SoCal Dreamin'

On such a summer's day

It’s 1:38 am on a Wednesday morning in southern California. I can hear the soft droning of cars from my bedroom window. I don’t think I’m supposed to like it, and yet I always have. When I was a kid I loved the smell of gasoline and I somehow knew I shouldn’t admit it. It was like enjoying the smell of your own fart; except it was enjoying the fart of the earth.

You know how they call some people, “salt of the earth”? Well, I think people from southern California are “fart of the earth”. I don’t even mean that as an insult; as you can tell I find odd things appealing: or so I’m told.

So, what do I mean when I say people from southern California are “fart of the earth”? I don’t know: let me make something up right now, will you?! Jesus, I’m trying to relax with this writing prompt and you’re all over me.

Ah yes, earth farts. Well, I think it is obvious to all that southern California is completely consumed by car culture. And by car culture, I mean gas fumes, and by gas fumes, I mean earth toots. We live and breathe earth’s farts here. Our kids are so demented by it that they grow up thinking it smells good, like fucking psychopaths. You see: the fart of the earth pervades our senses for our entire lives.

As we ingest it, it mutates our DNA, turning us into fiends that can only survive on an increasing density of farts. Fetuses in the womb crave earth farts here. And in the same way that we crave nature, because we are nature: We crave car fumes because you see, we truly are... the fart of the earth.

*Takes a bow*

Thank you. Thank you. That’s enough, please sit down.

watercolor of my parent’s backyard

Ok, but really though— Despite having just blown through a philosophical watershed moment, I would like to also share that I am enamored by the utility pole that dominates the upper right quadrant of my parent’s backyard. My mom says it’s an eye sore. And despite her contrasting normalcy: I get it.

Whenever I’ve looked at the utility pole, I see a puzzle of geometric shapes. A striking silhouette in the evening; An inviting nostalgia; Memories, coming-of-age inside this filthy concrete jungle. Memories of sniffing farts. Hey! Earth farts, okay? I’m not an animal and this is not where I would admit to smelling my own farts, I fully intend to read this in front of a live audience someday and I’m not that stupid.

Ok so, look— I get it. You’re sick of me rattling on about farts. “You’re cultured”, I get it. You need to be stimulated on a “higher level” like some mental pervert. It’s fine. IT’S FINE. I too thrive on high-brow culture. I went to an opera once you know.