Jasper's Satellite

“It occurred to me . . . that without a doubt we sometimes eclipse our own dreams with reality.”

-Patti Smith, from M Train

This morning Bob from work said he only made it through ten years of construction work because he’d start every morning with a new pack of cigarettes, a Mountain Dew, and a pack of Twizzlers. Lora said she survived years on the rodeo circuits because of Kool Cigarettes, beef jerky, Mountain Dew, and a killer left hook.

After I heard this work became uninteresting, so I snuck out to the Circle K where I bought three Mountain Dews, some beef jerky and a pack of red Twizzlers. We ate and drank only a little for ceremonial purposes because eating like that after forty will lessen the chances of making it to fifty, let alone sixty.

As I was humming the melody to “Born to Run”, Lora said Bruce Springsteen makes her want to puke, which made me think about ripping the beef jerky from her teeth. I will admit I was surprised by her comment but then again she will vote for Donald Trump, even though Trump-style nineteenth century narcissists slaughtered her Cherokee ancestors and then force marched them on the Trail of Tears to Indian Territory. Bless her heart.

The other day I wandered downtown to a diner that has been there for eighty or so years. I ordered over the phone from the booth to a waitress I could hear through the phone but also just over the salmon-colored Formica divide a few feet away. That was kind of awkward so I just put down the phone and completed my order. For some reason I was in the mood for lemon pie (it was a diner after all). I'm almost sure it wasn't because it's the color of the bright January sun but one never knows. What is pie without coffee so I ordered a cup of overly hot and mostly bitter diner coffee. Back in the day cigarettes more than likely tempered the bitterness of coffee like that but I’m not sure. If only those cigarette stained walls could talk . . .

After that I went to the Salvation Army thrift store across the street, which I always love to do even though I rarely find anything. It's probably because I went there once and struck gold with a vintage motorcycle helmet, a kick-ass Nashville-style cowboy shirt with elaborate threadwork and piping, and a vintage bowling ball with bag. I remember trying to tie all that stuff on my motorcycle (including the bowling ball) which presented an obvious conundrum. I went around the block, nearly laying her down because the bowling ball leaned a little too much into the turn with me. So I returned it all for retrieval later with my Toyota pick-up.

Anyhow, yesterday I didn’t find anything, but I did enjoy talking to a tattooed lesbian behind the counter. For about the third or fourth time she tried to sweet talk me into buying a pair of ladies leather riding chaps which she knows are 1.) ladies riding chaps and 2.) way too small for me. Now that I think about it, it’s the only thrift store I’ve ever been to where they try to “sell” their merchandize.

I bumped into some big wig guy from work in there and he acted very awkward, almost ashamed, as if I discovered some big secret about him. I said, “don’t worry man, I won’t tell”, as he looked at my worn out 70’s biker jacket, dead man’s belt, and patched-over jeans with a sneaky smile.

I've been reading the rocker/poet/painter Patti Smith’s latest book called “M Train”. I'm about half finished and love parts but not all of it. Maybe it's a little too grey in Patti's world although she does have a way of making the grey sky almost blue. I have the sneaking suspicion she is a genius. I’m so far beneath genius level, so I'm probably not garnering the full goodness of her words. But one thing I understand with certainty is that when she says every once in a while reality does eclipse our dreams . . . I believe it.