It was a lovely evening. It was not dark, nor was it stormy on the hillside overlooking the seashore in baltimore. We were drinking drinks. Tropical looking drinks. I often wondered about these so-called "tropics", but had never had the chance to go to them. My background tells me the people there probably look a lot like that little hawaiian punch guy, or Tattoo. I remember tattoo being in that commercial for dunkin' donuts. "da plain! da plain!". then he killed himself. but who wouldn't, if life became a mockery of itself where the roles of day and night and love and despair all became confused and lost in character withdrawal and set in-ice type casting in a pop culture which grows like strep on a petri dish. pop culture. i need an antibiotic.
so she was still there looking lovely at me. lovely. how trite. but she had lovely eyes and breasts. what is it with men and breasts. why do we love them. i don't know why. maybe the hawaiian punch guy does...everything is exotic in his perennial summer world.
so i asked her. "where does this tropical looking drink come from?" and she said "what?" and i said "yeah."
she began to explain how hawaiian punch-like people gather tropical fruit by hand, in the tropics. and then through the combined efforts of the production and supply process, the drinks end up in our hands. and our hands end up running through each other's hair. our hands end up lovely.
thanks to the hawaiian punch guy, we all get loved once in a while.