You've gotta love those days when you go through your busy routine, doing your thing all over town, only to discover, afterward, you've had an eyebooger playing stowaway, or that a zit the size of Asia had materialized over your forehead. Especially nice are when such occasions include a significant other, or, worse, a potential. Oddly, these days have a habit of supplanting those that are supposed to be the exact opposite -- birthdays, graduations, vacations.
My contretemps occupied the last category: vacation day. It was the same vacation, in fact, in which the Almighty decided to enlighten me on the intricacies of patchouli. The morning of the twenty-eighth, as I readied myself for my impromptu and aimless beach getaway, a phrase popped into my head, as phrases have a way of doing, in my case: "Is just spit I wipe off my chin." It's a song lyric, actually, Skid Row, "Riot Act". Classic album, if you're into early-nineties metal.
The phrase looped through my cranium all morning as I slaved to my grind, and I thought both nothing and everything of it, a kind of listless zen. At one point -- an early point -- I remember blowing my nose, a nonevent. I went places, I saw people, I had face-to-face social contact; and then, my obligations done, I went home, intent on loading up my truck and hieing off on my halfcocked trip. I bee-lined for the bathroom beforehand, however, and after doing my necessaries, I stole a glance in the mirror. And what did I find clinging for dear life from the forest of stubble over my chin? Not spit, no, better: a little arachnid glob of snot, an apparent misfire when I'd blown into the Kleenex hours earlier.
It wasn't a direct hit, but it was uncannily close. And who's to say Sebastian Bach's said spit wasn't, in fact, mucus? The two can look remarkably similar ...