Daisy Duke's Bikini, and other equally useless shit.

The store is calm. The books crowd protectively around me as the echo of my editor's hot wind beats itself to pieces on their shelves, his condescension trickling down their spines, forgotten. Tropical airs from Layo's flower shop float over the smooth expanse of sidewalk, past Kerouac's moorings and Melville's lifeboats, easing my bar-brawling mind. What a place to put to sea.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dude, she's a girl version of YOU! She's perfect."

This one is. More than that she's the female version of who I used to be.
CD's...that was my thing.
Head first, all pistons firing, all options open.
Hopeless romantic.
That was my thing.
Hopeless.
What this one just said, the promise and adventure implied...that would have set my brain on fire, used to. Is that gone?
Did she, the other one, did she take it away? Did she kill it?
Stimulus-response, ring the bell enough and the dog will learn.
Roll the paper and he'll run.

Is it better to tilt knowingly at windmills than to lay down the lance all together?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

More spenders wander in, a family. Mom's 300 lb body wades past the door, riddled with chinese characters who's meanings I doubt she knows. Dad's NasCar had stays outside, threatened by my skinny jeans. I can feel the sights of her 12yr old's M16 on me. The hat tree provides perfect cover as he pats the pockets of his flak jacket, searching for spare grenades. Finding none, he charges out, gun a-blazing.
"Ma-a-a-a-a-aam, I want some ice cream!"
"Where's the candy store." It's an accusation, her words tearing into the air around me.
I cast about nervously before answering, but Elvis stares just stares back from within cellophane prison. The radio tells me Daisy Duke's bikini's on top. Of what? I'm unsure.
"Down the street on the left. Have a nice day."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Life's fucking complicated. Spend time worrying about shit. Shit sorts itself out. Invent more shit and continue to worry. Worry about the right shit, the wrong shit? Worry about how to get her, how to catch her eye. Get her. Worry about what that means, why she's not what Santa Monica Blvd promised. She's better, more real, has a taste for good music. Worry about that, she's too perfect, this is too easy. Is it? Isn't this what you've always wanted?
Zach Braff tells you it is.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Michael Buble is a tool. That is all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------