Thursday, August 30, 2007
ALBATROSS!
All roads once led to Rome. Rome fell.
All waters lead to the ocean. The ocean is falling.
Somewhere, this very moment, someone is trying a layup shot at a corner garbage can with an empty Mug Root Beer bottle. They just missed. Since the garbage can is about 15 feet in the wrong direction from their destination, they're moving on to forget about it.
"Someone else will pick it up," they are thinking now.
But no one will.
It's going to lay on that corner until later this afternoon when a breeze gusts up the street. It will roll into the road where it will lay for only about 10 minutes before someone else, on their way home from work, will hear it crunch under their passenger-side front tire. The cap shoots off from the pressure and fires across the street like a hockey puck, wedging itself in a crack in the concrete.
The crack will become its home, protecting it from street sweepers, where it will lay for a week and a half, going black with street soot. Dirty and ignored, it only moves again when it starts to rain and its gutter home becomes a little river. The cap will become a bobbing canoe wending its way up the street. It'll flip and spin in the rapids of an overflowing sewer grate before passing right by it. Then the next overflowing grate. Then the next.
The junk-filled street stream will keep enjoying its downhill race until it relieves itself into the river. The little plastic vessel will right itself, despite the river being full of the rough waves of the storm.
It'll part ways with the top of the cigarette-pack plastic and the cracked Bic, which had been its traveling companions for days at the mouth of the river when they go to explore separate corners of the globe.
Months go by before it bobs its way out to the Gulf Stream. Years go by as it rides north, then east across the Atlantic, off the coast of Europe, then Africa, then west again off the coast of South America.
Almost a decade and thousands of miles of travel have passed when it finally gets tossed by lapping waves onto the pebbly shores of Antarctica... where it gets picked up and thrown in the trash by this guy. He'd always wanted to see a place untouched by human destruction and was offended by the artificial thing as he was walking on the beach on vacation.
Yes, he's saved us from a predictable ending. But he's still a moron. It's Antarctica. Put on a friggin coat, Putz.
So pick up a piece of garbage or two from time to time. When you see someone miss their bank shot and walk away, take a tenth of a minute out of your busy agenda to go clean up OUR mess.
No, no one of us is going to save the world, but a couple hundred could've saved that bird.
All waters lead to the ocean. The ocean is falling.
Somewhere, this very moment, someone is trying a layup shot at a corner garbage can with an empty Mug Root Beer bottle. They just missed. Since the garbage can is about 15 feet in the wrong direction from their destination, they're moving on to forget about it.
"Someone else will pick it up," they are thinking now.
But no one will.
It's going to lay on that corner until later this afternoon when a breeze gusts up the street. It will roll into the road where it will lay for only about 10 minutes before someone else, on their way home from work, will hear it crunch under their passenger-side front tire. The cap shoots off from the pressure and fires across the street like a hockey puck, wedging itself in a crack in the concrete.
The crack will become its home, protecting it from street sweepers, where it will lay for a week and a half, going black with street soot. Dirty and ignored, it only moves again when it starts to rain and its gutter home becomes a little river. The cap will become a bobbing canoe wending its way up the street. It'll flip and spin in the rapids of an overflowing sewer grate before passing right by it. Then the next overflowing grate. Then the next.
The junk-filled street stream will keep enjoying its downhill race until it relieves itself into the river. The little plastic vessel will right itself, despite the river being full of the rough waves of the storm.
It'll part ways with the top of the cigarette-pack plastic and the cracked Bic, which had been its traveling companions for days at the mouth of the river when they go to explore separate corners of the globe.
Months go by before it bobs its way out to the Gulf Stream. Years go by as it rides north, then east across the Atlantic, off the coast of Europe, then Africa, then west again off the coast of South America.
Almost a decade and thousands of miles of travel have passed when it finally gets tossed by lapping waves onto the pebbly shores of Antarctica... where it gets picked up and thrown in the trash by this guy. He'd always wanted to see a place untouched by human destruction and was offended by the artificial thing as he was walking on the beach on vacation.
Yes, he's saved us from a predictable ending. But he's still a moron. It's Antarctica. Put on a friggin coat, Putz.
So pick up a piece of garbage or two from time to time. When you see someone miss their bank shot and walk away, take a tenth of a minute out of your busy agenda to go clean up OUR mess.
No, no one of us is going to save the world, but a couple hundred could've saved that bird.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
