LoBD

Munson and I speak of North Korea periodically. I find it interesting that a country can be blind to the world. The demonstration of control is amazing. The few pictures I've seen of North Korea show pristine land, unscathed, and weary towns and train stations with the occasional citizen wandering through.

Because I've been exposed to the rest of the world, I find it impossible to understand what it would be like to be a North Korean.

Munson stopped me as I went on about how blown away I was that a country is successfully masked.

"My dad says we should carpet bomb them with tons upon tons of pamphlets of information."

I like to think it would work, but after being raised to see everything in a set way, I don't think they'd believe whatever is in the pamphlets.

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At work, we have a group of trees that the kitchen staff ducks into to burn. We sat at a picnic table, dragged over from the employee smoking area, a pipe in rotation.

A row of wild plants grow in a wood box atop a stack of palettes next to the table. I observe it to count three marijuana saplings among the grasses and weeds stemming from the dirt.

One spoke of how baking was his best job. Sourdough in the oven, nap. Cookies into the Hobart mixer and into the oven, nap. The oven timers would wake him. He notes how it was different, using grams and ounces, rather than tablespoons and cups.

The dealer says, "Well, I'd be good with that job."

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Occasionally Munson speaks of his time in Guam. His father was in the Air Force, so they moved around from time to time. Guam being one of the more exotic locations.

Munson told me of the rain storms that would occur. Long droughts followed by a few days blanketed in a dense stream of rain. It would gather in the streets, thick enough to grab anything that floats and big enough to ride down the street. Passing cars parked to the side on the makeshift water slide flowing through the neighborhood.

It reminds me of ice days in Alaska. A sheet of ice, too smooth and too thick even for the tire chains of school buses to grab hold of. We'd have at least half the day off from school and I'd stand on Badger Road, one of the major roads in the area, sliding in my shoes like ice skates. Five or six long strides and I'd slide thirty feet at least without a car in sight.

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During a midnight session, Munson, Michele and I parked and split our stashes up to roll. One of my dubs contained six seeds. One to Michele, one to me, the other four were lost.

Pearl Jam fell into backbeat while we talked. At some point, Michele mentioned how her tits looked larger. How they ached. She looked at them in the mirror, asked us if they were larger.

She'd say, "You guys! They look huge, and they're sore!"

Munson quipped, "Probably getting massaged a lot."

In a wavering whiny tone Michele speaks from her nose, "No! They're just big!"

In the back, I remember the first music video I saw was Jeremy by Pearl Jam. The pan shot of the children covered in blood played in a continuous loop in my mind.