The Wonder of Life

During the Oktoberfest season of 2008, I received a purple potato from a very nice gentleman whose name I can not recount. That potato and I had many great adventures together, and until recently, shared a close relationship. Well, as a joke, I presume, another potato was given to me during the winter holidays of 2008. This potato was said to be a purple potato, but it was obvious that it was not. I also received a package of fruit gummy strips that mimicked the appearance of pork bacon, a package of terrified pickle charms, and some wine vacuum stoppers because I rarely drink the stuff and now it won't turn into vinegar as quickly in my fridge.

Now it's May 2009, and I find a bag in my always-tornado-stricken apartment. I open it up, peer inside, and find a number of holiday cards. "Hey," I say to myself, because I talk to myself a lot ... and I mean a lot, "it's my bag of holiday cheer! It's like finding Santa's bag of toys in my house! Oh joy!" I pull out some vacuum wine stoppers. Neat! I pull out my terrified pickle charms. Cool! I pull out gummy bacon. Um, OK! And I pull out a plastic bag with a little heft to it. Huh? I look inside, and this is what I see:

Potatoes will grow anywhere. Without light, without water. I don't think they're of this world.

Speaking of which, I live in a city called Sherman Oaks. I think it's over rated. But I love to walk to all the local conveniences, so I shouldn't complain. But one night, walking back after a late excursion, I passed something on the sidewalk. It was super dark, and I couldn't tell what it was, but I had a hunch at what it could be.

Now, some of you might already know. But I'm the curious type, and luckily I was close enough to the place I call home that I could grab my camera and go back to this unknown form on the ground. So, after switching on the flash, I got up real close-like, leaned in, hovering over the spot, trying to steady my horrible, picture-taking hand, and FLASH!
I didn't even look at the picture, what I saw for that quarter of a second that the flash illuminated on the curb was enough for me to freak out and dance around as if the whole ground were made of red-hot coals. That's why I now call this place Sherman Roaks.