Memory Games ...

I was on a crowded bus this morning and I noticed a woman standing beside me in the aisle. Actually, sitting down, I couldn't help but notice her because of her oversized booty in my face threatening to let loose a killer explosion of fumes which would tear the fabric of her tight fitting jeans and possibly give me an irreversible exfoliation equivalent to that of being dipped into a vat of acid. But there was something about her that was trying to force a buried memory to the surface in my mind. It had taken me a few minutes until my eyes were drawn to her long bleached hair, more distinctly the hundreds of tightly wound braids that looked to be quite painful if a strong enough wind were caught up in them. And it was a very uncomfortable feeling I sensed as I studied the tightly wound strands of hair growing out from her scalp, obvious that it had been hours--possibly a over a few sessions--of painstaking labor as this woman sat in a vinyl chair infront of a mirror at the Weave-o-rama Hair Salon and Nail Painting Emporium.

Still the memory was lodged in my mind, hiding under the surface like a shark in the Florida waters. I continued to study this woman's hair. Wound as tight as Juan Valdez on crack, the braids cascaded from the top of her head in long uninterrupted strands towards her protruding denim stretched ass. The tips of the braids were coming undone, giving more of the impression of a horse's tail. Upon closer inspection (she was only standing six inches from me. It wasn't like I intentionally had my face in her ass) each strand of unbraided hair looked like a stiff straw of hay, possibly brittle to the touch. It sort of reminded me of and old frayed pillow, it's stuffing poking through a broken seam.

Seam? Pillow?

Slowly, the memory...or at least an image...started to emerge. Like Michael Jackson's face on a humid afternoon, layer upon layer began to peel away, revealing what lie beneath. And it suddenly dawned on me, what I thought was this life altering realization that had been blocked in the depths of my mind, was nothing more than a recent visit to the Burlington Coat Factory and my pure hatred for the Christopher Lowell Home Fashion Collection it carries.

A while back, I went to the Burlington Coat Factory in the Gallery at Market East here in Center City to look for sheets. I had no idea what I was about to walk into as I stepped onto the up escalator and headed for the Home Department. As my head crested the 3rd floor, I was floored by the garishness that spread out before me like like the Vegas chorus girl costume graveyard. Everywhere I turned I was assaulted by gold satin-like fabrics on pillows, sheets, curtains, lampshades...all with burgundy accents...and tassels! tassels on the edging of the pillows, tassels dangling from the lampshapes, tassels on the bathtowels, tassels on the sheets, tassels on tassels! Tassels tassels everywhere!!! So many choking hazards for the children of the tacky people who actually like this crap!!!

Christopher Lowell--the Grace Adler of cable-tv--where any interior decorating problem can be cured with four simple words: "Tassels and Up-Lights".

They hung from shelves like the dying fingers of the martian emerging from the space ship in the last scene of War of the Worlds (the original version). they glittered like tentacles of some creature in an underwater drag show.

As I cautiously made my way down the aisle, hoping to discover plain white sheets somewhere among the glittering tassel-filled world of Christopher Lowell, I avoided the shelves as if touching one of these horrible accessories would send me whirling into one of those Caligula-like sets Christopher Lowell's always dreaming up on his set. His commercials used to be on every station, playing every hour. But he had soon disappeared off the airwaves and out of my head...until now!

And here I sit, weeks, possibly months later, and it all comes rushing back to me now, thanks to the tightly woven braids of a woman riding the bus.