Archive for July, 2012

My wife and child regularly go the downtown public market every other weekend to buy…I don’t know…vegetables and crap like that.  Whatever the poor farmers and starving artists are trying to sell you so they can continue their Oxycontin habit.  It’s their thing, not mine.  Outdoor markets make me nervous, probably ’cause I watch way too much TV and movies and I just think every vendor is there to screw you over and all the food is full of bugs and vermin and cyanide. It’s an unfair stereotype, but one that allows me to stay home on Sunday mornings and unload my DVR queue into my brain.
This past Sunday my wife comes home with a bag of cucumbers or carrots or gerbils….I don’t remember, and some other crap….and some incense.  She likes the stuff, maybe it’s college nostalgia, I don’t know but I don’t mind it.  But she tells that there was this new vendor that was selling their own home-made incense, complete with their own enticing names.  I asked what she meant by that and she giggled and started reeling off some: Sex on the Beach, Manly Musk, Lady’s Desire….and….Wet Pussy.
My eyes widened.  “Tell me you bought some of the Wet Pussy incense.”

“What?! No…I’m not a pervert, Rick.”

“Jesus, honey…how can you NOT want to know what that smells like?”

“Ummm…I have one.  Nothing new to me.  Pretty sure you smelled it too.”

“Yeah, but…don’t you want to know what the street vendor incense dealer equivalent is?”

“Rick, go down there and buy some for yourself.  Buy all the Wet Pussy you want…”

My mind was racing as I walked away.  Was it just a bullshit name for some standard incense that they were trying to unload…or did that vendor REALLY put in some scientific effort to recreate the smell of wet female genitals in flammable form?  Where would you even begin?  Did it involve fish oil?  Did he conduct smell studies in a controlled environment with a panel of volunteers?

“Would you say this smells like spiced tuna….or…..wet pussy?”

Jesus, how could I get on a panel like that?  And if he did truly perfect it.  Jesus, could you legally sell that?  That’s aromatic sex.  Being sold out in the street.  If I lit a few by the window, would I suddenly have a group of 15-year-old boys biking around my house like zombies, riding back and forth, craning their necks to see in my window?  Would they even know why they were drawn to the house?

“I’m going!”

“Going where?” my wife yelled back from upstairs.

“I have to see this for myself!”  I have to smell this for myself.

“See wha-….are you really going to buy that trashy incense?  Seriously?”

No point in lying.  “Yes. Yes I am.”

Silence from upstairs for a moment then “Well can you get some apples too, please?”

“Sex and apples…yep!”  And I was off.

As I approached the vendor, my palms were actually sweaty.  My stomach was in knots. I avoided eye contact with everyone.  Holy shit, it was like I was going to pick up a hooker for the first time.  I waded through the crowds of people gawking at squash and radishes and stood in front of the aromatic sex den.

It was a wooden board on top of some cement bricks.  Bags of incense were arranged across the board with their names written in marker next to them.  My god, it was so perverted.

“Anything you’re looking for?” the guy says.  He was middle-aged, slight beard.  A little paunchy with jeans and a Screaming Trees t-shirt.  What a fucking sexual deviant.  I could only imagine the disgusting thoughts that must be oozing through his sick head at that very moment.  DEPRAVED no doubt!
I started looking through the name tags: Cherry Blossom, Night Shade, Purple Haze…

Fuck…where’s the perverted stuff?….you twisted, sexual criminal.

Then: Sex on the Beach, Scent of a Woman, Belly Dancer, Wet Pussy…

I let out a slight gasp.  Shit, he probably heard me.  Shit.  I should go…NO!  I’m in control here.  I’m the customer.  I quickly glanced around for any sign of five-oh, then I grabbed a package of the Wet Pussy and started pulling out my wallet.

“Good stuff, man.”

“HUH!?! WHAT!?” I blurted.

“That stuff…good scent.  You’ll dig it,” he said.

“You a cop?” I asked.

“…a cop?  No.  You gonna buy that?”

“Look, Dahmer, I’m not looking for conversation!  How much?”

“Uh….$3.50.”

“You make me sick.”

“…sniff….Yeah, still $3.50.”

I handed him 4 bucks.  “Keep the change, perv,” and I jogged back to my truck like a 12-year-old with his first skin mag.  I hopped in and quickly brought the bag up to my face and opened it.  Here we go. My hands were shaking. oh shit oh shit oh shit.  I sniffed.

“Oh fuck….FUCK!” I started gagging.  It was like a pound of paprika just invaded my nostrils.  I started blowing my nose all over my lap and gagging up snot.  My eyes teared up.

“Not wet pussy….NOT wet pussy..”

It burned like fucking hell fire!  Like…like…

“…gonorrhea…fucking gonorrhea….”

I tossed the bag out of my window and took off for home, drips of snot still dribbling down my face.  When I got home and walked in the door, my wife took one look at me and laughed.

“How was the pussy?”

I wiped my eyes.  “Bitch burned me,” and I went up to the bathroom to take a long, long shower.

This is one is for you, Bruno.  You mysterious, insane little fucking fowl.  I shall put on my “pretty boy” speech for this, but don’t everyone get used to it:

It was Thursday, 7:58 in the morning.  The noisy metal machines of man blazed by at unnatural speeds as they always did.   They continuously pumped horrendous fumes into the air where it slowly crept into your small alcove and into your tiny lungs.  This was the duration of your short life thus far. 

 

This is what he dealt with day in day out.  This was all he knew.  But so tiny in stature and in intellect, what could he do to stop this madness?  How could ever obtain the quiet, stressless tranquility every creature on this planet strives for?  Where was that equilibrium?  Where was the balance?  But such questions, in whatever simplistic form they had taken in his tiny mind some time ago, were gone now.  They had been replaced by pure, animalistic, rage.  Feathered Fury. That morning the line was crossed by Bruno the pigeon.  His slow decent into madness was complete.  His hopes and dreams had been eroded to the point of distant memories.  Now his tiny bird-brain contained only violence and hatred.  Hatred at the world around him.  If Bruno had hands, a gun, a mirror, and the ability to talk…he would have spent the previous evening asking his reflexion if he was “talkin’ to me? You talkin to me?”.
At 7:58, Bruno’s eyes opened wide in terror and rage as yet another metallic monstrosity of man rumbled by…and Bruno took flight.  His head down, his wings a flurry of brown, his amazing girth only adding to his momentum.  He had made himself into a weapon.  No regard for his life or well-being.  Driven only by madness, Bruno pushed himself to top speed and attacked the true source of his hatred, of his terror.  He hit my Toyota Tacoma, moving at 75 mph, at the tire well with every once of organic mass he had.
It was truck vs. pigeon.  It all happened in about 3 seconds.  With an incredibly hard thump, I felt Bruno strike my truck, heard something that sounded like a garbage disposal full of chicken wings and saw a plume of grey feathers and blood spray out the back of my vehicle and onto the windshield of the car behind me.  What was left of the great Bruno the Pigeon was rinsed off a windshield with a few sprays of Rain-Ex.

It was his last flight, but he made it count.

I wanted to be inside his head on the last flight, and I have tried to do just that, to understand just what led up to his mad, suicidal dash into a fight he could not win.  Was there any nobility behind it? Any true, poetic, tragedy?  Or was it just the last act of a creature driven mad by a world he could never understand?  Is that the real tragedy?

I pondered this for sometime. Of course not right away.  I laughed my fucking ass off the rest of the way to work that morning, then laughed again when I looked at the gore-fest in my tire-well when I got to work.  I told every one about it, even re-enacting Bruno’s flight path my arms flapping at my sides.  Brian thought that was hilarious.  He laughed so hard he farted and it sounded like he shit himself and….ah, sorry Bruno….

But now, a week past, my mind has begun to wander, to contemplate, to worry.  Was what I saw simply what it seemed?  Was this just the last desperate act by a lone wolf?  Or Stage One in a coming offensive?  Was Bruno truly…alone?

Look lively and watch you backs, dear readers.  Their may be more “Brunos” to come.  You’ve been warned.  Now stock up on Rain-Ex.

There, that’s your eulogy, Bruno.  I guess you earned that.  But the rest of the fucking winged demons out there can go screw.  I’m going now, to eat a turkey sandwich.