Yesterday I was in traffic behind a guy in some kind of Baretta/Starski and Hutch-type car(forgive me, my automotive ignorance is showing)-something in pristine condition for how old it was. Great red paint. Wider-than-normal tires I'm sure he believed capable of smoking any one of us at the suburban stop light. So proud was he of the extra pings the engine made on acceleration. And then I noticed it: a doll hanging from his rear view mirror. Not a blow up doll or supermodel-joke, but one of those four-inch porcelain Victorian dolls with the frilly dresses. Red. To match, of that I am certain.
Now, this could have been his wife's car, but it really screamed male-overcompensation-or-mid-life-crisis. Why the doll? I have no idea, but I'm sure an entire story could be built around it.
Also, yesterday, I stole a couple of hours at the coffee shop to write. Thinking I was thrumming on the right cosmic chord because they were pimping the latest Elvis offering to celebrate his 75th (I thought I was in writing heaven), when I spy-indeed-a pimp. Or, the Sunday morning version. Electric purple three-piece suit with tails, foxy glasses, animal fur-trimmed hat. This dude was dressed for the Lord, his just-shined shoes tapping out Baby, I Wanna Play House. After that, I knew I was in writing heaven. Life was handing me inspiration wrapped in a handsome bow of fashion courage. LOVED it. The next latte is on me, Sir, and you can teach me how to have the courage to go out in public in my ski-gondola-patterned jammie bottoms.
There is another writer with another white cat around these parts (Hi, Rick!). Meet Rocco, the newest feline rescue at Casa Vortex:Yes, he's laughing with you. I think.
The hunka, hunka burnin' question today: Why the doll?