Spitball Army

The gym smells of foot fungus. A sloppy white chin smudge decorates the arm curl pad. I scan the room for a clown with big shoes.

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I. Father was born beneath the sway of California palms; in death, he is surrounded by their less majestic South Carolina cousins.

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The strand of coastal asphalt vanished from sight to the north and to the south. Before him, the great sea. Behind him, the past. On Highway 1, Carlsbad/Leucadia, Calfornia. December 1978   (photo: spitballarmy.com)

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Sixty hours after the tetanus shot, he was still feeling light-headed, like a continuous pot buzz without the giddy enjoyment.

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This week I picked up the November issue of Uncut, the one touting Jack White as the “Man of the Decade” on its cover. That was intriguing enough. But what really grabbed my attention was their list of “THE 150 GREATEST ALBUMS OF THE 21ST CENTURY…SO FAR!”

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The #balloonboy episode now seems to equal that plastic bag from American Beauty in cultural relevance – empty and drifting away.

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He wiped-out at the base of the slope, yet insisted on one more run. By the time our lift made the summit, he’d forgotten my name.

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