Surfrider Car Wash Smog

 

Nothing to see here. Just me reporting in, as ordered. In the last few days, my dreams have been scant and devoid of plot, so here are the brief, random perceptions that I can recollect:

I was working at a carwash, I believe, with Manny Salazar and a couple of the other guys I used to work with. I remember leaving the tunnel of the whirly scrubbers and spray nozzles and crossing the street, where I entered an office building with beige carpeting and a few cheap walnut laminate desks. 

Luis Ramirez handed me an envelope containing my last paycheck. Apparently, I'd forgotten to renew my smog license, and now my services would no longer be required. Manuel Silva's name came up, as a possible replacement for me, followed by howls of laughter. I may have been unlicensed, but Silva was about as qualified to do smogs as a tree sloth. 

Last night, I was at a garage party, again, Manny Salazar's place. The instrumental "Surf Rider" was playing, and I picked up a guitar and played along with it perfectly. People were enjoying the vibe, and I was amazed that I'd learned the progression and could play it without difficulty. I usually choke up in situations like that.

My mom was there, and she picked up an acoustic guitar and started playing a flamenco version of the song. Her style was unique, in that she was using complex chords and hiding them by bending her wrists in such a way as to block all view of the fret board. 

"Trade secrets," she said smugly, when I asked if she could show me how she was playing it. 

The rest of the dialogue was word for word quotes from Pulp Fiction. (I really have to get myself a new sleep aid. I am literally reciting Ezekiel 25:17 in my sleep.)