A Momentary Bout of Clarity

It happens sometimes that when writing on some project you will find some odd clue or hint of bit of cosmic guidance from nowhere -- a trail of cookie crumbs the Universe seems content to leave every once in a while if only to foll you into thinking that the great slobbering beast called "Reality" gives a fig for your happiness and well-being.

So here I am, contentedly banging my face onto the keyboard in an effort to make beauty fall out my ears and eye sockets and arranges themselves into words on a screen, and iTunes per usual is cranking through a random play of a few thousand songs, when that weird thing happens yet again: some totally random song cues up which not only fits the mood but actually totally describes the entire damned story in a way more perfect than you'd ever manage if you sat there face-banging for a hundred years nonstop.

I -- I wish you could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim
Though nothing
nothing will keep us together
We can beat them, for ever and ever
Oh we can be Heroes
just for one day

I -- I will be king
And you -- you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be Heroes, just for one day
We can be Us
just for one day

I -- I can remember (I remember)
Standing, by the wall (by the wall)
And the guns shot above our heads (over our heads)
And we kissed
So nothing could fall (nothing could fall)
And the shame was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever
Then we could be Heroes
just for one day

We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
Just for one day
We can be Heroes

No, this doesn't describe any specific story to you, but trust me -- it *is* this story I am working on, totally nailing the emotional core that I was trying to describe to some... well, "persons of surpassing relevance."

And there most surely is joy in Mudville tonight.
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B

i got nuthin

PICTURE, IF YOU WILL, a near-empty tube of toothpaste.

It's flat, but not yet infinitely flat.

You know within that tube is one more usable demi-wad of paste, and if you can just steamroller that sucker a little tighter -- maybe use the toothbrush as a press to wrestle forth that pea-sized half serving you need and BY GOD will have even if it costs you a pulled hamstring and the last vestige of what once was pride but now now is just world-weary resignation -- you can stand tall and proud in the knowledge that you have well and truly finished that tube.

You hop up and down and hammer away and roll the damned tube -- it's mocking you, it's actually mocking you -- back and forth on the edge of the bathroom countertop, determined and hell-bent to claim that minty-fresh prize, no matter what.

And then you glance up and see your bleary eyed reflection in the mirror: your pale tummy bulging a tad more than you want to admit, and your hair looking like someone slapped you with a wet frying pan, and you become painfully shamefully aware of the stupefying futility of your efforts, and you realize you've spent 14 minutes in hand to hand combat with a tube of Colgate even while a fresh fat undented tube of same sits right there, laughing.

This is how the writing is going for me these days.
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B

Maturity's just another word for "getting too damned old"

So there I was at Target, land of the wrong toilet paper and the endcap suck-me-in (hey-- when CHINATOWN in widescreen DVD is on sale for 4 bucks, I can't not buy it), tasked with picking up The Wife's latest Ambien refill and my own 4 dollar latte. I wander the store for 15 minutes as the Indian scrip chick counts out the pills, I grab some milk and half-and-half, a crate of Goldfish, and an 8-pack of wiffle balls (aka, "the usual") and get the pills and head for checkout.

I'm in line behind a woman in a tennis skirt and sleeveless top.

"Nice legs" I note to myself as she empties her cart. She has the really well-toned legs of a woman who has played tennis or run regularly for years.

"Nice ass" I note as she stoops over to pick up some larger items from her cart.

"Wow-- nice rack, too" I think to myself as she turn to profile and I see the way her boobs -- likely aftermarket store-bought yabbos, but that's totally cool -- stretch the top just enough to be undeniably noticeable but not so much that they scream "LOOK AT MY BIG FAKE TITS".

I sip my coffee and look away, remembering not to pull a George Costanza and be caught staring to 5 or 20 or 53 seconds as if I'm looking at one of those 3D "picture in the static pattern" things they sell in mall kiosks. Steal a glance, look away... swipe a glimpse, check your watch... sneak a peek, examine some item on the checkout line... we males know this routine instinctively.

"Pretty hair," I think silently as her just above the shoulder bob flounces slightyl as she works back and forth, unloading the cart.

Finally she's done, she exchanges some pleasantry with the check-out monkey, and she glances around, and we make eye contact -- casual random thing. No problem. She smiles and nods that checkout line greeting, and I return the half-bored nod and smile to complete the social exchange.

"Huh... a little older than I was expecting, based upon the bod and hair... still... really pretty lady."

Sneak a glance, look away...

I look at the assortment of items on the conveyor: some socks, package of lunchmeat, bottle of marinade.

And two large boxes of Depends.

Somewhere in the reptilian part of my brain stem I here a double blast of the horn -- "STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN! FALSE ALARM! SHE'S A GRANNY!"

Oy.
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dirtier and older man by the minute B