Wednesday, August 3, 2005

The tender portion of my brain responsible for coherent thought has been shaken to its roots, rattled straight unto the very ends of Aunt Tilly’s stockings, but this handicap won’t stop me from communing with you tonight. Let me tell you, there were some sharply delicious bass frequencies during the wee hours of the morning, for which this building was essentially a box seat. They’re finally done with paving the roads, though, and I’d be thankful were it not for the fact that I’m mentally incapable of gratitude at this point.

If I put aside all talk of headaches and brain trauma, then I’m left with one image culled from yesterday. I was at Home Depot, such is the expansive framework of Internet advertising, trying to buy a gallon of blue paint for the office. It wasn’t a simple task, contrary to what I first assumed, and the half-hour trip dragged on to well over an hour. The long line certainly didn’t help.

The mere sight of dowels and miter saws will fairly ruin the pants of some people, so to those individuals I offer an advanced apology. I hate going to Home Depot, partly because I’m supremely ignorant about home improvement. The moment I step into the store, I wonder why they couldn’t have whittled an entrance that wends straight back to my car. Again, understand, I’m not given to the craft. I mean, I have trouble replacing light bulbs without having the damn things shatter in my hands. Turning on light switches? Forget about it.

But the hour went by quickly. Why? It was hypnotic watching the guy mix paint. His name was Dick. He was probably as old as paint itself, which implied he had a reason for being here. I mean, you can’t be 100 years old and work at a Home Depot because, you know, first job. Maybe he was trying to keep active, maybe he loved paint, I don’t know, but it was apparent he had the process ingrained in him. He seemed to go about it with a palpable sense of pleasure. Get the base, plug the codes into the machine, unscrew the lid of the paint can, mix, reseal, shake, show the finished product to the customer, send off the customer with a few wooden paint stirrers.

“Lifetime guarantee,” he’d say to every customer who bought Behr paint. “It’ll live as long as you will.”

I’m not sure what was so appealing. I think it was the repetition, the unhurried rhythm of the whole picture. Now, watching paint dry? That’s an entirely different matter. I also detect you wish to talk about grass and the growing thereof.