Well, well, well...well? How are you? I sometimes take up so much time writing silly little ditties and dotties that I forget to ask how you are, semi-loyal reader?
Is everything going alright? If it's going, is it going alright? Or could it be better?
I'm guessing it's probably a little bit of column 'A' and a little bit of column 'ah, who gives a shit.' I always hear that 'everything will be fine.' Don't worry, 'everything will be fine.' Will it? How much do I owe ya for the visionary gaze into my future, oh deity of unending optimism?
I'm guessing that the person that thinks that 'everything will be fine' will also be the first viewer in their neighborhood to turn on the Oprah Channel. It's called OWN. Ya better OWN up to watching it, or else.
Ah, I'm only playing, my little Russian nestling dolls. No need to fret, or to further nestle, for everything will be alright. How do I know? Take this little yarn for example. I don't need it anymore, I've had it in my pocket for awhile and it's useless to me.
Here's the yarn: Today I sped along some highway over here, basically pulling a Tom Cruiser around town, sans the luscious man-mane and addiction to Zenu Warrior Alien Princesses. So I was speeding into town cause I had to be somewhere. You know how that goes. You've gotta speed to get there if the place you need to be is far away and you are further. So I really put the petal to the metal. It was a rose petal, and it crumpled under my foot as I slammed on the gas.
And as I did so, I decided, what high-speed speed-off is complete without a little Kenny Loggins' 'Footloose.' Bam. Flipped that on the ol' itunes radio converter dealie that goes through the cigarette lighter. Ya gotta toss on Kenny Loggs when you're going places. And I did.
As I was zooming by school zones and by old people and children, and then there was one of those pesky-ass lights up ahead that changes colors and goes from green, to yellow, to red. Wellp, this one changed colors to red and I remembered that red meant to stop. Don't ask me how I knew that, but I did.
I slams on the brakes and skidded into the middle of the intersection. Whatever. People could go around, I was only in a jeep, the thing is like 6 feet long. Go around, I motioned to people. Kenny Loggs blared on the speakers, telling me kick off my Sunday shoes. Geez, la-weez.
A trucker comes barrelling toward me, so I was like, okay, fine, I'll back up. Kenny Loggs wouldn't back up for this joker. But I'm not Kenny Loggs. But I'm kinda like Tom Cruiser in that I love doing all my own stunts. Like throwing it in reverse and backing up. Helluva stunt, and I did it, all by myself. Safe and sound. Well, that is until I smashed into the front of an expensive Ferrari circa 1985 model that came outta damn nowhere from behind me.
What kind of idiot drives behind me in that kind of car and doesn't get outta my way when I'm backing up? I had to find out. I stepped out of my jeep and went to investigate.
At the wheel of said 1985 circa Ferrari? Kenny Loggins. He looked exactly the damned same. Hair, beard, beer in his hand, white tank top, acid wash jeans. I strolled up to Logggins. I didn't have a shirt on or else it woulda been tucked in, meeting Loggins is kinda a big deal. But I strolled up to him and his Ferrari, eyed the damage. Saw Kenny take a sip of his Pacifico, in a bottle, mind you. I made it to his driver's side door. Looked down at him, smiled.
He looked at me, sun glaring on his face, in his eyes, all up in his Pacifico. And he said to me, 'That song bought me this car. Watch watch where you're going, butthead.'
He then peeled away, around my jeep and out of sight. That was the last I saw of Loggs, but I'll never forget his encouraging words, and his fascination with Pacifico bottles. When you really sit down and think about the words he spoke, their meaning is deeper than any bluebonnet sonnet around.
'That song bought me this car. Watch where you're going, butthead.'