Look Sidewalker

The streets are lined with birch trees, the sidewalks are slabs of granite. The large smooth stones are splotched black with old chewing gum scars and deep wounds of grime, but by and large they remain intact. The Trees vary in age and size and occupy little blanks in the puzzle piece walkway that follows the road almost endlessly as it wanders around the city. There are a few places where the trees have grown to a ripe old age, their trunks are thick and fat with maturity and health, their roots expressing their will by dislodging the large granite pieces wherever they see fit. It becomes like a landscape in and of itself, some of the slabs point skyward at incredible angles, displaced solely by the roots of the birch tree. It's a beautiful thing to wander this modernist terrain, created by natures refusal to bend toward mankind's aesthetic principals; a blatant rejection of cages and convenience. It's like a memo in the "Inbox" of the city reading:

"Dear Civilization, you can have your way for now, but once your not looking I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want. Remember who lets you live here, bitches."

Or something like that...if nature was an asshole. Which i don't really think it is. Uncompromising, yes; unemotional, always, but a jerk? I dunno, jerks don't grow awesome things for you like marijuana and apples. Not that I'm back on the wacky weed or anything...I'm just saying.

So it's while I'm gliding down Alvarado ave, being as much myself as possible with my paper back copy of "The Hobbit" in my back pocket and all infatuated with the trees and my own cleverness, that I come upon a person that I have never seen before. He was legless, rolling through the intersection on a motorized wheelchair. It appeared, as he went by, that his head and chest where balancing upon a large jello filled pilates ball stuffed underneath his over sized orange T-shirt. His abdominals were lax from disuse and his face drawn and gaunt, his bulbous gut was no doubt a product of his involuntarily sedentary lifestyle. It made me quickly remember myself and my relative strength and ability, and made me recall the low times when I would moodily remark (to myself) that my body was a prison keeping me from a truer form of expression. Seeing this man reminded me that I am a complete ass (correct), and that if anyone had a right to gripe about physical condition it was this man and even then I bet he didn't. I reminded myself of the "posi-jack" philosophy on physicality;
" My body is my favorite toy" (in more way than just THAT way, you sickos )
and promised to run and swim and climb more trees.

Around that time I passed by a Mexican restaurant called " Colima 20" and remarked (to myself, maybe Mr.D) on the trend of L.A. restaurant chains to include their number in the signage. I suppose to give each particular location a certain identity. Like
" Hey where did you guys get those Burritos?"
"Oh we got them at Colima!"
"Not Colima 12, right?"
"No Colima 20, why?"
"Colima 12 sucks eggs, but the others are really good"
or something like that. I dunno, I still think it's a little weird. Maybe the owner just gets off on advertising how many "Colimas" there are. Like if he has twenty burrito places it must mean he is incredibly virile, with a ham sized peen.
I guess it could be like a scavenger hunt too, like if you did the top twenty "Colima" countdown you would get a special prize. Like a clown to live in your sewer.

This is generally what it's like inside my head as I walk down the street, I'm sure it's like this for you too. Maybe not the same, but similar. I used to think we were really different from each other, that I was unusual, but i don't think thats true anymore.No sir, I think we're more alike than we are different. In fact I don't think we're that different at all. Come 'ere and give me hug.