Goin’ to church

Goin’ to Church

I experienced a more urgent ‘get up and go somewhere’ this morning.  Obediently, I got ready and closed the door on the pre-kenneled pups, with a treat, and off I went.  Two minutes down the road I passed an older gentleman impersonating Paddington Bear.  His beard rivaled ZZ Top, an unbuttoned denim shirt tucked into khakis, and a soft, brown felt hat made him cute and approachable. 

I turned around to offer him a ride, but he was so complimentary of the jeep that it appeared he forgot he was walking.  He focused enough to explain he had another block or two to walk, but appreciated the offer, and was quickly back to the jeep.  We shared stories of the canyons and lakes that I’ve recently discovered, for him a long history of exploring the mountain’s bellies. 

He mused that Texas produced a lot of pretty ladies.  I assured him that I’ve got three failed marriages to demonstrate “It ain’t all about looks, bother”.  He stood at attention, placed his hat reverently shielding his heart, and started singing “All my ex’s Live in…”.  I’d never put two and two together, but I could probably write my own songs. 

As we parted, I latently asked his name.  As he trudged on behind me, he hollered Robert Church. 

“Cool name!” I hollered.  He turned back and continued, “Yeah, but people think I got religion with a name like that.  My religion is ridin’ in that jeep you got.”

Which made me think.  The jeep is a representation of my perfect woman:  little rough around the edges; doesn’t cost much to maintain; likes getting dirty; black; has a few screws loose.

Regarding the color.  If you’ve been around me for long, you’ve heard me sometimes wish I was black.  Three reasons.  I’d look good dancing.  I could do really cool hair.  If I lost my hair, I’d look even cooler bald.

It is scientific fact:  80% of white bald guys look like criminals or like they should be playing the jug in an Appalachian porch band.  100% of black bald guys look bad-ass.

I do think white men suffer from gravity more than black men.  All the hair from our heads gets drug down to our faces, looking like a melting stalactite.

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