Clowns vs. Streakers

         
           I'm not sure where the clown fad came from, or why. It took me by surprise. One day I woke up and everything had turned to clowns. There were clowns on social media, pictures of people dressed like clowns, videos of clowns, lots of clowns.
           When I was a kid the fad was streaking. There were naked people running in their white tube socks and tennis shoes through the streets. No gas station, grocery store, college campus, sporting event, was safe from the sight of balls flopping, and titties jiggling. It was great.
            Once when I was a kid, I was watching the Academy Awards on television, when from out of nowhere, a man who looked like Burt Reynolds streaked across the stage at the Dorthey Chandler Pavillion. I couldn't believe my eyes. It happened so quick the censors had no defense for it.
            I'd like to get into the mindset of a streaker. One minute you're enjoying the ball game, and the next minute you're running stark naked onto a field, trying to avoid being tackled by security.
            Times have changed some. Not many people running naked as a jaybird in public these days. No balls, no flopping. 

Pussy Grabber

         
            In other news, the national dialogue has turned to pussy. Or more specifically, grabbing pussy. There's forty-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-four homeless people in Los Angeles and we're talking about pussy. 
            I'm wondering what the bible thumpers in the South think about all this pussy talk. It's got to be tough to justify voting for the pussy grabber now. But I'm sure they're trying to convince themselves that grabbing a little pussy is not that bad. And it isn't bad if you have all your paperwork in order, and you have permission, and you wink, and they wink back. But El Trumpe didn't have his paperwork in order, he was doing it illegally. 
            I get it. I understand why the country is talking about pussy. I can't stop thinking about pussy either. So in my mind, the country is finally being honest. But it's still amusing to me. It's like sexual harrassment is finally fun again. 

Sick Of The Right

       
           I was sick for the last week or so. I had a headache and was feeling weak and tired. My body broke out with little red spots. It was a rash of some kind, but it didn't itch. I'm not sure what I caught. I was taking ibuprofen, but it made my mouth taste funny so I stopped taking them. My illness eventually, magically, disappeared. Just like that. And now I'm back to normal.
           Speaking of being sick. I'm sick of the election cycle we've been embarked upon. It's annoying. It would be more interesting if people were capable of engaging in intelligent debate, but as far as I can tell most people simply believe what their parents taught them to believe about politics. My mother is a lefty. And now I'm a lefty. But I remember sitting in class in college and asking myself if what I believed politically was because of my mother. The answer to my question was yes, definitely. I am the product of my parents' teaching. Then I thought, what if my belief system was wrong and what my mother taught me was wrong? Maybe conservatives are the true and righteous. It's not like my mother was educated. Let me think this through. So I did just that. I thought about my place in life, how and where I was raised, and I thought about my economic situation. I am part of the proletariat. I thought about conservatives and how they relate to the proletariat and I came to the conclusion that my political beliefs were in accordance with the struggles of my everyday living. It's obviously more complex than that, but this is a blog, not a book.
            I worry about the people who don't take the time to think things through. Who don't ask the question of why do I believe what I believe? The people who blindly follow, not fully aware that their beliefs may not even be their own.
            

High Five!

         
          It occurred to me that there's a generation of kids and young adults who for the rest of their lives are going to be teased for playing video games. 
           What's wrong with Charlie?
           Too many video games. 
           Is that why he can't talk?
           I think so.
           Does he know how to high-five?
           Of course.
           It also occurred to me that there's a generation of kids and young adults who were conditioned by their parents to high five for celebratory occasions. It's interesting to see adults in bars giving each other high fives. Although I like the high five, it's probably one of the dorkiest things you can do in life. And I'm guessing these same adults will teach their kids how to high five and on it will go.
           Growing up we used to say, "give me five," and then slap somebody some skin. I'm not saying it's better than the high five, but maybe just a tinge cooler.

Errands

           
            Yesterday was errand day. I went to the bank, bought a dozen tamales, got a haircut. The tamale is quite possibly the perfect food ever invented, in my estimation. You can eat them for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and if you're hungry later in the evening you can have them for a snack. 
             My barber Tony Scissorhands went at my hair pretty good. He didn't talk much, nor did I. It was all business. I sat there with my eyes closed. The sound of the scissors opening and closing in his hands made me drowsy. 
             I'm not sure why, but Tony likes to blow dry my hair. I don't blow dry. The blow dry is a step back in time as far as I'm concerned. It makes my hair puffy and I feel like I need to buy a gold chain afterward. 
             I drove past a McDonald's on my way home. I've noticed that people drive erratically around McDonald's. People drive erratically in general, but there's a certain desperation around a McDonald's. Sudden stops, unexpected lane changes, making turns where they're not supposed to make turns. It's not like at In and Out where  there's a well organized line of cars waiting patiently. No, there's something about a Big Mac that makes people crazy. Be careful when you approach a McDonald's. People who eat there are reckless.
             

Yucca Tree

            
            I got poked in the leg by a yucca tree. It wasn't a big deal until it got infected. I was trimming a branch, when something told me to be careful. It's my belief that trees have a way of exacting revenge, because it never fails when I'm trimming a tree or cutting a branch the tree finds a way to bring me pain. I'll bump my head on a limb or hurt myself in some other way. I always tell myself to be careful, but the tree finds a roundabout to defend itself.
            The infection turned into a ball of red. My skin was angry. At first I treated it with herbs and hot compresses, but when pus started to form I had to ask for a second opinion. I showed my leg to my mother to see what she thought. She's not one to panic, and doctors are for the rare occasions when death is imminent. 
             "Hey mom, take a look at this and tell me what you think?"
             She glanced at my leg out of the corner of her eye and said, "aye mijo, go to the doctor!"

Dave the Hermit

            
            I was in the front yard when I heard someone say "wait, come back, I'm sorry." When I looked to see what was happening, I saw Dave the hermit chasing after a minivan in his wheelchair. The driver of the minivan had pulled to the curb and parked. I walked down the hill to find Dave with his breaks locked in front of the van to block it from moving.
            "What's going here?" I asked.
            Dave craned his neck toward me and said, "I grumbled at him and now he won't give me a ride."
           "What's his problem?" I asked
           "I don't know," Dave said.
           "Don't worry. I'll fix it," I said. 
           The driver had his window rolled up and was talking on the phone. When I tapped on the window to talk to him he raised his hand as to say hold on without looking at me. I waited.
           The driver finally rolled down his window. 
           "This guy needs a ride," I said.
           "I'm not taking him anywhere." 
           "Why not? He's in a wheelchair. He needs your help." 
           "Because he cussed me out when I got to his door, that's why, I'm not taking that from nobody." 
           I turned and looked at Dave.
           "He was late!"
           I turned to the driver. "He needs to buy food." 
           "He's going have to call somebody else. I'm not taking him." 
           I turned to Dave the hermit who was still locked in place in front of the van. 
           It was a stand-off. I knew I was licked. I threw up my arms. "I tried. This is between you two." I said, before walking away. 
           I heard the van backing up the hill to get away from Dave. I saw Dave struggling in his wheelchair to get up the hill. I walked down to help him. I was wheeling him to his house, trying to get him up the driveway when he angrily shouted "Hey, don't push me man!"