|
|
|
ten miles from a palm tree
Saturday, June 12 1999
We were eating our breakfast in front of Ortega's on New Port in downtown Ocean Beach. Sophie was with us, of course, as were a couple of outgoing ten year old girls who had just won a morning basketball game. One of these girls was also named Sophie. All the passersby were fussing over Sophie to the exclusion of a plump black Chow in front of the pet store and an Australian Shepherd/Labrador mutt with the older couple at the other outdoor table. Sophie's digestive system appears to be back in full effect. She's pumping out the big yellow-brown play-dough-machine poops of yore, powered by a special low-calorie high-fibre dog food that takes nearly as many calories to digest and expel as it actually contains.
Kim spent much of the day hanging out with Jenna the German girl. Amongst other things, they spent some time on the beach together working on the all-important American tan, something to wear when you're totally nude. Every now and then I get to hear a second-hand Jenna the German girl story. These are usually stories that perfectly capture a fascinating aspect of her personality and world view. For example, there was the time Jenna looked out over the crowded jumbo jet with which she was charged and realized there wasn't a single acceptably cute man in the entire sea of faces. Any normal girl would realize that perhaps her standards were a little too high, but not Jenna the German girl.
There are a few Tool songs which I have on CD that I've also heard on the local hard rock station. I can't always make out the lyrics, though in some of the difficult-to-make-out places I know their some bad words, because of the tell-tale silent spots in the vocal track in the songs when they're played on the radio. Yet again, those who moralize and would protect the precious children have succeeded only in highlighting the objectionable material. It's like the titillating Meese report on Porn or the Starr Report, both too steamy to post on the internet we'd have if there wasn't a Bill of Rights.
The other day I realized that since Labor Day, 1998, I have never been more than ten miles from a palm tree. I've become a denizen of the subtropics. Here in Ocean Beach, there's even scattered green parrots that fly around town squawking at the tops of their lungs in hopes of rounding up their disparate chums so they can communally go about their errands, which appear to consist mainly of cracking open palm nuts with their enormous beaks.
For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?990612 feedback
previous | next |
