This is a commentary about the slow lane, about the slowing of time since I suffered a severe brain injury while skateboarding with my dog. This is a blog about recovery; about our '82 VW Westfalia. It's about writing, surfing, camping, married life, bleeding ulcers that make you feel old at 32; about family, friends, and my dog Artie; it's about cruising in fourth gear, getting passed by every car and learning to appreciate every second of it.
Seven junior high students stood next to me at the front of the class. I had finished my final presentation. The kids all seemed to be interested and kind. One of them asked what was the best skate trick that I had landed. I told him it wasn't the one where I avoid the cracks in the sidewalk while my dog pulls me.
Another kid came up to me. He was a short, mexican dude, his hair spiked with what must have been a bottle or two of hair gel.
"So, when you say you can't smell, like, does that mean you can put like dog shit up to your nose and you wouldn't even know?"
I looked around to make sure the kid didn't have a pile of shit in his hands before I answered.
"Yeah, that's what it means."
"Have you tried it?" He asked.
"Yeah, everyday I put a few turds up to my nose just to see if I can smell it or not."
He laughed. I did too.
As for my nosy nemesis at thedailysmell.com, her latest post has me pondering whether if I should ramp up the wi-fi war. Here's a little excerpt from one of her recent posts:
"I’ve noticed that my armpits stink like the stews I’ve been savoring, despite my use of deodorant. When you can smell yourself, it’s not good."
Is this supposed to make me feel sorry for the human bloodhound; her pits smell like a savory soup?
So, does that mean it's good when you can't smell yourself; when others have to let you in on the fact that you reek, or that there is a rotting carcass at your feet? Does that mean it's good to not ever know if you have a bag of dog shit in front of your nose?