Serendipity

Why is there a picture of Salma Hayek?
Because she played Serendipity in Dogma. Duh.

The last couple of days I've had a mild cough that makes its presence known only rarely, yet when it does, it becomes an event, for there's a quiet, yet evident, raspy quality as if my throat, without my knowledge or blessing, has been subsisting on a diet of whiskey and cigarettes. Thanks to the paranoia generated by everyone's favorite military/industrial/entertainment apparatus, I get a gleeful kick out of those slightly askew glances whenever I force out an extra exhalation snug with the sound of gravel, a visage one sees whenever there is an unfamiliar person in their midst and they don't have the requisite information to navigate the waters of interaction, for even if said person was known to be an asshole, there are certain mechanisms at one's disposal to deal with such a dubious character. But the omnipresent fear of the unknown receiving the concrete projection of an newly existing dread, fueled by print media and television and grandmotherly concern? The inherent strength found in this primordial pit of despair is amplified into something beyond paralyzing. And I smile because they're in much more of a hurry to go away.

Of course, the cosmos, unconcerned as it is with our planet of dung-producing creatures, must cast a pall over my fun, such as this morning when I was crossing Chester Ave. and caught in the corner of my eye a white blob. From a distance, it appeared to be an exceedingly large package of mozzarella but turned out to be cotton, seemingly in the form of the innards of a stuffed animal. Lo and behold, a few paces further on there was the creature, sprawled out on the rain-dampened sidewalk next to a parked car, brutally sliced open, still smiling in its striped shirt, its tail still a curly fry, a poor, defenseless pig.

See what paranoia can do?

Between this scene and that of last Saturday where I passed, on the way to catch the bus home, St. John's Cathedral where, resting on the curb in front of the entrance was a bus plastered with beautiful ladies and ample cleavage not unlike the lovely and talented Miss Hayek above, a vehicle in the employ of Christie's Cabaret, ostensibly to shuffle patrons to and from their establishment and an air or carport. The parking lights were flashing, so I wasn't sure if it was pickup or delivery of a religious experience. What I am sure of is that I wish I had had a camera in order to document all this comedy.