Don't drop the soap.

Fear not for even one moment that Ackeelover Chronicles is, by extended absence, Fukushima'd. Or that I must be in some kind of sympathy drunkenstupor (German) alongside Rob Ford, Toronto's immediately identifiable bellicose burgermeister.

Few things gnaw at the insides of a wordy mutha, such as myself, like denying a trend of thought. At the moment, my ruminations are weighty, prolific as grass and twice as dense. So much so, that sanity behoves me to also regard miracles in minutiae - profound, if only in the interest of balance.

It's at times like these that I tend to clean out personal clutter. I find stuff, saved for one reason or another, that  stirs ... thoughts. Today's purge-pick was an unopened box of soap. A stolen memento from some hotel on my long and winding road.

You can deny pulling a similar heist if you want to. Okay then.

I really should've figured out sooner that the minimalist sanserif promise of clinical-skin care on the outside, was foreplay for something enticing on the inside. Satisfaction guaranteed was implicit as the font went bold to announce - massaging soap bar.

Then fine-print, directing - for bath ... in case you had other ideas.

Here was a spa in a bar. The sort of form-and-function design Q must've considered equipping Bond with. Y'know, for those moments when he's compelled to share his bathtub.

Back in my reality, I was tempted to take it out and get it wet. Apply it to wherever I felt an ache. That pining impulse to lather up and capitulate to "une expérience douche et bain unique."

I chose instead to shroud it in a "souvenir" instapic filter as an aesthetic exercise. Then I put that thang right back in the box. Where it remains, chaste and vulnerable, awaiting release and a maiden immersion, in service of a soothing cleanse.

Right now I really wish I had pilfered a pair.

Pinkie and The Blues. A Daydream.

You don't see these color combos on this blog very often.
More de rigueur for Ackeelover Chronicles are earthtones and Jamaican accents. Well, that's still my go-to aesthetic I can assure you, but now is summer, and the gris of Canadian winter has lifted to reveal Rembrandt's pallette. Everywhere.

Colors stir imagination, so expect retailers to combine tone and tint with font and product placement. This day, I experienced a spontaneous waking daydream thanks to a well placed, simply conceived, plastic serving tray. As I passed through the add-on aisle (that inescapable, build-a-shelf, trinket heaven near any check-out), my music-matrix cued up a familiar guitar intro.

A rare silent "Q" had suggested my default to B.B. 'n' Lucille.

Implicit allusion to hickory and mesquite in the motif evoked a backyard spread, in which I'm feeding fictitious friends from a focal firepit. My apron, a joke gift which should have gone out with the wrapping but stuck around to become part of my shtick, bears the word "horngry," flinging flirt on the flames.

 

Alas, the line moved sharply, undermining the process of talking myself into the $3 purchase. Still, I couldn't get The Blues outta my head. Further on up the road (intentional reference), I'm still going over my playlist for when opportunity presents itself.

 

B.B. King appropriately segues into Bobby Bland, another B.B., and back, before Bland a.k.a. "Blue" gives way to pink. 

 

"Pinkie" had parked the statement whip outside Old Navy.

Precisely where her audacious bumper was in my line of vision.

Ignition. Then a lingering look at innuendo before pulling out. Slowly. The confluence of blue and pink in my fluid, freestyle daydream, makes me wish I'd dropped a trey for the tray.

 As a sort of ... dreamcatcher.

 

... the aural, and the oral ...

... seems I've been down this route before ... I'm talking about a mighty highway that may as well have been main-street, for it's utter familiarity ... Canada's roadways tend to be consistently maintained, at a high standard, even berms and sidewalks are usually groomed ... aesthetic homogeneity making for safer driving conditions is the governing wisdom, and while that may be so, monotony and sheer distances involved in traversing Canadian landscape can give an active mind too much room to venture-off into a world of contemplation, or distraction ...

... lately, I'm spending more time commuting in and around the Greater Toronto Area (GTA) ... yesterday, after tuning out several Mario Lanzas, one or two Sarah Harmers, Weezy, April Wine and Rush (not the band, but Limbaugh frothing from a Buffalo, NY station), I settled on eclectic CBC Radio2 for audio companionship, winning-out by virtue of a forward reggae groove designed to ensnare an ackeelover ...

... complacency with my listening choice was shattered by the unmistakable sound of Mick Jagger's voice in the mix, plenty Dave "Eurythmics" Stewart, Joss Stone and Ras Damian Marley's trademark Gong-flava adding to the surrealism ... wellwhaddyaknow, there's a new supergroup blowin' through the air and its first release is the groovy "Miracle Worker" exuding the sweet aroma of a phat Jamaican joint ... SuperHeavy ...

... alas, that was the only reggae I heard on this ride, still, it's good to know Robert Plant continues to make cool music, as suggested by "Angel Dance", his recent Los Lobos cover that rocked me for a mile or three ... any random graze over the music scene brings a freedom from delineation, non-binding as that may be ... and anyway, I find reggae in everything with a heartbeat ...

... between newsbreaks focusing on the Kandahar Karzai killing and traffic-updates regarding a fatal accident impeding flow in both directions, it was trippy to hear Andre 3000 being touted to play Jimi Hendrix in an upcoming biopic,  followed by some Outkast to link vibes old and new, and leave tragedy behind ...

... just then, as if some perverse puppeteer conspired to remind me of the traffic, an abortive overtaker brakes sharply into my lane ... one rearward guilty glance in a wing-mirror betrayed contrition on an attractive face, when she regained her nerve she pulled out and was gone, leaving me only the memory of a provocative license plate, BJEY 247 ... barely had I begun that first flushed fantasy, when BLEW 905 zoomed by in the fast lane and I was left wondering if there was a theme convention somewhere downline...

... discretion on behalf of the presumably innocent means I must admit to slight alteration of the vehicle registration digits, but the experience is otherwise as told, complete with aural stimulation and oral innuendo ... then, they throw this out there, J.Lo is now single - stop!, too much! ... our highways and biways may be orderly and clean-as-a-whistle but with merest imagination there's sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll all over dem streets, and it could cause another ... mishap ...

... were succubi to overcome me on the road, necessitating any sort of legal plea, I imagine that basing my moving-violation case on solicitous license plates would backfire, so I'd be more likely to plead "not guilty yer 'onor!", citing public radio as my defense ...

... "blame it on the CBC!"...