Whither the Wendys?
Another Friday in Los Angeles.
The fog lifts over the mid afternoon traffic like a Peking opera revealing a dancing Chou. The city sweats like a schizophrenic ferret trapped in a dryer. Set on high.
The people, trapped in their cars on the 405, ranting and raving because traffic sucks. I gaze at the smog. And I chuckle.
I sip some semi-flat Mr. Pibb out of a Big Gulp and contemplate the rare Wendys Hold + ‘Bag Hand Gesture that Flippy here is demonstrating for us.
Whither Flippy’s trip to Wendys?, I ask myself.
As he pollutes a sweet, soft ball of soft brown hair and large smile that looks cuddly and playful and a bit scratchy, I can’t help but wonder.
Was the Wendy’s run the pinnacle of the evening? Or an impromptu stop after winning the fuzzy dice at the local fair playing The Whack-a-Mole?
I know not how these formations occur in a society confused by fragment and disjoint. A culture overwashed by odors for sale on every street corner to embody the eros magnified by television and magazine.
But even flat, my Mr. Pibb consoles me.
For it is like Dr. Pepper. Only different.
