Why am I up at almost 12:33 a.m. on a Monday?
Because after reviewing a Martina McBride concert this afternoon at the Florida Strawberry Festival today, I can't seem to find the sleep button on my cranial remote control.
Sitting in front of me at the outdoor venue were a husband and wife who were dressed identically head-to-toe in green camoflage pants and t-shirts that were adorned with the slogan "UNITED WE DANCE" on the back.
I shit you not.
I saw the entire genetic boullabase today.
The lady sitting next to them was wearing a wicker cowboy hat with feathers on the back. Around her left wrist was one of those elastic coiled key chains people wear around their wrists. In her right hand was a pack of generic cigarettes and a fully stacked and dripping soft-serve ice cream cone.
Understand that her left hand was free while her right hand held a huge, top-heavy, Mount Olympus-sized cone AND a fucking pack of generic cigarettes.
Here's the capper.
She dropped her napkin and the breeze blew it on the ground against my foot, upon which time I accidentally stepped on it.
"Hon," she says, as the cone drips over her dollar store cancer sticks and her meaty wrist. "Could you hand me that napkin? It's getting kinda messy."
It was beyond bizzaro today.
I wasn't fortunate to be around for the immigrant flood through Ellis Island, but I have to think it smelled 100 times better than THE FLORIDA STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON.
For a more accurate gauge, I'll describe the olfactory buffet: Imagine a less than delicate mellange of cotton candy mixed with corn dog mixed with Italian sausage mixed with roasted corn mixed with Eastern Hillsborough County B.O.
B.O. is like nasal Hollandaise sauce. It just smothers everything in its wake.
That's the smell I can't get out of my nose right now.
And that's why I'm up at 12:33 a.m.