Spring feels like it's finally here, & it's about god-damn time.
I bought a weed-whacker.
it's not a very good one (the little "whacking string" is too short & I need to take the thing apart to advance it every 10 minutes or so)--but there's a certain simultaneous embrace of & surrender to adulthood in being able to say "I own a weed-whacker"
---------
another old piece (from a longer piece--bits of which have appeared previuosly in this space)
GRATUITOUS PORNOGRAPHIC INTERLUDE
It was somewhere in Vermont where our ragtag group of pilgrims was joined by Francesca, a ravishing raven-haired beauty with flashing dark eyes. As luck would have it, the only seat free was adjacent to mine. We became fast friends once the ice had been broken by my hilarious impression of Jack Benny getting stabbed in the eye with a fork & it wasn't long before she was regaling me with tales of her many jewel heists and fashion shoots (being, as she was, a freelance model/cat burglar), as well as frequently pleasuring me with the French arts.
It was while she was pleasuring me with an impromptu discussion of post-Barthesian Deconstruction Theory (minds out of the gutter, you pigs) that her eyes grew distant. her face became dark as though a cloud had crossed in front of the sun. She rested her forehead on the cool glass of the window.
"What is it, my succulent lambchop?"
"Oh its...Its nothing"
"It isn't nothing. There's something wrong, isn't there, you big, fat liar?" I said gently.
"It's just..." her chin was set defiantly, but her eyes were sad, "It's just this damn war."
For a few moments we felt suffocated by the sheer futility and madness of it all. Then, glancing out the window, breathless, we saw a wild dingo ravaging a scorched human torso. Either that or a stray dog ripping into a bag of garbage. Either way it made us even more sad. Then we fell asleep. Ah, what a world of stark contrasts we'd found ourselves thrust into. By going Greyhound.
.........
It was somewhere in the midwest that she made a startling confession:
"There's just something about you, Donavin. Whether it's your tousled hair, rugged charm, complicated sentence structure, sense of irony---I just don't know. I just feel so...ngg!"
"Ngg? That's not a real word is it? I don't quite get you...." I said, ruggedly.
"I'm trying to say you make me feel so..." She rotated her eyes to north by northwest, closed them, and began vigorously fanning herself.
"Nope. Still don't quite understand," again, rather rugged.
"Listen, boy," she snarled, gripping my lapels in both hands, "I'm saying that I wish you to devour me as you would a corn dog!"
"Corn dog, eh?" quoth I. Upon release I produced a bottle of mustard from one pocket, a handful of finely chopped onions from the other and went to town.
Returning from town, jogging to catch the bus on the fly, I made my way to her seat with supplies. Those of you who have read previous missives, postcards, or messages scrawled on bathroom mirrors throughout suburban New Jersey will recall, I have rather weird sexual tastes that cannot be satisfied in a normal fashion. That said, I sat down and began divvying up:
Two 40's of Malt Liquor (one for me, and one for the little lady)
Two bottles of Mrs. Butterworth's Maple Syrup (see Malt Liquor, above)
Three bottles of cookie sprinkles (for later)
A carton of menthol cigarettes
The latest issue of Better Homes and Gardens
A couple of little Amaretto flavored non-dairy creamers
A package of Nutter Butters
"Pert" shampoo and conditioner in one
A snorkel and face-mask ensemble
A compilation tape of Sex Pistols' bootlegs
A cask of rum
A three-pack of glu-sticks.
Sixteen hours and four states later we lay back, sticky and exhausted, sharing a post-coital Gatorade, murmuring sweet nothings and applying Bactine to one another.
Ah, but such moments of sheer bliss cannot last forever. We broke up, amicably enough, 3 minutes later, and she began dating a grizzled cowhand in the fourth seat back.
Looking back, I realize it was all for the best. I was on a voyage of discovery through America's heartland, thirsty for adventure and she was, all told, a rather shallow creature, lacking as she did history, motivation, an inner life, even the most basic physical characteristics apart from "flashing eyes" and "raven hair". For instance: Was she tall? Short? Medium-short? Half-way between medium-tall & tall? Her hair: Was it bouncy & shiny? Did she have an accent, a scar in the shape of a coiled viper that marked her as the lost heir to the throne of some isolated South American kingdom rife with palace intrigue, ever so many romantic misunderstandings, & the cry of the jungle cat in the bloody dusk reminding one that death might lurk behind the next bend in the trail?
Alas, I'll never know. And neither will you.
Peace out,
--D
I bought a weed-whacker.
it's not a very good one (the little "whacking string" is too short & I need to take the thing apart to advance it every 10 minutes or so)--but there's a certain simultaneous embrace of & surrender to adulthood in being able to say "I own a weed-whacker"
---------
another old piece (from a longer piece--bits of which have appeared previuosly in this space)
GRATUITOUS PORNOGRAPHIC INTERLUDE
It was somewhere in Vermont where our ragtag group of pilgrims was joined by Francesca, a ravishing raven-haired beauty with flashing dark eyes. As luck would have it, the only seat free was adjacent to mine. We became fast friends once the ice had been broken by my hilarious impression of Jack Benny getting stabbed in the eye with a fork & it wasn't long before she was regaling me with tales of her many jewel heists and fashion shoots (being, as she was, a freelance model/cat burglar), as well as frequently pleasuring me with the French arts.
It was while she was pleasuring me with an impromptu discussion of post-Barthesian Deconstruction Theory (minds out of the gutter, you pigs) that her eyes grew distant. her face became dark as though a cloud had crossed in front of the sun. She rested her forehead on the cool glass of the window.
"What is it, my succulent lambchop?"
"Oh its...Its nothing"
"It isn't nothing. There's something wrong, isn't there, you big, fat liar?" I said gently.
"It's just..." her chin was set defiantly, but her eyes were sad, "It's just this damn war."
For a few moments we felt suffocated by the sheer futility and madness of it all. Then, glancing out the window, breathless, we saw a wild dingo ravaging a scorched human torso. Either that or a stray dog ripping into a bag of garbage. Either way it made us even more sad. Then we fell asleep. Ah, what a world of stark contrasts we'd found ourselves thrust into. By going Greyhound.
.........
It was somewhere in the midwest that she made a startling confession:
"There's just something about you, Donavin. Whether it's your tousled hair, rugged charm, complicated sentence structure, sense of irony---I just don't know. I just feel so...ngg!"
"Ngg? That's not a real word is it? I don't quite get you...." I said, ruggedly.
"I'm trying to say you make me feel so..." She rotated her eyes to north by northwest, closed them, and began vigorously fanning herself.
"Nope. Still don't quite understand," again, rather rugged.
"Listen, boy," she snarled, gripping my lapels in both hands, "I'm saying that I wish you to devour me as you would a corn dog!"
"Corn dog, eh?" quoth I. Upon release I produced a bottle of mustard from one pocket, a handful of finely chopped onions from the other and went to town.
Returning from town, jogging to catch the bus on the fly, I made my way to her seat with supplies. Those of you who have read previous missives, postcards, or messages scrawled on bathroom mirrors throughout suburban New Jersey will recall, I have rather weird sexual tastes that cannot be satisfied in a normal fashion. That said, I sat down and began divvying up:
Two 40's of Malt Liquor (one for me, and one for the little lady)
Two bottles of Mrs. Butterworth's Maple Syrup (see Malt Liquor, above)
Three bottles of cookie sprinkles (for later)
A carton of menthol cigarettes
The latest issue of Better Homes and Gardens
A couple of little Amaretto flavored non-dairy creamers
A package of Nutter Butters
"Pert" shampoo and conditioner in one
A snorkel and face-mask ensemble
A compilation tape of Sex Pistols' bootlegs
A cask of rum
A three-pack of glu-sticks.
Sixteen hours and four states later we lay back, sticky and exhausted, sharing a post-coital Gatorade, murmuring sweet nothings and applying Bactine to one another.
Ah, but such moments of sheer bliss cannot last forever. We broke up, amicably enough, 3 minutes later, and she began dating a grizzled cowhand in the fourth seat back.
Looking back, I realize it was all for the best. I was on a voyage of discovery through America's heartland, thirsty for adventure and she was, all told, a rather shallow creature, lacking as she did history, motivation, an inner life, even the most basic physical characteristics apart from "flashing eyes" and "raven hair". For instance: Was she tall? Short? Medium-short? Half-way between medium-tall & tall? Her hair: Was it bouncy & shiny? Did she have an accent, a scar in the shape of a coiled viper that marked her as the lost heir to the throne of some isolated South American kingdom rife with palace intrigue, ever so many romantic misunderstandings, & the cry of the jungle cat in the bloody dusk reminding one that death might lurk behind the next bend in the trail?
Alas, I'll never know. And neither will you.
Peace out,
--D
"British American For English Speaking People" told me plainly: "The word you've entered isn't in the dictionary". It immediately added (with, it seemed to me, its electronic tongue stuck in its virtual cheek) the following suggestions:
Suggestions for weed-whacker:
1. wideawakes
2. wideawake
3. wide-awake
4. headwaiter
5. woodworker
6. headwaters
7. headwaiters
8. wood-carver
9. woodwork
10. headwater
The online American Heritage dictionary hadn't weed-whacker in it either. It had "weeder". Is a weed-whacker some sort of weeder?
If owning a weed-whacker helps for "embracing and surrendering to adulthood" as your post suggests it, it could be of some use to me.
Anyway, I love me some gratuitous pornographic interludes once in a while!