The smell of lemon grass and jasmine; sitting on the porch in his favorite chair and strumming along on his guitar some ancient tune; man’s best friend near his feet. Looking from his porch he can see the vast expanse of green rolling hills and hamlets of Kentucky. Wife’s in the kitchen frying up something with a familiar smell; on his third can of ice cold beer. He is buzzing.
The Mexican guy somewhere in L.A. just smoked a huge joint. His eyes are glazed over and he’s suddenly hungry. His mother just cooked up some tostadas. He eats until his hearts content. Goes back to smokin’ then breaks out a bottle of Tequila and calls his homeys over to talk shit.
The black guy in the ghetto has a day off and it’s his payday. He heads over to the store, buys a 40 ounce bottle of malt liquor beer. He chugs it down back at his crib(house). He can’t decide whether to play the Delfonics or NWA, so he plays both and gets lost in the nostalgia of old high school memories and glory days. He can hardly wait until dinner. Mom’s cooking up some southern fried chicken.
The white guy in Cincinnati, Ohio decides to pick up a phone and call his old college buddy’s over for dinner. He fries up some oysters in a light unfermented Italian butter with a splashing of wine; they sit on a balcony and enjoy their oysters over a bottle of Chilean wine. The weather is gorgeous and the temperature of the weather is perfect.
In Japan, in the middle of winter, in some distant valley surrounded by huge pristine pine trees and rugged mountains there’s a natural hot spring situated next to a rustic hotel with plumes of smoke coming up from its chimney. In the water beside me there’s a beautiful Japanese woman. Her flowing wet black hair draped across her shoulders.
We are sitting in an onsen together in each others warm embrace, mother naked and untouched by winter’s ice cold bitter kiss! Incubated and warmed by mother nature’s warm thermo grip, lost in passion’s luscious kiss. Sake scented whispers, excitement building, climax reaching.
Like the sweet long shy legs of a fine young wine making its way down the inner curve of the wine glass, and analyzing its character. You smell its bouquet. You revel in its mystery and its quixotic history of brothers in arms who toasted in the kings honor and fought honorably in his name.
The Kamikaze pilots who honored their living god with one last sip and then climbing into their cockpits and flying off into the blue yonder never to return again – happily.
The simple pleasures are the most endearing and the most memorable. Lest we forget we only have one life to live.