A Sandy Rendezvous

When I get a speck of dirt in my eye, as I am digging it out, poking, prodding, prying my lids open, flushing the orb under the faucet, I think: Could I be seeing the world more closely than this?

Something seemingly insignificant now very significant.

A granule of sand maybe a 1/16th of a millimeter in diameter has affected me. I have spent special time with a particle of sand. We have connected. We have shared an experience. A strong wind carried this little grain around creation, picked it up from the bottom, and brought it up, danced. I wasn't looking for a dance when we met, but like a relentless woman takes a man by the hand, I was taken and thrown into a dance with the wind and sand swirlers. Unexpected, but unusually fascinating. The dusty devil's twist. With my arms held over my head, eyes squinted, and mouth sealed tight (the sour lemon face), I stood in the middle of a brownish cowboy vortex. Somewhere in the there, among thousands of others just like it, violently dancing, this granule of sand slid under my eyelid and made it in. Connected.

With my head tilted under the public restroom's faucet, water rushing down the side of my cheek, I spent time with this particle and, although I wanted it out, I couldn't help but see the beauty in how we met. I mean I really did have to see it. There was no way around it. It made its way to my eyeball! Something with such a lack of complexity, aesthetic value, and purpose, without a will, made itself known to me. When I got it out, I stared at the little bastard sitting on my finger tip and smiled.

I Have Ice In My Glass

"So that's what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am. I'm back. In Memphis, talking to you. I have ice in my glass..."

Linguistic Barf

Clean-up on aisle 7. Somebody didn't think about what they wanted to say before they said it. They spilled a lot this time. Grab the big mop. It's running over into aisle 6. Damn! What are we going to do now?! It got all over everything! Wow, what is that? Ah, it's vomit! Sick word puke! That might leave a stain! What type of words did this person eat?! Sick! Gross! Ah, I hate cleaning up this stuff . . . .

Hey, You Look Like Jesus!

I was straddling my bike with my toes touching the pavement, stopped, waiting for a chance to cross the street. And then came the idiots.

Now, having long hair and a beard has taught me that idiots assume I have marijuana, or can have marijuana with the snap of a finger. I mean that is the case, right? Long hair and bearded face are the prerequisites for marijuana professionalism. Ergo, I am a marijuana professional.

So, anyway, then came the idiots. They pulled up next to me in a beat-up, rumbly Japanese pickup truck and rolled down their window. I heard the window creak down its tracks, the stereo's volume decrease, and the idiotic breath of a group of idiots breathing in a staccato, daffy manner. Really, I could feel the air around me getting stupider. I am convinced that idiot's breath has a profound effect on the molecular make-up of the air we breathe. Careful who you surround yourself with. I slowly turned my head toward the source of idiot-flow and glazed them over. I counted three idiots on this occasion, and I had seen them around town before. I took note that they were idiots the last time I saw them, too. Anyway, I stared at the idiots for a few seconds more then the leader idiot gave me the universal, non-verbal sign for "Do you have any weed?" It's the one where you bring your index finger and thumb close together and pinch the air as if there was a blunt in between them and then bring the formation close to pursed lips, suck in air, and bob your head up and down stupidly.

Leader idiot waited for my response.

I continued staring at them, face stiff, statuesque and dry. And then I smiled. I flashed my teeth. I smiled big and wide. And then I joined in on the idiotic head-bobbing game. I didn't utter a word, not even a sound. Smile. Bob up. Bob down. Smile. Up. Down. Smile. I don't know why I decided to do this, but I did it for probably ten seconds without losing character. They stopped looking so idiotic for a second, and then turned to each other, furled their brows in semi-confusion, and laughed idiotically again. Leader idiot gassed it and off they went. I kept bobbing and smiling until they were well down the street.

Yeah, that's how a real marijuana professional takes care of "business." I feel bad that I didn't have any weed for them, though. I am totally throwing people off. . .

Oh, They'll Name 'Em Anything These Days

As I sat in my car at a red light, I glanced out of my window and noticed something that made me laugh: Negotiator.

Of all things, this is what some tire company decided to name a model of their tire: NEGOTIATOR

Really? Negotiator?

Frankly, the last thing I want my set of tires to do is "negotiate" while I am driving. I would like my tires to negotiate as few times as possible, thank you very much.

I can only imagine my dialogue with a set of Negotiators . . .

Come on, tire buddies, we've got a large, snowy hill to climb without any guard railing. I hope you can make some decent negotiations with the road so I don't die! Thanks, Negotiator Tires!

Yeah, I think I'll get a set of DOMINATORS or PUNISHERS before I get a set of Negotiators, that's for sure.