At last, at last, someone has made Garfield palatable for the average jaundiced joe (i.e., me).

I'm preoccupied by several tasks today, tasks I have not completed, or I would not have referred to myself as a "joe" in the last paragraph. Really: what the hell?

When I spoke to the Keelhauler this afternoon, I asked him what I should write about. "Something from a long time ago," he answered, "nothing current." So, following that road, I give you:

A Tale of Violet from a Long Time Ago

By Violet White

My grandparents lived for a time in Bolivia--I don't know why, but I'll invent that they were on the lam from justice. They sent back presents to my family in Massachusetts: sweaters, knit hats with long tasseled ties, and an odd set of clothing sized for Barbie dolls, also knit from alpaca. Barbie occasionally wore her shawl, but deep down, she knew it was too boho for her uptown on-the-go city lifestyle. I had a similar reaction to the poncho I received, which was chocolate brown with a white figure knitted at the border, and some fringe. It was a flattering color, and had I traveled back in time to the Summer of Love, the poncho might have been regarded as cute. Little kid, fuzzy poncho. What's wrong with that? By the time I received the poncho, however, the Summer of Love had faded into the Autumn of Ridiculing Ponchos.

I was walking home from school one day, Dr. Seuss lunchbox in hand, poncho settled around my shoulders, when I encountered some kids coming the other way. They were probably eight or nine years old, but I was easily intimidated. When they started ranking on my poncho, I pulled one corner of it over my face and kept walking. They kept walking the opposite direction, and I went home. That was the sum of the experience.

Perhaps my day lacked drama. Perhaps I sensed that my tale wouldn't sell overseas. I don't know the reason, but when I told my parents the story of my encounter, I felt it necessary to ramp up the action. The details of the kids yelling at me remained the same, but instead of covering my face with the poncho and continuing blindly down the road, I told my parents that I'd chased the kids. My father was impressed.

"You really chased them?" he asked, eyes brightening.

"And I hit them with my lunchbox," I added, watching his face for signs of approval.

"Well, how about that," he repeated over and over, impressed with my well-developed ability to defend myself.

Even then, I realized that all I had developed was the ability to lie in order to make myself appear more interesting. I felt a twinge of guilt, but couldn't see my way clear to straightening out the story, so I let him believe what he wanted.

It's good to get an early start on these things.

Star of the day. . .Catcher Block