Dear Bottom

            Dear Bottom. I miss you. My pants miss you, and my belt has informed me that he has to hold on for dear life just to keep the pants from sagging.
            I realize that I never really had you, but for the brief spell when I played basketball once a week with the neighborhood kids at Carlin G. Smith recreational center. But still, I want you back. I don't necessarily want to work hard to get you back. It would be nice if you showed yourself with the mild intermittent exercise that I do, the occasional knee bends, the moon light walks. Don't make me run for you, please anything but that. I'd consider a quick sprint on the beach, but the idea of distance makes me think of hard work and discipline, and that doesn't sound like fun. 

The Same Old Story

I drove down the hill to pay a visit to Bill the Google Master. He was entertaining as usual. He tells his customers the same story about baby-boomers and the need for adult day care centers. He was telling the story to a young woman when I pulled up.

“I’ve heard that story before Bill,” I said to him afterwards.

“No, it’s morphing. It’s taking on a life of its own. It changes every time I tell it.”

“More sensational?”

“Well, I don’t overdo it, but yeah, more sensational. I added the bit about the lack of birth control after the war.”

There was a lull in the conversation. 

“Have you noticed my people are driving much faster these days? When did that happen?" I asked Bill.

“Since last I drove the freeway when that son of a bitch Carter changed the speed limit to fifty-five.”

“I guess I haven’t noticed. We use to be known for driving slow in the fast lane. I think those days are over. I’m beginning to think my people are trying to kill me. They keep pulling out from the curbside in front of me. I have to break hard to avoid them.”

                “That's why I don't drive unless it's absolutely necessary.” 

Swept Under the Rug

            I'm beginning to think the broom I have is made for short people, more specifically, short maids. Either that, or the company that made the broom is skimping on materials. I know it sounds like an oversimplification, but like I said, the only other option is skimping on materials, and the materials are already inferior. Any more inferior and you wouldn't have a broom. It is for this reason I'm inclined to believe my short lady theory. 
             It's stoop labor. I have to be careful not to tweak my back when I sweep. I have to bend over like a hockey player just to use the thing. I'm not sure how broom manufactures are getting away with it. It's discrimination against tall people I tell you, and the world has turned a blind eye to it. 

The Coconut Part Two

I walked down the hill to buy another coconut. I picked a winner this time. It was raining so I wore my hat. I have a Philadelphia made by the Golden Gate Hat Company. I get a lot of attention when I wear it. A couple of people in the store waved at me and said hi. I waved back. I grabbed a coconut and stood in line. I paid cash and didn’t bother with a bag.

I walked out of the store holding a singular coconut. I was walking up the hill past the nice houses when I saw a lady inspecting her car. I noticed that she was in a fender-bender.

I asked the obvious question. “Did somebody hit you?”

She was a nice lady and she told me all about it. She said a man swerved into her and another car. I was holding the coconut while we talked. She didn’t seem to notice. At the end of our conversation I asked her, "hey, do you want a coconut?" She said "no."

Pina Colada

I’ve taken to buying whole coconuts and pineapples at my local Mexican grocer. It’s my ambition to become the human Pina Colada. If I could figure out a way to ferment rum internally, I’d be in business.

            Picking coconuts isn’t as easy as it sounds. I’ve picked a couple of losers that were spoiled and sour inside. A coconut is a mysterious creature. I’ve learned some techniques for picking them online, but even with that knowledge it’s a crapshoot.

            The pineapples on the other hand have failed to disappoint. There’s a consistency there that is just astounding to me. They’re sweet and juicy. How can something so strange looking taste so good? Prickly, but sweet, like a nice man with a beard.   

The Juicy Diet

I have an idea for a diet. It’s called the Doctor Bernal’s Juicy Diet, and as it implies, you can eat anything you want as long as it’s juicy. Pineapple, pork butt, anything that’s juicy, a juicy steak, crab legs in a juicy sauce. Can I eat tortillas? you may ask. No, not by themselves. You’ll need to fill them with something juicy. The same applies to bread. Bread in itself is a no-go, but okay if you fill it with corn beef, and it’s juicy. Can you eat bananas? No, you need to slather them in something juicy, or make a shake out of them.

              Of course I’m not serious about the juicy diet, it’s more like a mantra for living. Eat well, have fun, and make it juicy. If you want my advice for losing weight, I’d say, don’t eat as much, and try a little exercise. 

Buster Keaton

I’m building a deck for my cabin and yesterday I was sitting inside with the French doors open admiring what I’ve built so far. I have a frame and a couple of ten-foot boards laid across the frame. I need to buy more boards to finish the job. I placed the two boards I have in the middle of the deck and imagined how it would look when I finished.

I decided to walk across the deck to get perspective. The boards weren’t nailed in, but I had wedged them so they wouldn't move when I walked across them. I stepped down on a board and I felt it sink beneath my foot. I guess I didn’t wedge it the way I thought I did. The far end of the board started to lift up and to save myself from total disaster I fell butt first backwards into my cabin. The board went vertical and crashed to the ground. I started to laugh. It was a Buster Keaton moment.

              I’m glad I didn’t hurt myself. It would've been days before someone realized I was missing.