiet is good.
But should the winds of life begin to blow, my weird flag is ready to be raised, ready to be stiffened in whatever gale that presents itself.

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