Another victim of the ongoing pandemic. My longstanding dream to open a sock puppet theatre.

The Holidays, not the Australian indie pop/soul band, but rather the term used as an excuse for overeating, overspending, oversleeping, and underperforming at the end of the year, have never been a period of delight for me, at least not since 1875, when a Prussian immigrant created the first Christmas card originated in the United States. But I digress.

Looking for a way to make my time more productive, I started going through drawers, when, lo (or actually low, as I was looking down), and behold, I discovered one full of socks, socks that I hadn’t worn since I retired five years ago, socks that might come in handy for some out-of-work actor who had been wearing his thin by pounding the pavement the last two years in search of gainful employment.

So I gathered them up (the socks, not the actors), two by two, as if preparing for entry on Noah’s Ark, and delivered them to a local charity, as an initial public offering, without regard to the effect on the sock market, in the hope that someone might, with their help, kill an audition, and that, someday, I might find myself in an audience noticing them on that dancer’s jazz feet.