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It's the return of... Adhesive Man! My god, I'm sticking to everything... set my elbows on the wrist support, and it came with me. It's more than a little "adherent," early this morning. Threatening clouds this afternoon produced a skim of moisture on the sidewalk... then dissolved. But left some air thickener behind. Cruel, really. Just a few days ago, the county was designated a disaster area because of the lack of rain. The grass is like straw. And, no smells. So dry that nothing exudes a scent. Which is one things the country is good for. As is said, "be careful what you wish." There be Hurricanes. Except for getting some bills paid, and getting Miss Jane up with some ducats for her escape with her daughter, I pretty much blew the day off. Waiting for the Big One to roll in, planted my ass on the front porch with a Tom Cl*ncy book. Like it's necessary to get drawn into a story of international incident after three days of the W*shington Post. Well it's not Stephen K*ng, anyway. Or a romance novel. A deeper read to come, soon. The drive home got me thinking... about the things I'd like to do before I exit this orb. Without dreams, we're nothing... I'm thinking. To Whit: Surfing... Akebono has been trying to cajole me to come to the beach, and he's gonzo surfer. His wife teaches, and both his boys just took to it like fish. This may come to pass, sooner rather than later, but I think swimming is a prerequisite... better than I do now, anyway. But, it is magnetic. There's been a lot of intoxicating early sixties surf films on Sunday nights... and I do so love the waves. Ah, but do they love me. Consider cutting across a gentle roller, the color of the froth beneath... and not going over the falls. I'd done much waterskiing in the past, so the feeling of skimming atop water is familiar... and a major thrill. Hmmm. Racing... long have I had the overly expensive dream of campaigning one of these old Brits in the backyard. Not to set the racing world alight, but to go as fast as I dare. Unlike the Beltway, the quality of drivers is a sight better... and we'd all be going in the same direction. Generally. The burble of an on-song 4-banger, the smell of 110 octane, diving a line through corners. Like moth to flame. A Band... where I could wear a Nudie suit (think wagon wheels and cactus decorations), and lay down songs like: "I Cast A Lonesome Shadow" Hank Thompson "Let's Stop Kicking Our Hearts Around" Wanda Jackson "Trying to Forget The Blues" Porter Wagoner ... twang-i-licious numbers. With a sense of humor. Painting... getting these scraps of drawings committed to canvas. And so on. Time to peel off this layer of gunge, and dream for real. One other thing I'd like to do... Since so many pilots are getting busted for drunk flying, the next time I board a plane, give the flilght attendant a bag of Beer Nuts to pass along to the cockpit, with "just kidding" marked across the front. Cheeky. I leave with a pithy quote from S*uthern Culture's, "A Whole Lot Of Things": "Never made love in a hurricane, Run around nekkid in the pouring rain, Drove a race, Built an igloo, But that don't mean that I wouldn't like to." |
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