Lusty Sandwiches

I try to keep my mind in a perpetual state of hypnotic mezmerism when I'm driving in an attempt to prevent sudden eruptions of road rage as a result of the abundance of churls occupying the freeways . Astonishingly, I am becoming quite skilled at it. I suffer from this anathemic illusion that keeps me terrified and as of late I have been consuming lots of orange juice which seems to produce an effect similiar, in a mild form, to lysergic acid diethylamide.

Outside the Oak Park Bibliothek today, the rain was sweeping down from the sky in soft gales as I ate my turkey sandwich from a bakery just around the corner, and I couldn't help but realize what a remarkable sandwich it was! Turkey breast on wheat bread with lettuce, tomatoes, Swiss cheese, cucumbers, mayonaise and honey mustard. A very basic concoction, yes, but I am a very persnickety sandwich eater and I seek out new places that make delicious sandwiches and frequent them. This was a superior turkey sandwich indeed. I was mildly annoyed with the fact that there was no seating or air conditioning within the establishment but, that forced me to gaze upon the lovely sylph working up a sweat to prepare the sandwich. The preparation of a sandwich can be viscerally and ocularly stimulating, with the exception of atrocity franchises such as Subway or Quizno's. Perhaps it has something to do with the tender slicing of bread without plastic gloves? It is incredibly erotic in conjunction with the presentation of the sandwich. She, wearing a fit, knee-length vulpine biege skirt with a black top revealing her porcelain shoulders and medium length dark tresses sweatily framing the contours of her face, lithesomely handed me the sandwich with a bewitching smile. I felt a rapacious, lupine desire to devour her mouth and reach my hand underneath her skirt, peeling off the layers of tight material that clung her moist, glabrous flesh. Alas, only bosh inertia followed and it was simply like any other transaction made on a daily basis.

the Attorney

I drove up to the attorney standing akimbo at Terminal 2A, O'Hare airport. A very voluble girl indeed, so much, so that I simply have to insouciantly and laconically nod and respond,"Yeah, uh-huh". It doesn't really matter what she is talking about and I don't really care, but proceed to methodically weave in and out of traffic, adroitly using one hand to switch blinkers and handle the wheel. As we gain speed heading southbound on the Kennedy I watch the road rise and fall in the early evening Friday night traffic. The diaspora of commuters resemble locusts fluttering about, the road breathing and rippling, like waves, against the vast Chicago skyline which melts into a rich orange and crimson mess. As the shadows widen across the pavement, I fall in a despondant reverie, her voice becomes quiet and shimmering, as if listening to someone talking with hands tightly clasped to ears.

Funhouse

It was something I couldn't really comprehend, the fact that Iggy Pop was sitting in the back of my black Lincoln Town Car, not saying a word except mumbling his approval of the Peruvian restaurant we passed on the way to the Congress Theatre. Within the theatre I observed a swarm of young fans climb up on stage and I secretly wished Iggy would proceed to start shoving them off, but unfortunately, he didn't. Afterwards, in the alley behind the theatre, a girl about 17 years old was offering me Jim Beam and begging me to let her ride in the the car with Iggy. About an hour later, he appeared and signed autographs and hopped into my car with his friend exclaiming the same thing Billy Idol said last summer, "Get me the hell out of here!" He was a bit more voluble on the way back, but not with me, of course. I actually prefer not to converse with any of the stars. I love the Stooges. I grew up listening to their records and still do. But I feel like there is nothing I can say, in that context, except marvel. The fact that he is sitting in the back of my car shatters the god-like image I had of him growing up. I feel like the stars see my car as a refuge from their rabid fans. They don't want the driver to be a fan as well, like there is no escape. Extremely successful people want to be tortured and humiliated. They're tired of having their meretricious asses kissed. They need that balance, you see. And I give it to them. It raises my spirits to that exalted, arduous state of heavenly effulgence.

MJ's Ex-Wife

I bought a new pair of pants with the cash tip that Michael Jordan's ex-wife gave me: a twenty, a ten, 2 fives and 10 ones. While she and her entourage were very kind, I must say I wasn't very impressed with Jordan's mansion. The facade looks like an art deco fortress, very cold and impenetrable with pine trees arranged to block views from neighbors, windows sealed shut with bulletproof steel blinds, giant refrigerator sized air conditioning units and a putting green in front with the branded initials: MJ. It must be an illusion, I thought to myself, surely the inside is a beautiful gilded palace. I carried their bags up to the front door and peered inside; it was just like any other large suburban house: a big platitudinous yawner. Meanwhile, Bob (the 2nd driver, whom has recently been fired) was visibly impressed and vigorously snapped photos with his cellphone, wearing his ragged pin-striped suit that draped over his starveling frame.