FRIDAY, 5 MAY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA ¡CINCO DE MAYO! ¡OLÉ! ¡OY VEY!

My Secret Pokémon Power today is that I can entertain myself all by myself juuuust fine. Don’t need no help from nobody. I’m sure you have an anecdote or twelve from some point in your life that, when you care to recall it, never fails to send you into paroxysms of laughter. And perhaps you have been walking along, alone, minding your own business, quietly enjoying the lovely spring afternoon, and one of these anecdotes comes unbidden into your head. And you stop. And you … sorta … clutch your chest. And laugh. Maybe snort, if you’re that sort. And just then your boss or worst enemy or that special someone you’re trying to impress happens by and sees you shaking jelly-like on the concrete apparently enjoying something tremendously. … and then they quickly scurry away. Yah, well — “Dogshit n’ Jericurl”, man. Does it to me every time. Let’s set the scene: New Orleans. Portia and I fly down and are driven about town by The Divine Miss Niki who has a rental car due to an accident. The rental car has marinated in baby powder and Jericurl, it seems, and the aromes were permeating our souls. No, but I mean like in a bad way. Really, really stinky baby powder (which is one of the most odious odours one can encounter) and this … sebaceous, fonkay, coconutty Jericurl thang goin’ oan. That alone is enough to make me laugh because Porsh and Nix are two of the most stylish girls I know and work themselves like it t’aint nobody’s bidnith, ‘Quishi — and to put these two superstar divas into a rental car that smells like — (oh gawd, I’m laughing as I type this) — baby fucking powder and jeri fucking curl — well let’s just say, the context was all a-whackèd. So we’re darting about N’awlins and we’re walking somewhere and we get back in the car and we start driving again and we’re laughing because the car still smells like — (I’ve literally got tears in my eyes right now) — babypowder! and Jericurl! — (SCHNORK!) — and Nix and Porsh are still all a-stylin’ despite the indinities of the aromes and suddenly another contending fragrance cautiously introduces itself into the air and everyone immediately looks at their boots and from the backseat we hear a quiet, calm, “It’s mine. I got it,” from Portia. Niki and I of course laugh like mad little things, or like people who were afraid for a moment they had shit on their boots, but then realised it was someone else. That kind of laughter: humour, joy, relief, sorrow. Portia is busy trying to get the damn boot off and eventually succeeds and holds it out the window as we tool through the slums of New Orleans, “boot akimbo”, and all the while the car is smelling more and more like a dog shat out a little black baby with a ‘fro and … I can’t write this thing right now. Hurting. Choking. Ahem. One cigarette later, he returns … … So we’re in this rental car filled with dogshit and Jericurl and babypowder and the different smells are battling one another. We could almost see and hear the bloody mêlée as the conflicting olfactory elements fought for victory. Then something verrrry interesting happened. All smells simply stopped. The lull before the storm. The eye of the hurricane. Jesus or Lazarus or Mazeppa, lying dead — briefly — before returning to life. Battle over. Mist settles on the meadow and swirls over the casualties. All is quiet and silent and ominous. The dogshit somehow canceled out the babypowder and Jericurl, and vice versa. The car was, if only for a moment, fresh as a … something really fresh. Who would be the victor? The answer came forsooth. It snuck back slowly, augmented quickly, and then filled the entire car. Ladies and gentlemen! In this corner in the brown shorts! DOGSHITBOOT! THA BEEG WEENAHH!