Do you believe in chance meetings, circumstance, luck, or do place some mystical pre ordained significance to such? I’ve met people who say there’s no such thing as fortuitous random variables, rather your encounter was meant to be and has always been that way, changeable only by God. I suppose it depends on one’s particular spin on life’s rich pageant. Predestination would seem to mean your behavior regardless of what you do with your life is already cast in stone. This also means you believe someone or some entity is calling the shots. I have no discernable way to prove this, so it’s easier for me to accept the occasional fluke. I suspected it was such when a woman entered my life from left field.
I was enjoying an adult beverage at the bar (what a shock eh?) contemplating my miserable lot in life, when Becky tapped me on the shoulder to introduce herself. I’m always flattered when this rarity happens, almost surprised by it. Becky explained that she was certain she knew me from somewhere, and asked if she could join me. Becky is tall with long auburn hair. When I say tall, I mean she’s all legs. She evidently works out because her bare arms were muscular and toned. She possesses emerald green eyes that can pierce your soul. We sat for hours talking with ease. There didn’t seem to be one of those lapses in the conversation when one struggles to say something remotely intelligent. I was floored when she whispered, “Marzuki, you and me were meant to find each other”. Mind you, we’d only just met, but it was like we’d known each other for years. She was convinced she’d met me before, but after a chronological breakdown of our lives it was clear we’d never crossed paths! It truly is an odd feeling. Has this ever happened to you?
Becky, like myself, has run the gauntlet when it comes to sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. It’s been my experience that many of these former revelers have suffered some kind of brain damage, so one must be cautious when contemplating getting close. Becky invited me to join her at a social gathering that evening. She wouldn’t elaborate as to what kind of a gathering it was but promised I’d enjoy myself. Still not being able to get over this sense of time travel, I accepted her offer.
We met at an old church near the west side of Denver. It was strange in that there were no cross or other associated icons from religious ceremony. As I walked closer I could see a cast bronze panel in relief hanging adjacent to the entry. The work seemed to be depicting interplanetary travel of sorts as a throng of people were collectively pointing toward a space craft amidst a star field. I thought “oh shit zuki, what in the hell did you get yourself into”? About then lovely Becky grabbed my arm and walked me in. We were met by what had to be the official host and hostesses for tonight’s services or whatever. They both graciously shook my hand smiling ear to ear and offered us a glass of wine. The both of them were creepy. I’d made up my mind to go, so as we were being seated in the main gathering hall I explained to Becky I didn’t think this was going to work out. She turned to face me and put her finger to her lips and shooshed me! I absolutely hate being shooshed! The lights dimmed and the 50 some people gathered became instantly quiet as the services were about to start.
The smiley guy who offered us the wine walked to the podium still maintaining that goofy grin. The congregation rose in unison, each extending their arms straight up into the air. Tilting their heads back gazing toward the ceiling they all spoke in mantra-like tones; “Receive us ….take us to Kolob……Come home…. take us to Kolob” and repeated this simple phrase for what must have been five or six minutes. I’m looking at Becky who seemed to be glazed over while repeating the refrain. I thought this a good time to bolt and quietly got up and began walking toward the exit. I hadn’t taken my “three steps toward the door” when the chanting ceased. Smiley guy in a threatening voice commanded I stop. Everyone was still standing and now staring at me. I stopped and slowly turned to face smiley guy. “If you leave now you’ll miss the only chance at immortality! Come live in paradise on the planet Kolob. It’s been revealed to me that the Kolobians have limited space on the transport and only the most worthy of us will be invited.” Feeling totally weirded out, I felt I needed to get the last word here. I looked at Becky who seemed indifferent now, and at the top of my voice yelled out, “What does it take to be worthy; $500, $1,000, or perhaps a percentage?? If you’re leaving soon why is it predicated on money?” Smiley guy demanded I be silent. I shot him and Becky the bird and found my way out the door. Jeez.
Good Morning Sprites and Faeries; thanks for the Warmth,
Most of you are headlong into spring and it will be difficult to understand what the hell I’m talking about. I mean more than normal. We in the mile high city are about six weeks behind the rest of the country for enjoying Spring. Winter has just taken a few days off. It’s still lurking, and waiting to dump 3 feet of blizzard and kill the garden. Rule of thumb in Denver; never plant flowers before Mothers Day. Sunday had to be the absolute best day since 2005 took charge; mid-seventies balmy short wearing weather! So our regular foursome assembled ready to start the golfing season. As usual beer was plentiful and the jokes were bad. The magic moment finally arrived. The Starter called “Marzuki’s group on the number one tee”! The six months of waiting was at last over, and we swaggered to the first marker, drivers in hand, gloves and matching shoes cleaned with new spikes. The time had come to win the first bet of the year; swing away gentlemen.
I doubled bogeyed the first hole. Typically this is not a good start. However, everyone else did as well, so no damage done. I was holding my own when we walked to the number 4 hole. A straight forward par 3 of 175 yards that I rarely do worse than bogey, so it was to be a piece of cake. 8 strokes later I left the green weeping and cursing the golf gods. I never recovered; losing the first bet of the year!
If you’ve never seen the sun set over the Rockies you’re missing spectacular. The sunset was surreal yesterday; I rank it in my top 10. I’d put this one against any of those I’ve seen in Hawaii. All in all, it was a great day.
I speak to you while on eternal airport hold. I’ve spent the week in the great State of Tennessee, and find myself in Memphis waiting for a flight that may never arrive from New Orleans. After all the years of traveling too and fro, I’ve discovered a great and self-evident difference in us Americans on a regional level. While this may not be a great surprise to many, it was certainly reaffirmed while in Jackson, TN. As most of you know by now, I’m addicted to NTN Trivia. I seek participating locations via the Internet, and while on the road, usually find bars (NTN refers to them as retail outlets) not more than 10 miles from my cheap motel. Today’s entry is my observation of such differences. Although it may not contain references to fecal matter, or other such bodily functions, it’s none-the-less an interesting observation. I’ll not put it terms of good vs evil, as it was pointed out quite clearly by my Son as well as several others, that I shouldn’t put everything in such bi-polar terms. However, this experience blew my mind, and I felt it worthy of entry.
I met Betsy at McCallihan’s in Jackson, TN. last Thursday. She’s a beautiful southern woman some 45 years of age. She has kept herself in good shape, and is widowed 19 years. She’s one of those hippie types with a lot of silver and turquoise jewelry. She spoke of her departed husband in glowing terms until a couple hours later, after several Gin & Tonics, she candidly admitted to his peccadilloes. I’ll not elaborate on that, but will tell you he was not the prince she’d described earlier in the evening. I don’t know if it’s me, or if it’s my imagination, but it seems most Tennessee-ans have some sort of gap between their teeth. Not Alfred E. Newman proportions, rather, closer to David Letterman spacing. It seems to occur genetically often enough to take notice of anyway. Betsy indeed had this modest gap displayed between her two front teeth. I thought it was cute.
After hours of small talk and flirtation, she asked me to take her to a little hotel dance club (disk jockey). It was one of those places that look like the inside of an XXX theater (so I’ve been told anyway) and generally smelled of mildew and urine. It was obvious she was a regular, as everyone knew her by name. Evidently, I was not the first person she’d introduced to the “Blueberry Lounge”. She was partial to slow country western songs I vaguely recognized, and it was clear by her dry-humping dance style as to her ultimate goal of taking me to bed. Not wishing to be another notch on her bedpost, I began playing hard to get. The irony of this was yet to be revealed to me.
For those of you who know me well, this may seem hard to believe, but she was so all over me, it actually put me off! She seemed to think I was a man of means, capable of bringing her to the Promised Land. Her own poverty was exemplified by her beat up 87 Honda that wouldn’t allow access through the driver’s side. She had to scoot over to the passenger’s seat to get out. Little did she know that I’m only three dollars away from living under the viaduct. She obviously was playing right into my hands. Betsy had now begun what appeared to me, to act as an interviewee for the highly prized position of being my girlfriend. I found this truly humorous.
We left the Blueberry and went over to the Waffle House as I promised to buy her breakfast. By now she was quite drunk. Juan, our waiter, was doing his best to keep up with the crowd that had overwhelmed the shorthanded staff. Betsy is an ugly drunk. She obviously looked at Juan as someone inferior to herself and began browbeating the young man. Juan couldn’t do anything right. The coffee was too hot, the spoon was dirty, and above everything else, he was taking too long to fill our order of eggs and grease.
Juan, in his humble manner, asked if our breakfast was alright. The reality of Waffle House is; your food will always be tepid. This wasn’t Juan’s fault necessarily, but he certainly was the front man. The next time Juan came by to check on us, Betsy took matters into her own hands. She drew her straw to her lips, and from her glass, the deliberate crepitated sound of water through a straw could be heard as she gathered her reserve of spittle. I knew what she intended, but couldn’t possibly believe she’d actually do it. Before I could warn poor Juan, she launched her liquid measure through the modest gap in her front teeth. I looked up in time to see Juan’s grimaced face as the aftermath of Betsy’s attack rolled off his nose.
Betsy’s laughter only served to inflame the situation further. Juan, using his sleeve, wiped the excess moisture from his face, and politely asked if there was anything else he could do for us. Betsy couldn’t answer because she was snorting hysterical laughter and could hardly breathe. So I asked poor Juan for the check and hoped to leave, without further incident. I was totally turned off by the scene and wanted nothing more than to get in my car and get the Hell out. Betsy on the other hand, had other plans for me. We left the Waffle House and stopped at our respective car doors; hers being on the passenger’s side caused us to be face to face. Before I could say a word expressing my disgust over her outrageous behavior, she drew me to her and stuck her tongue six inches down my throat.
All the disgust and nauseating revulsion of her attack on Juan disappeared. Schwing! as Wayne & Garth would say, I was now interested in something entirely different. It was agreed that I should follow her to her home five miles north, off the I-45 bypass. I followed her erratic path to her house anticipating the hedonistic pleasures surely to be found a few miles up the road. Walking in the door, I was not quite prepared for what I saw…
Given the wee hours of the morning, it was difficult to make out the surroundings that would describe Betsy’s yard. But generally it looked to be run down and unkempt. A couple of lawn mowers, a refrigerator, some old wooden boxes, and other various pieces of junk decorated the front yard. However, at this juncture I was not there to critique her slothfulness; for at least she had a home.
As Betsy unlocked the door she was fumbling to find the light switch, but with a “damn it” the lights went on. Her living room was full of what looked to be erotic art works of all kinds. Paintings of bodies, sculptures of Karma Sutra looking couples were on every conceivable ledge, but most disturbing, were the cast phallic pieces that lined an entire wall! There they were; ceramic male members in various stages of erection like a big game hunter would hang prized trophy heads. Some were fully extended while others were flaccid. There must have been two hundred of them with all manner of heads both circumcised and not. It was obvious she’d taken much time in decorating them. Some had the heads glazed with gold overlay, some had the traditional red white and blue motif, while others had multi-colored rings adorned with beads. Betsy was obviously enjoying my reaction to her bizarre collection of penises, because she nudged me, and with pride exclaimed, “whadda y’all think”? I was struggling for something to say that wouldn’t reveal my utter shock, and act as though I’d seen this all before. It was beyond my ability.
As I stood gapping at this freakish interior design, Betsy disappeared into another part of the house, and then returned with a bag of plaster and plastic form material. It was obvious she intended to add my pride and joy to her weird collection, and was evidently a prerequisite to my getting into her pants. Wow. What a choice.
As I was driving back down the I-45 bypass, it occurred to me how many people think the life of a salesman is easy and with little effort, makes a great living. Not only did I waste an entire evening buying her drinks, and eating at the Waffle House, I ended up with a facsimile of my manhood lost amidst hundreds of others sticking out of a wall. It certainly wasn’t the largest, but I must say it dwarfed many of them. Upon further reflection I decided that this was a good experience all-in-all. As my days on this rock eventually subside to dust, and only perceptions exist of my time here, it’s good to know a part of me will be enshrined for someone to ponder 100 years from now. Life is never easy doing windshield time.
Fear not, for I am with you;
Be not dismayed, for I am your God
I will strengthen you,
Yes, I will help you,
I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.
Isaiah 41:10
zuki
31/08/2010 07:23
HAPPY B DAY LULA!! MORE SPOILED MILK FOR YOU!!!
ZUKI
23/08/2010 07:24
HAPPY B DAY KIMSTER!! NEVER EVER LOSE THE TOOL BELT!! LOVE YA
zuki
13/08/2010 13:45
Thanks AZZ, in some small way you were part of it...sort of....but thanks
