I Broke My Arm In Two Places, Albuquerque and Port Charles

Frantic Electric Lattés And The Heebie-Jeebie Espresso Shakes Out In The Land Of The Scorpions And The Snakes

I have a friend whose dream it is to open a coffee bar out in the deserts of Arizona. He pictures himself sitting at a wooden counter inside a cool adobe brick hut gently sipping a Chai Tea to the gentle sound of strumming guitars and the yawning of gila monsters. Customers would be a scarce commodity but that is, to some degree, the point. Quiet contemplation under an acrid, dusty Red Sky. It sounds like a very noble calling.

I was hoping to join him in his endeavor but it occurs to me that he hadn't mentioned needing a partner, silent as I might be. But, the thought of such a life is a very pleasant diversion on a rainy Redding night. I would ask to rent one of the whitewashed rooms in his coffee bar and paint imaginary landscapes all day. And I would sit on the roof all night with binoculars and a flashlight scanning the sky for aliens willing to trade their exotic trinkets and baubles for Velvet Underground CDs. I've dubbed backup copies for myself in case such a deal does, in fact, go down.

But, you know, just thinking about such an adventure differs not at all from the actual experience in the grand scheme of things. I mean, I cannot for the life of me discern the difference between the memory of an actual event and the daydream conjured in my mind. Really. What is the tangible difference between the two when you recall them? Both the memory and the fantasy have no substance and exist only as neurons firing in your brain. I'm not knocking the memory/fantasy, it's just an odd, quiet little truth.

In fairness, I bet the Chai Tea tastes great in this dream. I always thought Arizona was a figment of our collective imaginations anyway.