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All revved up for some keyboard scrabble... and if you'd seen some of the obscure prose that I've deleted up to now, you'd probably find it a propos. Today's walk of the sun is reminding me of an hokey christmas gimmick... the rotating color wheel. For those not around in the Populuxe Jet Age days when garish, tacky, and disposable was a way of life (and NOW isn't?), this little marvel was basically a floor-standing light fixture that pointed at the tree. Mounted to it was a motor that rotated a wheel of blue-yellow-green-red in front of the light... adding other-worldly special psychedelic effects for you holiday festivities. Before Timothy Leary swallowed stuff to make it happen. Digression, already. So what I'm trying to say is... it just kept spinning around-and-around-and around. As blistering as it's been, I enjoyed a sumblime drive home around 2AM. Pavement and atmosphere still warm, windows rolled down, the cheesiest of honky tonk on the player. The in-between time of the week. Being a part-time urbanite, you forget that you have a sense of smell. Not so, on this ride. In particular, motoring past a grove of cedar trees, an overwhelming incense of cedar filled the car. Like a visitation. Much better than the incense of the raw sewage of Culpeper. Or "StankTown," as I know it. Every homo sapien in the area must diet solely on Doritos, McDemon's pseudofood, and Little Debbie snack Cakes, so staggering is the stench. Whoa, Nelly. Miss Jane walked right past my "I'm Home Again" kiss at the end of the road... a little sting, that. Drowsily informed me that we'd be having windows replaced at 9AM. Three-and-a-half hours of sleep later... I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dreamed about having to break down the satellite dish before the crew got there. So much for the vivid release of the subconscious. Managed to keep numbly moving through the morning while the House Of Usher got a facelift, doing nothing I'd planned... on an afternoon that made you feel like you were a waxed vegetable. And the awful songs kept coming. Wayne Newton's "Red Roses For A Blue Lady." K(komical) C(caucasian) and the Sunshine Band's "Boogie Man." My private mental musical hell. Damn this phonographic memory! Just wait... I'll be singing these monstrosities when i'm in a wheelchair in the nursing home. Or in a cardboard box. Cheery legacy, no? All of this, I can weather. At least I'm still breathing. And about the other shoe dropping. As I was about to fire this entry into being, I got an email from the co-worker who offered me the race tickets. And changed his mind. Bastid. "Paging Mr. Hyde!" Tomorrow awaits. Preferably without the spins. |
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