The Z Factory

I make my bed every night; yes, at night. All day it just sits there looking exactly as it did when I bailed out in the morning. I make it, or construct it, very carefully and methodically.

First, I get in and pull up the sheet full length over my head. Then the blanket, the bedspread and the afghan. At this point, I look much like someone who has been laid out in the school colors.

One of two things happen: Either I wake up an hour or so later and turn off my bedside light, or I turn off the light, roll over and I’m pretty much gone for the night.

Whichever way it may be, I have set up the Z Factory and made all the parts work the right way to get the desired results. And it’s time to do just that.

Everybody has a story:
Michael Moir, who lived nearby, wrote his own obituary after learning he was terminal. In part, it read: “I decided to write this myself so I could be humorous one last time. I attended St. Mary’s grade and high schools and I believe I was labeled as ‘the boy who had ability but no ambition.’ I spent four years at King’s College, Senunas’ Bar & Grill and McDermott’s and, in those formative years, I think I got a true grasp of who I was. [Of his band] …the formation of what was to become ‘Tom Slick and the Converted Thunderbolt Greaseslappers.’”