One ordinary Spring afternoon, I was waiting on Colfax Avenue, which is the main street that runs through Denver. I heard somewhere that it is the longest main street in the country, but I’m not gonna bother digging up that stat. Suffice it to say that Colfax is a long road, but not a highway. It is a wide East-West street that splits Denver roughly down the center. The central North-South street is Broadway. Where these two meet, there is a bus hub. A crossroads where people go to and from downtown. It is also a crossroads of cultures, social stratification and reasons to be going somewhere on the bus.

It’s fairly easy to categorize the riders. The bulk of riders are commuting to or from work. The next largest group are people who are just not using a car to get where they’re going, for one reason or another such as to avoid parking fees. The rest are people just moving.

This story is about a couple of guys in that last category.

The buses that run along Colfax are the 15, which goes East and the 16 that goes West. In general, East is the wild side of Colfax and West is less wild. In neither direction is the neighborhood really great, but only on East Colfax I have I seen (while driving) a woman pole-dancing on a bus stop sign. I speculate she may have been warming up on her way to work that evening. A commuter!

Anyway, that Spring afternoon I mentioned earlier, I was on West Colfax, waiting for the 16, headed further west. Several other commuters were milling around, not talking to one another. I’m not sure why, but bus commuters around here don’t seem very gregarious. I’ve tried, but have rarely reached more than a cordial relationship with anyone. Oh, well.

But even people who don’t talk can move as a herd when the need arises.

———————————————–

I saw them crossing the street and I could tell that something was up: two men with patches of silver paint on their hands and clothes.

And on their faces.

The rings of silver around their mouths and noses were red flags. That, and the severe palsy that nearly kept the younger of the two from getting all the way across the street. The older man didn’t have the same shake, but he did seem to be a little ‘off’. Just not quite right.

The tension level of the whole crowd of strangers at the stop jumped up as if a bird had begun squawking about lions in the grass. But no one ran. No one wanted to draw the attention of the two new arrivals. These were canny commuters.

As per protocol, they didn’t speak to anyone, (obviously, they had ridden the bus before) but went straight into the bus shelter where ‘Mr. Shaky’ slumped onto a vacant length of bench. His friend went straight to a garbage can just inside the entryway and began rooting.

As if synchronized, the herd began to casually exit the shelter. I wasn’t sure who I wanted to watch more; the intruders or the slow-motion dance of the fleeing commuters. Both were fascinating. Actually, I joined the dance, as I had wandered in out of the wind recently. Each member of the herd found something RIVETING to read or look at across the street, while keeping this dynamic duo in the corner of their sight.

‘Shaky’ yelled something at ‘Garbage Man’ about hurrying up. ‘Garbage Man’ rooted very slightly faster. He eventually came up with an empty plastic soda bottle and a section of discarded newspaper. Seeing this, ‘Shaky’ lifted his t-shirt and pulled out a can of spray-paint that was about the diameter of his torso. He was extremely thin, but that can really was HUGE.

He popped the cap off the can as ‘Garbage Man’ approached. Handing the bottle to ‘Shaky’, ‘Garbage Man’ tore small pieces from the newspaper. ‘Shaky’ and sprayed some paint into the bottle, wrapped a scrap of newspaper over the end and then began sucking the paint fumes through.

Great. He filtered. As if he cared about his lungs or getting even more paint on his face.

He generously sprayed more into the bottle and passed to ‘Garbage Man’.

By this point, they were in a world –and a bus shelter– all their own.

We nervous commuters wondered what was gonna happen next. Our question was answered about two minutes later as the express bus (16E) arrived, right on schedule. ‘Shakey’ and ‘Garbage Man’ got on.

As you might expect, everyone else decided to wait 25 minutes for the next non-express bus.

The dynamic duo had taken the wrong bus (15? 16? what’s the difference..?). They were on the wrong side of town. But I doubt they cared. They were just going somewhere. And in this case, ‘somewhere’ was deeper into the suburbs, where they were probably met by the authorities.

It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d seen a bus driver call for backup waiting at the park ‘n ride, but I think it was my last. I believe I started driving to work. I did work out a bike route as well, just to keep things interesting.

I will spare you the reasons I know this, but suffice it to say; they are not good.

When we were called in, the four teachers sat us all down on the floor of one room, instead of us going back to four separate rooms.  Something was afoot.  I thought maybe we were in for something fun  –maybe a raffle!

Instead, they wheeled in a TV, quietly and soberly and started figuring out where to plug it in.  I thought maybe this was the “adult education” I had heard rumors of.

I was getting a little bit more queasy and sweaty, sitting on the floor in a mob of about a hundred other queasy and sweaty kids, thinking how uncomfortable it would be to view the Miracle of Life or maybe an awkward presentation about contraception that raised more questions than it answered.

Sitting on the short carpet, craning my neck to look over or between the kids in front of me, I was vaguely preoccupied with being in the way of the kids behind me.  I spent a lot of time feeling awkward and unsure, as 6th graders do.

After a few minutes, one of the teachers bluntly told us that someone had shot then-President Ronald Reagan and then snapped on the TV.

I was only dimly aware of politics at the time, so I wasn’t panicked.  How bad could the vice president be?  Isn’t that what he’s there for?  A spare?

Once the TV warmed up and one of the teachers figured out how to pry it off of the default PBS channel that was broadcasting something about the fascinating journey of bile from your liver to your small intestine, every news station was continuously replaying the same 20 seconds of video: The Prez waving and walking toward his car and then suddenly the camera jerks and then lots of Secret Service guys scuffling with someone against a wall.

Occasionally, news anchors would pop up to tell us the that they didn’t know much, but that the President of the United States had been shot and that they really didn’t know what else they could tell us.  They spent a lot of time and used a lot of words to tell us they didn’t know anything.  Made me wonder what was on PBS.

Alexander Haig came on briefly, to tell the nation “I’m in charge!”  This prompted a quick civics discussion for about 20 minutes, until we were told he really wasn’t.  Once George Bush (senior) got off of Air Force One, he was in charge.

Anyway, the air conditioning in the big room wasn’t adequate and I, like just about all of my little friends, was wearing some kind of tough, reinforced jeans and a shirt that didn’t quite fit anymore.  We were all growing more woozy and damp and fidgety.

One of the teachers noticed this and she told us about how this was just like the untimely ends of JFK and Dr. King.  She turned down the TV and began to tell us that we would remember where we were when we heard that Ronald Reagan was shot.  Obviously, I do!

As inevitably happens when you get that many kids in one room,  someone began to whisper.  The teacher lost it and yelled about how significant this event was and how we all needed to be quiet and still and respectful …and clean and thrifty and…  The entire class had tensed up.  Everyone had their eyes forward, mouths shut.  This teacher clearly had the floor, for once.  She was winding up to really tell us something.

You could hear a No. 2 pencil drop.

Or you could hear a squeaky fart escape me.

Due to the Salisbury steak, noodles and a splash of oily green beans I’d eaten about an hour before, my colon chose that moment to scream in distress.  It was one of those farts that jumps out of you with half a second of warning.  My attempt to prevent the escape only raised the pitch.

You see, my colon couldn’t see the TV, nor did it care who had shot the president or even what a president was.  Not even the president could help with the excess gas that had built up as a result of not quite adequate ability to digest something in the lunch I’d put in me, so my digestive tract took care of the problem in the only way it knew.  Loudly.

Like a squad of synchronized swimmers, a sea of heads turned toward me.  I tried to turn my head, to look at the girl behind me, but I was a little late.  I was out of sync.  No one bought it.

The teacher whose thunder I had just stolen, just closed her eyes in a tired sort of way for a moment and then re-launched her assault on the whisperers in the back, but it just didn’t have the same impact.  I had ripped the stage out from under her.

Yeah, I remember where I was and what I did that day.  And I will never forget it.

It would seem to me, in this age where safe bets are all the rage (however somebody needs to explain to me why there needs to be a Smurfs movie!?) I would think that making people smell like cookies or toast or warm bread would make some company a LOT of money.

How about hot chocolate? Well, any kind of chocolate.

I think if I had to pick, my scent of choice would be COFFEE. I love the smell. It is the smell of love.

I sometimes get a little ground coffee on me when I make it in the morning and I usually just leave it. If I thought I could keep it fresh, I’d put a little packet of grounds in my pocket. But the smell of stale coffee is offensive me. And perhaps for others. But I love coffee. Did I say that already?

Anyway, I do wonder why no big company has unveiled a tried-and-true, familiar scent. I want to see “Baby” by Chanel. That weird smell new (clean) babies have that just smells like life or something.

Or how about Ralph Lauren coming out with “Garlic Bread”? I might wear that to dinner.

Maybe some exotic maker could try “Gasoline”. I know some people actually like that smell, and maybe those people should find one another.

I must admit that I have a guilty penchant for the smell of bed. It reminds me of …bed. I like bed. I guess I’m crazy that way.

Any way you slice it, the whole issue of how a person smells is kinda ridiculous. People should smell like people.

I have to temper that my saying that the smell of a dirty little kid is not music to my nose. Nor do I want to sit on a bus next so someone wearing “Old Guy”. But I think we’re just confusing ourselves and others when we hide one smell with another.

Myself, I try to keep all my toiletry products scent-free. I just want to be clean. It’s kinda disturbing when I feel compelled to wear deodorant that smells like “Fresh Mountain Breeze” or some such. When I lift my arm, I immediately get the feeling like some dude from a locker room just got too close.

No one really smells like flowers. Except maybe florists. I have worked in a few Mexican restaurants and brought that home, which was fine with me. I like Mexican food.

Not entirely sure where I’m going with this rant. I guess I’m for being honest about how we smell. Maybe not brutally honest, but at least not outright dishonest.

So, who’s with me? Raise your hand. Raise it high and proudly take a whiff of your own self. Start there. Because once you’re okay with yourself, then you can be okay with someone else.

I have heard that people who are compatible will find one another to smell good. So, go forth and find that one person in the world who doesn’t think you stink!

I don’t use them. They’re not applicable, in my case.

But still, I have questions. I’m interested.

If you actually listen to the voice-overs on hair commercials on TV (I guess I’ve never heard a radio ad…) you hear a lot about what’s in them. All manner of fruits and vegetables and exotic oils.

I saw one last night that has avocado, shea butter and …something else that made me think of salad.

It seems to me that things are getting just a little out of hand.

Is avocado really good for your hair? Has anyone out there tried this? If so, why not just smear some on while making guacamole?

And what is Shea butter?
I did look this up. Apparently, it’s an extract from tree nuts in Africa. Really? Don’t we have butter here?

We’ve got almond butter, cashew butter, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter… all manner of exotic butters here.

And in another commercial, –and I’m not sure I really heard this correctly– but is there really silicone in conditioner? Wouldn’t that tend to make you waterproof you and make it hard to get stuff off your hair next shower?  They don’t advertize that as a feature.

I dunno. I really don’t envy the majority of people who have to spend time in the hair products aisle at the store. It seems like a jungle filled with sweet-scented, colorful flowers and such. Each one a trap waiting to clamp down on your hand until you give up the contents of your wallet.

Immune, I pass through these aisles if I think I see band-aids at the other end that have cartoon characters on them. (my kids run through those things like they’re candy or something. But that’s another post, maybe)

I really do feel like most of my friends are being taken for a ride by all the commercials that show smiling women flipping their thick hair around.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to watch those commercials. Ironically, I have a thing for hair. And apparently I’m not the only one. There are a LOT of those commercials.

I do get that advertising ingredients like ammonium stearate probably won’t bring a lot of people in. But advertizing for stuff you can find in Produce?  Won’t that make someone just pick up a little extra there?

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the pissing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how ‘coffee in’ leads to ‘coffee out’,
I doubted if it should be long before I would be coming back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
To someone to someone who has no interest:
Two urinals divided by a piece of wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made absolutely no difference

…NOT Robert Frost

My general impression of Paris was that it is a very large, very old, very cosmopolitan city.  With a lot of tourists (like me!) roaming the center.  And folks there sure do love their pastries.  As they should.  Their pastries are awesome!

The first time I was there, I was technically not a tourist.  I was working.

I was sent to help demo a hardware/software solution at a TV/Video trade show called SATIS.  I spent a week and a half with a group of resellers, setting up their rack and the booth on the trade show floor, training a couple of people and then smiling and demo’ing.  I had one day in between setup and the show where I got to be a tourist, so I went to the Louvre.

Due to the hotel near the convention center being booked, I got a room a few kilometers away, in Montparnasse.  I found out during my stay that Montparnasse is kind of the sex/drugs/rock-n-roll neighborhood.  My first clue was a a storefront around the corner from the hotel with a sign simply labeled “Sexe”.  There were tourists and working Parisians wandering the sidewalks, but it did seem like there were a few more artistically dressed folks sprinkled in than in other areas I saw.  Nevertheless, I never felt unsafe or out of place.

Except once.

I believe it was the evening after I had visited the Louvre, so I was a little tired and my head was still buzzing from the spectacular art and the superlative double-espresso I had picked up from a street-side stand.  I didn’t want to try to inflict my stunted French upon an unsuspecting garcon, so I walked a few doors down to a small supermarket.

I thought I’d pick up something I could boil (my room had a tiny kitchenette), some snacks and chocolate.  I was really Jonesin’ for chocolate.

It was about as you’d expect; close shelves with a lot of boxes, bags and a little fresh fruit that all had labels in French, many of which I could not translate (I know!  It’s like those French have a different word for EVERYTHING).  I picked up one of those little basket-things at the front and headed in.

I decided to try for something mild and familiar to me: pasta!  I found some dried tortellinis, some crackers, apples… chocolate and a small bottle of wine.  I was wandering around, guided by my appetite, when I noticed there was a guy staring at me.

I was already aware that I was dressed like a tourist; not as formally dressed as the locals, in a nylon rain jacket, jeans.  I looked American.

I figured this guy was just irritated that an ugly American was invading his favorite store.  So, I casually moved on and became engrossed in the cookies.

And there he was again, staring at me from the end of the aisle.  This time, I met his gaze.  I fired back a casually disinterested look.  And moved on again, to the fruit.

At this point, I should describe my assailant.  He was about average height, average build.  20-something.  Buzz-cut and a nylon flight jacket.  The kind that skinheads traditionally wore during that period of the late 90′s.  He wasn’t bigger than me.  He didn’t look particularly threatening.  I just felt like I was a long way from home and I didn’t need to get caught up in any kind of altercation –particularly one that could involve local law-enforcement.

I spent awhile pondering the pears or something, while keeping the corner of my eye on the skinhead.  He looked a couple more times, and then decided to take his purchases to one of the the check outs.  I gave it a couple more minutes and then took mine to the other check out.

I put my stuff on the little counter and got them totaled up.  When I pulled out a credit card, the checker explained to me (slowly) that I needed to spend at least 100 Francs before I could use the card.  I decided to go back and grab more cookies, because I was close.

And wouldn’t you know it, just as I turned to go back into the store; there was my skinhead, smiling.

“Oh, he was just saying that you need to spend a hundred Francs…” he lisped.

All of a sudden, he was a completely different stereotype.  His gestures became swishy, his accent tinged by S’s.  Before I could tell him that I understood the checker, he explained that he was from Vancouver, that he would just buy my groceries and we could have a nice dinner at his place around the corner.

It took me a moment to compose myself, snort a bit of something deeper into my left sinus and decline, mumbling something about how I had a lot of work to do at the hotel this evening…  I may also have begun scratching myself and chewing [imaginary] tobacco like a baseball player.

Before I could thank him for his kind offer (to do god-knows-what to me), he was gone.  Poof!

I must admit, I was bewildered the rest of that evening, as I chewed my underdone tortellinis and sipped something red.  It wasn’t that I had been hit on by a gay man, so much as the intensity of the come-on.

So what, that he was gay?  So what, that he thought maybe I was?  Whatever.  I couldn’t tell that he was gay, so I couldn’t blame him for not being able to detect that I wasn’t.  Humans have muddled their mating dances to the point that the whole thing is a crap-shoot for every one of us.

I completely misread this man’s intentions.  Instead of displaying some sort of bright plumage or dancing in a convenient clearing, he was hiding in the costume of a completely different tribe.  Had it been a simple matter of him performing some kind of display like a randy Bird of Paradise, I could have simply ignored him and he would have understood.  It would have been less personal.  Less confused.  We both could have avoided that awkward close-range exchange.

I do hope he found someone for dinner.  And I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings too much.  He was probably a very nice guy.

Unless that was all just a ruse, to lure me away so he could clobber me with a tire-iron and steal my cookies.  Bastard.

It was discreetly tucked inside the nostril; not where the general public could see it. However, it caught the attention of our youngest. I believe she was on my wife’s lap at the time and realized she had an ideal view of said booger.

“Mom, you need a nentist!” she said.

“What’s a n–” was as far as she got before she realized that a nentist extracts boogers. Barehanded.

For free.

No copay, and without anaesthetic.

We now have micro-sized mats in the urinals.  They look just like little, green bath mats.  And they’re cheerfully scented!

It’s just  little overwhelming, when you’re already being assaulted by the usual public bathroom aromas from the stalls, to be have a potent citrus smell rise up and flood the rest of your olfactory spectrum.

I have so many questions about these things:

1. Why are they textured with little spikes?  Is this for better foot stimulation?  Traction?
2. Who thought that a blast of citrus would mix well with the ubiquitous odor of nervous farts and pre-chewed high-fiber cereals?
3. Why is the manufacturer’s name and phone number printed on the mats?  I can barely contain the urge to phone up JaniSan and commend them for these citrus-scented little wonders, “Yes, I’m peeing on it RIGHT NOW!  Yes!  They are fantastic!…”
4. And just what was the reason to put the mats in anyway?  To filter what goes in?  I don’t even want to think about that.
5. And lastly, does JaniSan have accessory foot-straps for these?  I would be the envy of all, seen toddling around the office with these little beauties stimulating my tootsies with every step.  “Gee, your feet smell great!  Where’d you get those?”  and I would reply, “Pull out your phone.  I’ll lift my toes.  Here’s the number.”

As my questions will likely go unanswered, I guess I’ll continue to resist my baser urges toward the crass performance art and just use the mats as they were designed.

But seriously, am I the only one who finds these things kinda odd?