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It's funnier when someone else hits their funny bone, this chronicles elements of both. |
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This is my place for all the things that make me go hmmm. There's days I'll babble nonesensically, you know, bloviation. Every now and then I might make sense, who knows? Here's a sample of what you can expect: There are days you look for incongruities and you find them, other times they find you. I'm an oddity myself, in this mission grown from adobe into a town. I look old, penniless and threadbare, my hair and beard like plants never turned and growing into the sun. I needed to be alone in a crowd today, so I went to a local eatery for coffee and rye toast. I sit and observe. The diner is done in a western ranch motif, nothing but cactus, and murals of cactus, and leftover tack from some dude-ranch gone bust. Yet, here there and everywhere, scattered among the cactus and tumbleweed are little oases of chachki eggs in pastel plastic baskets resting on plastic un-naturally green grass. It was if someone had ambushed the easter bunny and violently broken him open with a broomstick like some oversized pinata. The symbolism was irresistable. Immediately I thought, Christ is risen, and had a shopping spree at the first church of Wal-Mart. I often wonder what my first impulse would be on having been risen from the dead. Fortunately, I'm a daoist, and relatively free from the slavery of buying things to celebrate my holidays. A young woman and her son came in. He was in a white shirt, red tie, and proper slacks. He had new patent leather shoes and a cup or so of pomade in his carefully combed hair. She was wearing a sleeveless knee length dress highnecked in the front, fit it seemed, for the Fine Young Republicans Convention. I got a better look as she got closer. She was wearing flip-flops, and her toes were painted like gifts from the Cadbury Bunny, complete with glitter. Similarly, her fingernails offered a colorful counterpoint to the tats between her knuckles. Her hair was done up into what we used to call in the 60's, a "beehive." This particular hive had room for quite a few bees. I wondered if perhaps the B-52's were in town, hosting an afterparty to sunday mass. She turned to speak to the waitress, who was gurgling and clucking over the young man's finery, and if I were Mona Lisa, I'd have a smile. The back of the dress was cut clear to what plumbers often fail to cover up. It provided a soft cotton framework to what was possibly the most vivid and uninterrupted tattooing I've ever seen. There were skulls and knives, blood and barbed wire, hearts, viscera, candelabra, and banners containing possibly the secret location of Jimmy Hoffa. When she left, she said to her friend "I'll see you after church." "Happy Easter everyone!" Perhaps they'll all sing "Just as I am" at the alter call. I think she'll be humming Frank's "My Way" under her breath. If I were 40 years younger, I'd marry her. |
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