by Tomorrow's Man
Road Notes: Dane Cty Airport, heading to Hartford, CT
Please oh please sweet baby Jesus, take a moment from that game of Go you are playing against Siddhartha and please do not let this mob of lizard-faced Badgers fans be on my flight...my seat is right next to the bathroom, and they're all drinking Miller Lite and eating brats....
No, seriously - how come gingerbread men are never baked in wheelchairs? Or when you call for the time and weather, the voice doesn't have a stutter and a lisp? Or why McDonald's ads never have fat people? Why do all those disposable razor commercials make me feeling like Gilette wants me to join the Air Force? If the brain is the #1 sex organ, why was that woman kicked "between her whoring legs" and not in the head? Why do hotel chains advertise that it "feels like home," then there isn't any cat puke on the floor? Why on God's good green Earth have I started calling it an 'ATM Machine'?? How come no one wanted that fancy grout scrubber until this week? How many people won't know they wanted a grout scrubber until Christmas Day? Why do I think I might want a grout scrubber? Because it is blue? Will my deodorant really make me a super-spy? Will I have to join the Gilette Air Force first?
If I use that Mach XXXIIIVIVXI razor and the AXE deodorant...will my chin look like that, too?
So cold outside that it's snowing in bright sunshine, the kind of Sunday sunshine that gives corpses hangovers.
Through the window, the sun is glittering off of each crystal of each dead-cold flake. Hungover I'm not, except for the sun, but even that pain won't make me don dark glasses to filter this dazzling display in the deadly cold.
Plenty to say, like a litany.
Plenty of words, like a crack in a dictionary egg.
Plenty of thoughts, like the place where newborns wait.
Plenty of ideas, busy like ants in July.
No time.
No time.
No time.
But for this.
It doesn't matter how long this dog stares at me, if the words are gonna pour into the paisley bucket there's no way I can fill the nickels.