So I’m on the porcelain throne for the second time today and it’s only eleven in the aye-em. Apparently I imbibed too much Crown Black the night before. While perusing Juxtapoz, I hear Mrs. Peeps, my Boston Terrier, sigh heavily outside the door (she doesn’t like being alone). I smile, reach around the corner and twist the doorknob open. She meanders in and goes straight for the cotton hamper in front of the opposite bathroom door. I’d put the hamper there in anticipation of dropping a load into the washer after finishing my business. Mrs. Peeps sniffs deeply and repeatedly at the hamper. I am transfixed by her moment of Being and then struck by a correlation to my own existence. I wonder what it must be like for little Mrs. Peeps? What must this “bag of smells” be like to her? It must be like a magazine, like the Juxtapoz i hold in my hands but a thousand times better. It must be like a high-gloss … hell … HD movie/magazine all about her dear old Pop-Pop. I picture myself walking into a doctor’s office and finding a weekly-glitzy-Cosmo-y type magazine all about my dad. A magazine that tells me everything he did and consumed the previous week. Wouldn’t I be enthralled? Wouldn’t I just pick that magazine up and devour as much as I could, oblivious to everything around me, so caught up in the surprise of finding such a thing that it just consumes me until I’ve read or experienced every bright/insightful/dirty/shimmering detail? I think I would. Wouldn’t you?
