Jeremiah's School of Levitation

I want to live in department stores. I want to be like that guy who spent just a little over 24 hours in a Wal Mart and hardly aroused suspicion ("Hey, didn't I see you at the magazines like 5 hours ago?" an employee asked the intrepid experimenter, who was growing weary amidst those blaring lights, as anyone would. In fact, if we want to conquer Iraq, we should just have helicopters lower huge banks of those department store lights over the country and everyone will become zombies, filing up and down the aisles of the town, transfixed on each and every brick or stone used to build the buildings. Then we pounce with the blue light special of democracy and offer them the deal of representative government that has filled the baskets of our country so very, very well.)

But, no, I take that back. I don't want to live in department stores, I want to live in IKEA. I want to live in perfectly staged rooms where everything is in just the right place and all my storage needs are taken care of and all the books on economics and the old west that I read are prominently displayed in sleek wood and aluminum shelves named Blaak or Pookblit or Arkfart and I want to replace that furniture every three years after it practically disintegrates before my eyes, like the Yugo, which I am convinced was molecularly unstable because not a single Yugo exists today. They've all been bombarded into non-existance by the very air that they traveled through. You find me a Yugo, one that won't crumble to dust at your tender touch, and I'll take you on a ride through the dodo fields on the back of my triceritops. Or, I'll treat you to enough drinks so that you'll think you are riding a triceritops. "Triceritops", by the way, is a damned amazing word, ain't it?

Of all places I want to live, though, it would be Key West. It is the scraggliest, five-o'clock shadowiest, sub-tropical grittiest, chickens-running-around-in-the-streetiest, artfully-drunkiest, hypno-sun-po-tiziest, la-dee-doo-dee-da-diest, Jimmy Buffett-iest, dropping-my-anchor-iest, strolling barefootiest, strumming my out-of-tune-guitariest, hey girl wanna spend a day with me-iest place in the United States of us that there could possibly be, next to maybe a Jack Johnson song.

That's it. I want to live in a Jack Johnson song. All the groove and good times I can handle. Where do I freakin' sign?

I LOVE the Billy Joel reference!

I would choose to live in one of our local bookstores. Comfy couches, hip music, tons of DVDs, and a small cafe that serves a mean caesar salad and latte combo. Oh yeah, and the books.

Hhhmmm.... I have enough trouble just trying to live in the moment. (No, I'm not being sarcastic... Really, I do try that... Often it doesn't work out so well though...)

As for a physical space in which to live... ain't no place like home.

Key West - now THAT's a great idea. Maybe I'd grow weary of all the sun, fun, and drinking over time...I'd like to give it a try.