Coincidences. They fascinate me. Last Monday, I had my car broken into for the first time because I parked somewhere I normally don’t. Of course, it was raining. Today I got up to discover that my car won’t start. While I don’t know for sure yet whether it’s the battery, it’s raining. And the idiot who broke out my window stole my tire inflator which also had an emergency jump feature on it. I bought a new tire inflator immediately upon discovering that it had been stolen. But it doesn’t have the emergency jump capability. I should have known better when I didn’t spend the extra money for the fancier emergency kit. I’m laughing because I’m the “don’t talk to me about odds” guy. I’m also remembering precovid, when stores were open at this hour. .
Even though the phrase “como agua para chocolate” (like water for chocolate) has a culinary meaning, I adopted and adapted it to my own meaning when I read the book in Spanish for the first time. Regardless of its intended meaning, which I understood, it anchored my frustration with the way we tend to accept poor substitutes for authentic living.
If we’re stressed or feeling floorless or unanchored, we distract ourselves. We fill our minutes with things that don’t satisfy us. It’s a series of late-night snacks with the door fridge held open. We know we’re not satisfying our cravings, yet we continue to eat pieces of cheese or anything visible. Ten pieces of cheese and a cold hot dog won’t satisfy us. But neither will another glass of wine or three seasons of our favorite binge show.
If we’re craving intimacy and connection, we accept poor substitutes that probably cause us more discomfort than simply being alone. We open bottles or cans and down the numbing contents. We light fires in our faces that flood our bodies with false dopamine. We focus our attention on tiny screens and large, hoping that the content gives us relief.
All of these things are distractions – and we know it when we’re doing it. But what’s the viable alternative? The gurus in life tell us to avoid anything that creates distance between us and the people and the world around us. It’s too much, though. And though days fly by, the individual minutes scream at us to be filled.
Chocolate itself was originally considered to be a gift from the gods. Now? We love it but also look at it as a mundane treat. We tend to devalue what’s readily available. Often, I catch myself thinking that we do the same thing with the people, places, and things around us.
It doesn’t matter how full your garage is. The things in it won’t add further happiness to your life, even though you continue to acquire, upgrade, or store the previous things that you obtained to be more satisfied.
When people wax nostalgic, most of the memories are comprised of moments with people from their past: eating, doing things together, and usually without distraction. For a brief moment, the focus is mindless and simply enjoying the experience.
If you’re making an authentic chocolate drink, you must be mindful of the boiling point of the water you’re using.
If you’re looking for peace and satisfaction, you have to enjoy the process and bother of taking the time to enjoy the things you’re doing.
The joy of a brand-new seventy-inch TV will fade. The foods you love will soon enough oversaturate you and fade into the background.
What am I trying to say?
You tell me.
I’m just another among billions, secretly wondering why I can’t avoid the false dopamine and poor substitutes for what matters.
Shane knocked on the front door a bit hesitantly. It was his first real date in eight years. When Susan told him to drop by around 5 p.m. to pick her up, he realized she must trust him. It was a rarity for a woman to invite someone so new in their life to her house. Not that he kept up with dating trends.
Susan opened the door, smiling.
“Shane! I’m so glad to see you. Hug me.” Susan didn’t wait for him to respond. She stepped forward and gave him a strong hug. It was difficult for her to believe she’d only known him a week, doubly so because one of her friends from work had highly recommended that she get to know him. None of the previous attempts at being matched were successful. There was always a catch to their enthusiasm. On one memorable date, her friend Claire conveniently forgot to mention that the would-be boyfriend spent a lot of his free time at gentlemen’s clubs.
Shane laughed. “You must be glad to see me.”
Susan nodded enthusiastically. “You promised me flowers, Shane.” She winked at him.
“Indeed I did. And I will surprise you with them soon enough.” He gave Susan a cryptic wink in return.
“Full of surprises, aren’t you? That’s fine by me. Surprise away. Do you want something to drink before we go? A sandwich? A pool float? Maybe an entire apple pie?” Susan fired off the humorous options rapidly.
“Haha. No, I’m good. If you’re ready, we can go. Unless you want an entire lemon cake as a snack before we head out?” For a second, Susan couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“No, I wait until Sunday night before bed for that.”
Shane nodded and smiled.
“Let me get my small purse and we’ll go. I put on comfortable shoes, just as you requested.” Susan pointed at her shoes, then twirled in full circle as her sundress swirled around her.
As Shane backed out of Susan’s driveway, she immediately started asking him questions. He looked over at her every few seconds, both to acknowledge her and to steal a glance. At forty-seven, she was naturally pretty. Her hair was restrained by a ponytail. It was her quick smile and wit that captivated him.
After ten minutes of banter, Susan smiled at him. “You said you had a song for me to listen to, one that you wanted to share with me.”
“Yes.” He pressed the input button on his console stereo. “It’s not what you expect.”
Susan clapped her hands quickly together. “Goody! Another surprise. Who doesn’t like surprise music?”
As the music started, Susan realized it was the original version of a song she hadn’t heard in years, not since her grandmother died. One of her favorite memories was of her Nonna playing records in the kitchen as she cooked.
Both Shane and Susan were quiet as the song played. When it finished, Susan said, “How could you have known that this song is so special to me, Shane?”
Shane cleared his throat. The song had taken him back to nostalgic memories, too. “I didn’t. My grandparents used to play this record over and over and talk about how they almost weren’t together. I can’t hear the song without thinking about how it is a song about our temporary place in the world and to appreciate one another.”
Suan reached over and touched Shane’s right arm as he drove. She recounted her childhood and her grandmother Nonna in the kitchen.
Just as Shane was about to speak, Susan said, “Can we listen to it again?”
“Of course,” Shane answered and hit a button on his console.
They both listened in silence as “Il Mondo” repeated. When it ended, Shane took a glance over at Susan. Her eyes locked with his. He nodded. Susan smiled in return.
A few minutes later, Susan realized they were heading toward the lake. “Swimming? I didn’t bring a swimsuit, Shane.”
Shane laughed. “No swimming. Unless we have an accident. Or the urge overtakes you.”
Susan laughed again, something she found herself doing often. She had the idea that if she did strip down to her underwear Shane would look at her with appreciation. He radiated… gratitude about everything. Normally, she felt awkward because she tended to talk a lot. Or laugh. Not with Shane.
Shane turned onto a side road near the lake and drove about a mile into the trees that stood thickly around the road. “I know someone who lets me come visit. You’ll see.”
He took a left onto an almost invisible dirt road, not much more than a path. Within thirty seconds, they neared the water’s edge. The water lapped up against the shore.
Shane turned off the truck and stepped out. Susan didn’t realize that she was waiting for him to come around the side of the truck to open her door. When he pulled it open, she held out her right hand for him to hold as she stepped down.
She followed him around as he reached over and pulled a small cooler from a crate fastened against the cab of the truck.
“Interesting,” Susan said. She stood and smelled the strong, earthy smell of the trees and the water.
“This is about the best place on the entire lake, Susan.” He smiled at her. She felt goosebumps on the back of her arms.
“After you,” Shane said, and pointed toward the right, along the shore.
Susan walked on the small rocks and pieces of driftwood, watching the water capture the shimmering reflection of the late August sun.
“It’s fairly close,” Shane said as if he needed to reassure her.
Susan turned to look at him. “I’m good for any amount of walking, Shane. I can keep up.”
Shane watched Susan walk, her feet confident on the shore. Her ponytail bobbed as she walked. He followed her around the curved shoreline.
Susan pointed. “That’s such a beautiful island! Look at that huge dead tree.”
Shane laughed. “That’s where we’re headed.”
Within twenty yards, Susan saw a small Jon boat tethered to the shore. Paddles leaned on the inside.
“I was hoping we could swim to the island. I’m kind of disappointed.” Susan laughed, teasing.
“We could, but the alligators get cranky this time of the year, Susan.” He smiled back at her.
She shook her head. “I ride alligators, so that’s okay with me.”
Shane unanchored the boat. He then leaned over the edge of the flat-bottomed boat and placed the cooler inside. He held out his hand and helped Susan step into the boat. He walked into the water and stepped quickly over and toward the rear of the small boat. Grabbing the oars, he pushed them into the water and pushed hard, moving the boat slightly away from the shore.
Shane slowly rowed the boat back a bit and then managed to get it turned toward the island about a hundred yards away. Susan didn’t ask him why he didn’t use a trolling motor. She knew he’d tell her he didn’t want to disturb the quiet of the lake. Shane seemed to be one of those rare people who spoke plainly and rarely made her wonder about what he wasn’t saying.
As he rowed, Susan smiled and then laughed. “I didn’t mean to laugh. You’re not very good with those oars, Shane.”
He winked at her. “I know. You’d think I’d be an expert by now as much as I’ve visited. But I don’t love rowing. I love getting across. I could spend time getting great at it but I don’t see the point.”
Susan looked at Shane as he rowed. She realized that he just inadvertently revealed something about himself with his admission about rowing. She liked the realization. Most people, and men in particular, didn’t openly agree they weren’t good at something.
Susan turned sideways in the front of the boat, watching the island slowly approach. It was filled with thick trees and bushes. The dead tree sat on their side of the island. Susan saw movement and realized a large bird sat immobilize on top of the broken, dead tree.
“It’s an eagle,” she shouted.
“Yes, it’s that time of the year when you can almost touch them as they fly down across the lake.” Just as he spoke, the eagle spread its wing and dived off the tree. It flew across the surface of the lake about twenty feet away from them. Susan watched it effortlessly cross the lake and over the trees lining the shore.
Shane continued to row and turned to row parallel to its shores. Susan now faced the island, keenly watching the trees and brush. She was silent. Shane watched her face as he rowed.
“How long has it been since you’ve been out on the water like this, Susan?”
She turned her head to look at him. “Years. And not since I was very young have I been in the water so… closely. This is beautiful, Shane.”
“Wait. Just wait.” Shane laughed softly. Shane continued to row and the boat made a long arc around to the other side of the island. The opposite shore was only about thirty yards away on this side.
“You can often see deer swimming across here, Susan. This side isn’t inhabited. My friend owns the entire length. It’s empty. At least of people.”
Susan watched the far side of the shore instead of the island, which was Shane’s intention.
He rowed a little faster and when the boat reached the intended destination, he turned slowly toward the hidden far side of the island.
“Wow!” Susan almost shouted. Her voice carried loudly across the lake.
Shane smiled as Susan asked, “What kind of plant is that?!”
“Buttonbushes. Late in the season for them. But beautiful and practical.”
Shane looked at the dozens of buttonbushes about twenty feet from the island shore. Most were white blossomed. Three or four were pink. Off to the right, a picnic table and upright steel grill stood. A pile of driftwood at least four feet high was closer to the shore.
“Did you do all of this, Shane? It’s like we’re in another little world on this side of the island.”
Shane nodded. “Boats can’t approach from the inlet side because of the rock outcroppings underneath. The water under is only about two feet deep, believe it or not. But yes, I did encourage the foliage and made the space.”
“It’s magical.” Susan’s eyes devoured the hidden space that Shane had willed into existence. “I bet you bring all the special girls out here to woo them, don’t you?” She smiled from ear to ear.
“Why yes, I do,” Shane said. “So far, it’s been a grand total of you.” As he spoke, he moved the boat to the shoreline and it skidded to a stop. Susan steadied herself as it slid across the shore.
Shane stepped forward in the boat and then climbed out. He held out his hand to help Susan step off. When she put both feet on the ground, she surprised herself and Shane by tilting her head, stepping closer, and kissing him on the lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I love it already. Are these the flowers you promised?”
Shane grinned. “Yes.”
“They are perfect. This place is perfect.” Susan twirled again.
Shane walked over to the picnic table and placed the small cooler on top of it. Opening it, he pulled out two small single-serve bottles of wine. He opened one for each of them and handed one to Susan. She tipped her bottle forward and Shane clinked his against hers.
Susan sat on the bench of the picnic table, facing outward. Shane sat next to her. They both looked at the buttonbush-covered treeline and then back toward the opposite shore. The sun was about thirty minutes from setting. Oddly, Susan didn’t feel the urge to talk. She sat next to Shane, watching the water and the sunlight. The quiet of the island was a surprise to her and felt almost like meditation.
Susan didn’t realize that she reached out and grasped Shane’s right hand with her left. Their fingers curled together. She looked over at Shane and locked eyes with him. A smile broke out on her face. She leaned toward him and put her head against his right shoulder. Shane heard her sigh.
Behind them, the food Shane prepared was forgotten. Both took pleasure in the quiet and the presence of one another. Though neither knew it, each of them was experiencing an almost unfamiliar sensation: hope. After finishing their wine and placing the bottles on the table, Shane put his arm around Susan.
Maybe later Shane would assemble a bonfire so that they could make smores together. He’d let her decide.
I followed this bird upstream for a long time. It was aware of me. As long as I stayed in the middle of the stream, it would let me go past it slightly. It would then take flight and perch a few yards from me. We repeated this cycle for 20 minutes. Just me, the bird, and the cool water. It was the most Zen match of tag. X .
Regarding my vehicle vandalism, because I can’t open my trunk without the key, it didn’t occur to me that the miscreant who broke out my window had accessed it. They stole my air pump and a few other things that were in the trunk. But more importantly, they stole my box of chalk. To be without an ample supply of car chalk is akin to waking up naked in church. The several hundred dollars it will take to replace the window is bad enough. But to face a missed opportunity of chalk shenanigans is one step too far. I haven’t forgot about my sentimental plastic dinosaur that was stolen either. Even my cat Güino is bummed on my behalf.
“Jones, are you still out by Highway 63?” Deputy Jones heard his radio go off as he urinated by his truck. He finished, reached up, and held the send button on his shoulder-mounted radio. “Copy. Yeah, taking care of business,” he replied. The deputy raised his left hand to wave at Joe Smith as he drove by. Joe shook his head and waved with an index finger.
Jessie, the Sheriff’s wife who also served as dispatcher, secretary, and sometimes backup deputy answered, “Didn’t need to know that. Shake it off and go see what’s going on at Dave’s house, would you?” Jessie was accustomed to hearing the two deputies use the radio like teenage boys.
“Copy, be there in three minutes.” Deputy Jones laughed, knowing that Jessie would immediately chastise him for speeding.
He didn’t wait long. “Jones, you drive a Ford. It can’t go faster than 50 without taking a break.”
Deputy Jones didn’t ask what the disturbance was at Dave’s house. Dave used to be a hell-raiser until he met his wife June. Last weekend, June had met Dave on their porch as he came home from work and gave him an ultimatum: quit coming home after drinking or she’d leave. Sheriff Thomas made it clear to both deputies that he couldn’t allow Dave to return to his old ways. Their holding cell held only two people at a time and the sheriff couldn’t afford to drive Dave to the next county every weekend.
Deputy Jones floored his Ford pickup and turned down the last gravel road to Dave and June’s place in less than six minutes. As the deputy neared Dave’s house near the end of the road, he saw Dave standing next to his Chevy truck. The deputy didn’t hold Dave’s poor choice of trunk against Dave.
Dave held a rifle and fired shot after shot toward his porch. The deputy wasn’t worried about anyone getting shot, as Dave wasn’t that sort of person. Bullets were getting expensive, though, and Dave needed to be saving money.
Dave turned his head toward the deputy momentarily as he fired found after round at his porch. The deputy noted that one of his two rocking chairs on the far end of the porch had sustained considerable damage.
“Target practicing, Dave?” Deputy Jones had to shout between rounds as he approached Dave.
Dave lowered his rifle. He leaned it against his leg and pulled out a pack of Camels, lit one, and drew in a long drag on the cigarette.
“June left about an hour before I got home, Jones.” Dave exhaled a long blow of cigarette smoke.
“Well, she did tell you to stop going out and drinking, didn’t she?” Jones smiled.
“Yeah. But I wanted one more beer with the gang.”
Jones answered, “Did you tell her that? Or did you just stay after work and drink a couple?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell her every damned thing I do, Jones. She knows I’m not up to no good.” Dave sounded like he doubted what he was saying.
“She’s pregnant, Dave. It’s her job to teach you common sense.”
Dave half-smiled. “I have plenty of common sense!”
Jones shook his head. “Nah, you don’t. Not only are you wasting ammunition, but you’re ruining a perfectly good rocking chair. And hanging out after work with those hooligans doesn’t get you anywhere. You need to be at home, taking care of your beautiful wife.”
“Are you calling my wife pretty, Jones?” He paused. “Well, she is pretty, that’s for damned sure. And I won’t need two rocking chairs if June ain’t coming back.”
“Dave, this is what the sheriff’s wife would call a wake-up call. She’s not leaving you unless you give her no choice.” Deputy Jones put his hand on Dave’s shoulder for a moment.
“I can have a beer after work, can’t I? I work hard.”
Jones nodded. “Of course. But here’s an idea. Why not come home and cook some food out here on the grill and have a couple of friends come to celebrate with you and June instead of you sitting up at the stupid bar?”
Dave looked like he’d accidentally chewed a grasshopper. “You are a genius, Jones. You think it’d be all right with June?”
Jones nodded again. “I’m sure of it. Why don’t you call her and ask her? You know she’s at her sister’s house.”
“I’ll drive over and ask her right now!” Dave flicked his cigarette into the yard.
“Word of advice, Dave. The sheriff wants you to stop getting into your truck after you drink, as a courtesy to your fellow Archibald County residents. Besides, you’re going to have a kid in a few months.”
Dave froze. “Dang it. I wasn’t ready to have a kid.”
“That’s how life is. Besides, what did you think would happen if you kept putting your moves on June?”
They both laughed.
The deputy took his pistol from the holster on his right hip and aimed it at the rocking chair without any damage. He fired six shots, one after the other. Each bullet shattered pieces and splinters off of the unharmed rocking chair.
“Damn it, Jones, you ruined my other rocking chair! Now I have to buy two!” Dave shouted in surprise.
The deputy put his gun back in the holster and laughed. “That’s the cost of having me come out and talk sense into you. I saved your marriage. Are you gonna complain about needing two rocking chairs?”
Dave grinned ear to ear and leaned his rifle against his truck. He held his hand out to Deputy Jones, who shook it with a laugh.
“Go inside and call June. Tell her I said hello. That way she’ll know that you talked to someone with sense.” The deputy grinned and gave Dave a one-finger salute.
“Thanks, Jones. Call me if that useless Ford of yours breaks down on the way home.” He returned the one-finger salute to the deputy as he walked back to his truck.
Deputy Jones hit the send button on his radio. “Jessie, what we have here is just a case of target practice. Two rocking chairs are down.”
Jessie’s voice answered. “10-4. Joe called to say you were urinating on the road again. You have to stop doing that in front of people.”
Jones immediately replied, “If I do it behind people, they tend to get nervouser.”
“Nervouser isn’t a word, Jones.”
Deputy Jones laughed. “Maybe, but you understood me.”
Jessie hit the send button too soon because Deputy Jones heard the beginning of a laugh on her end. “No one understands you. Over.”
As the deputy backed out to turn around and head back to town, he watched as Dave walked up on the porch and inside his house.
He shook his head and floored the gas on his truck. Dust followed him as he left. Another day in Archibald County.
“Cicadas are gross,” she said. That’s because she didn’t experience the magical connection of hearing them out in the wide fields of Monroe County during her formative years. The insects of that area are already formidable and should be considered true citizens, counting in the billions. Anyone who has driven on the county roads in the evening knows the folly of attempting to use windshield wipers to remove them. I don’t recall which year I happened to be with my Grandpa and Grandma to experience the cicadas. It was deafening at night because we slept with the windows open, surrounded by fields filled with them. Hearing the cicadas now evokes buried memories, all tied to wonder and childhood experiences.
I have the same reaction upon smelling creosote, especially when it heats up. It reminds me of things I can’t quite remember. Diesel and gas are inextricably tied to my dad’s attempts at operating a gas station on Highway 49. Or my Grandpa, who insisted that the smell warded off the torrent of mosquitoes. The trains humming in the distance. The area of my early childhood owed its existence to railroads. Brinkley was once called Lick Skillet, a name that should have been preserved. The topography conspires to have the train horns and rattling metal echo for miles. Those who’ve not lived in the flatlands don’t understand why people refer to it as haunting. Grandma’s house in Brinkley on Shumard Street was close to the railroad. My apartment is less than 50 yards from one, too.
Years ago, I drove in the late evening on Highway 70 from Little Rock to Brinkley. There were millions of small frogs. They coated the road and the low Geo Prism, so much so that the uneven road became slick and hazardous. My deceased wife, a native South Dakotan, was initially horrified but soon fell quiet in awe of the spectacle. She later told the story to her family. They were convinced she was exaggerating. Had we chosen the quicker route of the parallel interstate, we wouldn’t have had the moment.
Since I’m being nostalgic, yesterday I got out of one of my bottles of burned seasoning. It’s a delicious mix I make myself, but that’s another story for another day. Dabbing it on my tongue, I felt like I was tasting Grandma’s salt pork again. Salt pork is the antithesis of what I normally would prefer to eat. Because of my upbringing, I tended to avoid eating most meat. My dad’s proclivity toward forcing me to eat vile things almost at gunpoint soured me considerably. But if time travel were possible, it is what I would like to return to first. Opening the screen door of Grandma’s house and smell the aroma of her cooking bacon and salt pork. A wall of memory.
Since this post is titled, “All Over The Place,” something that I’ve mentioned before seems much more significant now. I never concealed that I wet the bed much too often when I was younger. When I started therapy, I did a workbook online. I didn’t know that most people barely write a page. I wrote at least fifty pages. I rarely wet the bed at Grandma’s. Of course, I now know that it wasn’t because laundry was much more of a chore for her. It was because I felt safe. Don’t get me wrong. Grandma could be stern. But she never once arbitrarily shouted at me or threatened to box my jaws off unless I wasn’t listening. While not actually boxing my jaws, I knew better than to tempt her. I did not, in fact, ever want for her to follow through on her promise to snatch me bald-headed, either.
Sometimes, Grandpa would tell me not to fear things in the dark or glinting eyes through the screens on the windows. He told me often that the only real danger was things walking on two legs. As mean as he was when he was younger, by the time he had me to call him Grandpa, he protected me. Quite often those who needed a reminder were the two people who came to pick me up at the end of the summer.
In a few short minutes, the train will speed by me on the other side of the road. I’ll be on the landing, cicadas buzzing. And if I were so inclined, I could walk over and touch my hand to the rails. They are connected, reaching the fields of Monroe County.
I undoubtedly awoke with all this on my mind because before going to sleep last night, I stood at my kitchen window, listening to the roar of the cicadas. I dreamed of fields and imaginary stories. Waking, I recalled none of them. Just the tendrils of fading geography and bygones.
I went tree climbing a little bit earlier. I’m not perched high above the creek with my phone in my hand. I am standing in the middle of the creek in the cold water though. I saw that one side of the walkway dam had a couple dozen Osage oranges. The last time I looked them up for trivia, I was amused to see that Pennsylvania residents refer to them as ‘monkey balls.’
What still fascinates me about these and the trees that produce them is that only female trees produce the fruit. These are the largest fruits derived from trees in the United States. Thousands of years ago, these trees proliferated because mammoths would eat them and then spread the seeds as they traveled. I’ve still not tried the stinky process of roasting the seeds from these. It can’t be much different than watching my dad “cook” suspicious and unidentified meat, or looking at my mom’s famous Winston cigarette ash-speckled mashed potatoes.
I did climb the tree in the background of the photo. While I was up there, I practiced a few fake bird calls, hoping passersby might question their sanity or wonder if a small pig was being forced to listen to excerpts of Donald Trump’s book of poetry.
The older man was standing outside the inconvenience store. He animatedly gestured to another man I see frequently. I’ll call the first man Steve and the man I recognized Paul.
I didn’t catch the first part of the conversation. As I exited the store, Steve said, “I just don’t understand how they’re blaming the folks below the border for the drug crisis.”
“Well they’re not controlling the border. Anyone can come in here.” Paul stated the obvious.
Steve nodded. “Okay, okay, okay, okay,” he said in a staccato rapid-fire reply. “Assume every one of these people comes in with a kilo of fentanyl, heroin, or meth.”
Paul looked at Steve like he was crazy. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Steve nodded. “Yeah but for the purpose of my argument let’s just say everyone comes in with a kilo.”
“Okay dude,” Paul replied.
“It’s like popcorn flavored with urine.” Steve smiled, knowing that Paul was going to either think he was crazy or ask a follow-up question.
“No one wants popcorn with pee on it!”
Steve smiled. “Exactly.”
“Exactly what,” Paul asked.
“Imagine that I’ve made the ugliest car in the world and manufacture 2 million of them. They’re going to rust because nobody wants to buy them.”
Paul was still confused. I listened in fascination because I could tell that Steve had told this anecdote before. Probably many times.
“The problem ain’t who is getting in the country. The problem is the people who actively want and use the drugs that you say are coming over the border. I’ve not seen anyone be forced to buy an ugly car or to use hard drugs. They go looking for it.”
Paul realized that Steve had a point.
Steve kept talking. “The problem is never the supply. It’s that people want it. Heck, way over 10,000 people a year die from alcohol accidents driving. And 20 times that die from drinking alcohol every year.”
“What does that have to do with popcorn and urine?” Paul asked the question like he really needed to know the answer.
“Nothing. It’s just a way to phrase the question in such a weird way that it makes you reset your brain a little bit to listen.”
Paul laughed.
Steve added, “And while we look to where the people are pointing the finger at the border, we are kind of forgetting that the drugs that are really hurting people are made by the drug companies. The ones making alcohol and cigarettes are right up there with them.”
“It didn’t used to stop you,” Paul told him.
“Exactly. Drugs are everywhere. We can go next door and get them from several different people. They wouldn’t be selling them if people weren’t lining up to buy them.”
It’s not that Steve said anything particularly novel. It was the urine-flavored popcorn that stuck in my head. I sometimes engage in this type of nonsensical reference when I’m talking to people. In case you didn’t notice. Now I have a ridiculous name for the habit.
“I knew what the canned jackass responses from the usual suspects would be.” This quote embodies 90% of the problem with social media commentary.
Be creative.
Be authentic.
Be truthful.
Most importantly, be funny.
Angry negativity compounded with excessive capitals is the communication equivalent of pooping in your own hat and then complaining that something smells.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 