Information Blues.

I woke this morning with a sleepy, gleaming idea: pancakes!

So I rolled out of bed and threw some together. I went a little crazy; my mixing bowl had vanilla, banana, raspberry, rolled oats, honey and molasses. They were hotrodded hotcakes.

I sat on the couch with cowlicks, spilling syrup on myself. Combined with a pint of coffee, the sun through the window, and Howlin’ Wolf live in Stockholm, it was a beautiful morning.

On the ride to work a man was driving a miniature street sweeper. He wore a dust mask and goggles, his sweeper looked like a tiny zamboni. He was exiting a parking lot as I rode by; I gave him a nod and he nodded back, a little surprised under his safety gear.

Then I halted a trash truck. I spun by and nodded at the driver, who was thick with tattooed forearms. He nodded back, because when I’m on my bicycle heavy equipment operators and I have something in common.

I was distorting my address for sport, listening to John Lee Hooker play with Canned Heat when my right eye filled with light. I was digging the distortions, turning myself into 80’s line art in Easter A’s colors; I distorted over and over, trying to choose the best one.

But my eye was really freaking out, so I took a walk around the block to look at the sky, focus on things distant. My vision was overexposed, stuck with light. The brightness settled in my forehead where it became a piercing headache.

I was out of order, blinding light stuck behind my eyes. I laid on the floor, I laid my head in my hands at my desk; I ended up passed out on the couch in the conference room. In times like these, when every second hurts, you’re reminded how lucky it is to be healthy. It’s too easy to take things for granted when nothing stings.

When I take things for granted I get in trouble. My focus zooms in and, without real perspective or wisdom, my mind seeks to digest itself. In a way, being ill for a while is like going to a movie or being immersed in a book, because when you return your perspective may be repaired, and for a while you can coast on the pleasant momentum of rediscovered self-orientation.

The first thing I did with my wellness, when it returned at 4pm, was get a haircut. I strolled over to Pete’s Barber Shop, in the alley, behind the locksmith, and sat down. I’m obsessed with old barbershop culture. I don’t know exactly how to conduct myself there and it freaks me out, yet keeps me coming back. I don’t know the language, and it sort of makes me feel like I’m not a man (in the traditional sense–because I’m not!), but I’m learning: “Inch off the top, keep it dark.” But the barbershop is a living strain of Americana, an unchanged thing. I can walk into Pete’s and get sheared by Pete himself for $10, which seems an unjustice, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Pete himself is in his 70’s and when you walk in he’s usually asleep in the chair with his mouth open. He cuts hair gesturally, takes his time. You can hear him work as he nods and hmms at critical junctures. He ponders you. He has hair clippings on his nose.

I was sitting in the spinning chair noting the flat pocket combs on the wall, the kind that are plastic ovals and look like 70’s shower traction. The spots on the cardboard where a comb had been sold said, “This comb sold” underneath; 30% were off somewhere, riding in pockets. I still felt nauseous from the headache, was aware of white noise lingering. I eyed the rack of Playboy magazines (the ones Pete always offers when you sit down.) The room is tiny, with barely enough room for two barber’s chairs and four fiberglass waiting seats across the way. When people are waiting they almost touch knees with the swiveling works in progress.

Ahead in the waiting area I noticed Pete’s lunch parked. It was something blended, a kind of power drink. He was hmm’ing with conviction now, I could tell he was nearly finished. I was thinking, “Pete cuts such good hair; he must have learned on an aircraft carrier.” He combed my hair sideways, diagonally, into a new wave config and handed me a mirror to check it out. “How’s it look? 100% better yes?” Yeah, except it looked startlingly bad: there was a huge area in the front he’d cut too short: a barren, deforested chaos zone. I gulped and told him, “Oh yeah, it looks great” while wondering internally whether I should ask him to buzz me right then.

I decided to gamble on Pete and his years of experience: my hair couldn’t really look as bad as it first appeared.

I was feeling old school, sort of hungry; I needed to eat something nutritous, grow some new hair. I crossed the street to buy a cheese sandwich from Fred’s Deli #2 Incorporated (that’s what the business licsense says.) They asked what kind of cheese I wanted, and I asked if they could mix it. The cashier announced my order, and the sandwich assembler felt puzzled.

“Assorted?”
“Yeah, just mix it.”
“A mix of white cheeses? A mix of orange?”
“Ah, just mix it up.”

They began dialoguing in a tongue I didn’t understand, to further expand on what mixing meant. A punk girl with Tim Burton style tattoos bought a six pack of cider as I waited; she had the Serenity Prayer scrolled in cursive around the grip of her lower back. My sandwich was done and I picked it up at the counter and Fred’s son winked at me, nodded what’s up, started doing this self patty cake routine, a series of symbols I couldn’t decipher.

Two pastry wreathes arrived at work this morning. One was butter walnut, the other a hybrid buttercream. I was feeling reckless–no tomorrow!–so I cut in.

Stemming from A Brand New Game, other practices have mutated. Besides the McDonald’s balls, we now have twelve green and yellow pieces of nerf cannon ammo in circulation. And a miniature, souvenir Giants bat. In my work room a jai-lai culture has developed, self-pitching nerfs off the brick wall to put into play with the mini bat. Ammo sprays recklessly.

This morning, high on two types of wreath, second cup of coffee, sitting here in the jai-lai court, not at bat but sitting at my desk, a nerf connected squarely with my crotch. It was an America’s Funniest Videos moment, a grade A spontaneous comedic disaster. I haven’t been assaulted in that area for so long but it’s still the same, the funniest funny bone, a collision that rings with paralysis like a tuning fork.

Stated Objective: Explore three (3) desert vicinities on knobby tires. Infiltrate local trails, get hurt, grow thighs. Catch air and document geologic formations.

Agents S_________, R______, and P________ formed the Color Country Sleeper Cell (hereafter referred to as the CCSC) to fulfill the Stated Objective. The sapphire Dodge 3500 rolled out of town lazily Saturday afternoon after a harried night of bike mechanics; Agent P________ had a new frame to outfit. Work began at 2am.

Sunday 2am found the CCSC parked at a rest stop outside of Flagstaff where they proceeded to lock down. Commencing lock down: auto door locks click. Agents went recumbent in sleeping bags on 3/4 length bench seats.

Sedona Operation:

“We rolled into Sedona and it was awesome. The valley looked like rock candy, and the dust under our knobbies seemed edible, like apricot fun dip. Outlying spires resembled drip sand castles.”

CCSC thawed and headed for Submarine Rock. Slickrock is fun to roll on and so scenic it looks like a prop by Disney, that animatronic fraggles may pop out out of trap doors to start wiggling at any moment.

Monday brought rain which turned to snow; CCSC must move, Pursue Stated Objective. On the way out of town, twisting out the valley to Flagstaff, snowfall increased until it was a winter wonderland and the Dodge 3500 became lodged in a snow drift after skating around a spontaneous traffic jam. Repeated moonwalking freed the van and it crested the valley, only to reach a paused interstate where it sat 45 waiting for plows to come.

Rolling over the Hoover Dam on the way to Boulder City Agent R______ took way too many pictures out the van window. This did not conform to the SO.

Bootleg Canyon Objective:

Bootleg Canyon is a mountain bike park. The terrain is hairy, a jagged slush of volcanic rocks and baby head boulders. Agents S_________ and P________ bombed the Downhill trails (Snakeback, Apocalypse, Diva to the Poop Shoot) while Agent R______ honed his skills on Girl Scout trail.

All three operatives climbed a windy goat trail to a raised bench area which featured soil diagrams of distant mountains. Las Vegas was visible to the West, a hazy mirage, while Lake Mead lied stilly West.

Bootleg Canyon had public showers, which aided the CCSC immeasurably, and hooligan teenagers who raided the complex at night; they lit fires in the girl’s bathroom and hurled baby heads at a glass brick wall while CCSC was frozen, locked down.

Target Saint George:

CCSC followed spray painted dots over beige slickrock, dropped down wash slots and rock steps on top of mesas. The mesas stood exposed like terrestrial organs, hard colored rock crowned with slick bone.

“I felt like Pacman, eating power pellets off the back of stone whales. The dots were whimsical, mazey, far out. Who knew Theseus was some MTBer with a spray can?”

Mission Notes:

Lock Down Coordinates: rest area, park dirt road, Bootleg lot, Zion lot, Walmart lot, Pilot lot; click!.

One week, two showers.

CCSC is prone to Del Taco, Green Burrito, Taco Bell, and the sampler aisles at Natural Foods Stores. CCSC was not injured on any mission, save for the dozen donuts challenge.

the EVIDENCE (recently declassified)

Signing off, locking down, reading fiction and eating chocolate under halogen lights until the next time we are Prepared to Meet The Objective,

the CCSC

Biking home today the weather was so balmy I wore a tshirt. The air was warm with the scent of cherry trees and jasmine. It felt like a wispy, lingering hug from a good smelling girl; I was smelling her neck no handed down Shafter Street.

Sure enough it’s hugging weather and I’d like a hug.