It’s preternaturally hard to say but it’s likely I was not paying serious attention to my environment. It happens, I admit. How could I maintain my asymmetrical face and crooked grin otherwise? Inside my head, where the action often festers before emerging from hiding like a three dimensional vision shattering a two way mirror, it may become slippery when wet. I still don’t exactly see, however, how that makes anything my fault. Ever.
I was itching. Therefore, I was scratching. I felt as if I had my pretty good reasons. The tween twins were busy trying to consume copious quantities of goods and service in the general vicinity of the kitchen and were no more a pain than usual, but no less. I was being acutely bugged, however. I will concede it was me, not them. If that’s not a reason to become buggy, what is? Then, in somewhat perfect harmony, as an adjunct activity, they began to claim they had nothing better to do. One said something I honestly did not hear, and the other responded with a retort that sailed off target like a sputtering scud missile and passed beyond my horizon.
I said, with my head down, “What the fuck.” It was not a question.
A batch of the brown beer I brew in a room close to the kitchen that contains a washer, a dryer, and a dirty sink, was nearly ready to be bottled. Time, legally, and comically as well, is of the essence, in brewing beer no less than in concocting unworkable fragments of fringe ideas, and I was justly immersed in cogent details. To come out on the positive side of the razor edge upon which freedom rings, and which in California is codified and enforceable, I needed to perform a rigorous taste test, as well as a test for color, for light, and for purity of purpose and ultimate intent.
I was listening to Marvin Gaye remonstrate in limited technological splendor while I balanced the scales. He said, “Make me wanna holler.”
Unoriginally, I thought, well, you, like…duh.
Then the yang twin went out of his way by at least the length of two bodies to say, “That brown beer you’re so in love with really stinks this time.”
I said, “Technically, the color is a golden amber. And the fragrance that you smell is highly complex and aromatic.”
He said, “Dude.”
I wasted virtually no time before I snapped right back, “Dude.”
He said, “Seriously?”
I said, “Whatever.”
The room with the dirty sink also has a dirty window that looks out on the artificial lawn of the techn0-yuppie dweeb who commutes to Silicon Valley on days when he is not busy destroying wild plants and animals that breach his borders, and whose evanescent wife enables her vicious cat to murder beautiful birds while she artificially tans her chemically enhanced loins and rump from the lair adjacent to her underground six car garage. She operates the controls remotely, from what I hear. I can just imagine the diabolical cogs and wheels turning.
I turned up the volume within my personal space and gladly allowed Jimi Hendrix to take over. When he says it, he means it. Then, he does it. No lame-ass fucking around. He said, “If 6 was 9, I don’t mind.” I agreed with all my soul. But stupidly, I did not close my eyes.
I inadvertently witnessed the techno-yuppie dweeb leap like a toad from the soft seat of his riding mower in order to instruct his offspring in the properly wasteful use of highly polluting two stroke engines. He left his larger, four stroke engine trailing smoke behind. Each child had much to learn before following blindly in his tracks to reproduce destructive offspring of their own requiring only two to four targeted strokes before squirting. He was waving his arms spasmodically in the smoky air as if he believed he was the former dweeb known as Richard Nixon.
The smaller humans were raptly attentive. They were separated in age by intervals of eleven months to one year. They ranged in size from medium to shrimpy. There was an edger, a trimmer, a whacker, a blower, another mower, and a chain saw, all in shaky hands. All the engines were loud. The smoke was white, black, gray, mottled. All the deep squealing was hideous. Man, child, vapors, and machines operated side by side in a highly charged subliminal blend.
Then the techno-yuppie dweeb fell over. Nothing stopped him. He did not get up. He stayed down. I began to count. It was no joke, although I started to laugh. I’m certain there has to be a formula that would explain his excessive exertion of limited energy on private property in scant seconds but it escaped me. Once more, flimsy words proved unable to stack up against straight numbers. Was he simply a collateral by-product of the war against human enablers of cats who murder beautiful birds?
Then, I continued to laugh. I’m neither ashamed nor proud when my reactions are deemed inappropriate. Shit is always happening like that and my mind gets easily waylaid. No harsh value judgments need to rear their ugly heads. I’m just saying.
The yang twin said, “Did you see that?”
I said, “See what? I’m not sure.”
He said, “Dude.”
This time I said, “Okay, I saw it.”
“Should we call 911?”
“Let’s see if he gets up.”
But, then the yin twin said, “I already called.”
“What did you tell them was the emergency?”
“I told them there was too much smoke and it was too hard to see.”