Early Morning Epiphanies

Everyone knows all the best ideas come after 1am. Always.

Start an offshore bank account in the Caymans. Write a book about an Amazonian river dolphin named Tim. Start a circus of flying squirrels and train them to steal people's wallets while one is jumping through a flaming soda can hanging from a birdcage.

The possibilities are limitless.

For instance. Let's say you write a blog. It's past 1am, and you think to yourself, "Self, you are indeed thinking to me, and you should write a blog about this genius idea you just had." Then, instead of writing about that genius idea, you write about having genius ideas after 1am and chalk it up as some misguided attempt to inspire the masses. Good work self.

Here are some more successful ideas:

Bringing your pet monster on your road trip of the UK.

Telling Coco he was adopted, and that you were the one who farted.

Poorly photoshopping tea pots on Mr. T photos and then calling him to gloat.

Getting rid of those hairy pits the FUN way.

I love weed whackers!

Waking up can be a challenge. But, waking up is just one of those things we all have to do. So, if it's got to happen it should be under favorable circumstances. Well, I am so blessed on certain random weekday mornings.

I used to be a landscaper. Let me start with that. It is an admirable profession. It takes creativity, physical strength, patience, and if you're paying for it, plenty of money. Now there happen to be some very zealous landscapers who work on the complex next to my house. They love weed whackers. I love weed whackers. We all love weed whackers. So, what better to wake up to in the morning that that melodic hum and grind of a 1.5 liter weed whacker engine? It's great.

I don't need my alarm clock. It gets drowned out anyway. And, if I try to be sneaky and sleep in, the weed whackers come closer to my room window to make sure I don't get lazy. Next thing you know, they'll bring me weed-whacked vegetable omelettes. They are so good to me. Sleeping in past 7:20am is just not in my best interest, and they know it. Even if I went to bed only a few short hours before, it's a new DAY! Sunshine! Rise and shine! And look, your neighbor's lawn is nice a groomed for the third time this week. 

I know why they're coming over so much too. Pretty soon it will be winter, so they're in overhaul mode during fall to get paid as much as possible even if there really isn't anything worth whacking. That seems only fair. It's not what needs to get done that matters, it's how many times you can trick people into paying you for the same job, as long as they believe its necessary. And I know, they need to feed their little ones, and that's more important than my sleep or state of mind. Bless them.

I'm sorry breakfast

Breakfast. I remember you. We had some great times together. I would saunter from my early morning sleep-induced zombie coma to you at the table. We would sit and stare at one another. You would smell good and I would just grumble and glare. You were hot and I was disheveled. But we got along so well. You awoke me to a bright new day, and I started to open my swollen eyelids and realize I was still alive. Thank you breakfast.

But now we have become less intimate. Sometimes I see you, other times I don't. I don't help you exploit chickens anymore. I help you exploit cows and grains, and occasionally banana trees. 

But it's all business now. I don't stare at the wall and back at you with my usual dazed confusion. I'm quick and methodical. Uncaring. I don't spend as much time with you because you bore me. You are a chore. You're a simpleton now. We can't even carry on a decent conversation. I'm sorry breakfast.

The Morning After

Today is like the morning after. The streets are quiet, the drunks are still konked out, and the merriment has subsided. We had to take out the trash and do the laundry and tidy things up a bit to leave the cabin this morning, and now I'm just idling by the Silver Maple again, waiting for the load of laundry to finish a block down the street. The vendors are mostly still asleep, and having already bought a Hawaiian backpack and some books from the library, I think I've done my duty.

Among the books I purchased were biographies of James Dean, Winston Churchill, Benjamin Disraeli, and Henry Kissinger. I also got a book on Australia circa 1968 (I don't think much has changed since then - well, that's not true, but it had cool pictures). The books cost five dollars in total, and the backpack cost fifteen dollars. I needed to buy the books to fill the backpack. Made perfect sense. Oh, and I bought a photograph of the Bridgeport valley with the sawtooth ridge in the background. That will be shipped to me, and in a week will cost me forty bucks, but it's signed and I'll put it in my room or office. The lady who sold me the picture is from Lemoore, California, just fifteen minutes or so west of Visalia where my Dad grew up and around which most of my family lives. So, the world grows smaller.

I have no real anecdotal irreverence this morning, but I'll fill your basket or bucket soon.