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Just a thought…Mayans and many mexicans today still have a delicacy of quail in rose petals….wow, they can say their fecal matter smells like roses and be honest….are there any more cultures that have such delicacy? Let me know…interesting

He arrived 20 minutes late slowly cutting his way through the crowd of people leaned against walls, seated two to a chair, and kneeled on aisle floors, claiming whatever crevice available outside the auditorium. His footsteps respected the singing high school choir falling softly despite a bad hip. There was no way to miss his oversized pink blazer as he stopped half way up the middle to scan the room. He smacked as he looked and I swear I could feel the film of heavy spit build up a wall in the front palate then sucked to the back of his throat sliding down for miles. He smacked, licked the front teeth, and smacked again, holding mine and every viewer’s gaze a couple of milliseconds longer than the rest.

Once finished, he passed his hand through the gelled mane of silver white hair contrasting his brown almost black skin. Baldness was not a hereditary issue ever looming in the back of his mind, or for that matter, in front of his nose. The mop of brittle frizzy nose hair rooted out past his lips in faux pa proportions. I knew I was staring too hard when he caressed them down and looked around. He was still in the middle of the room when the next choir group marched in, just in time to see his granddaughter. He pulls from underneath the pink blazer a Sony 3.0 mega pixels, cassette format, handheld and walks right behind the conductor. It was the only place to film his granddaughter properly and then turns the camera on the audience. What the…?

By all intent and purpose, this character made himself grotesque in the eyes of everyone in the room. The second adjective, however, was totally up to the viewer. Grotesquely ugly, to the people behind him who couldn’t see their children and did arrive on time. Grotesquely obnoxious, to the pianist and director who didn’t appreciate his near presence. Grotesquely present, to the child who beamed and didn’t need to say, “That’s my grandfather!” Grotesquely vain, to the woman ignoring the evil looks all the while thinking, “Where the heck was I when he bought that pink blazer?” But to me, he was grotesquely real. When I stared, he stared back; when I smiled, he filmed back; and when he was the topic of conversation, he acknowledged and moved on. I leaned over to whisper in my boyfriend’s ear, “That’s you when you get older. I don’t give a, I’ve done my time, and I get the front seat regardless of what you think. Just make sure to trim your nose hair.” He laughed.

For my grandfather, who loves me and gave me the same defiant love and affection

I know to some people it is on the odd side of the world but I love waking up at 4 or 5 in the morning when the thick black of night starts to slowly thin out to gray. The tints are spectacular. The sparkle of the stars fades, and I wonder what God is thinking as I watch the gun streaked sky turn bashfully pastel gray. The biggest magic trick: watching the gray blanket turn clear blue with peach, pink and violets streaks. Even though I drive through downtown, I feel the world slow down, the air purify and a Mona Lisa smile on the face of the world. The cavemen understood and knew their existence every day when they woke up and wondered about their next meal or how to cure a tooth ache. How privileged can I be to feel alive just by witnessing the splendor of the morning? I don’t have to wonder where my next meal comes from, how my health is, and how I am going to survive. The sunrise reminds me of that every day and for that I truly have to be thankful. I wonder if God is letting us know how wonderful our life really is.