Rainbow Stirs Briskly Noisy Maniac

It was one of those days where I could feel every photon that touched my skin, or passed through my cornea. I thought back to my favorite class in college. Perception. How is it that we are able to perceive the world around us? Converse and commiserate with our fellow man? Savor the pugilistic deliciousness of fetuccine putanesca? How indeed? It was one of those sublime surprises to find this course listed in the voluminous catalog. The professor, Dr. Spectacular, encouraged our outrageous speculation and the only indication that a student had stumbled outside the bounds of reason was a wheezy gutteral utterance he produced.

As I gained full consciousness I was momentarily startled to find myself stretched out under the nearly impenetrable canopy of one of West Hollywood's old Ficus trees. In the intervening 20 years since I had religiously attended Dr. Spectacular's class I had passed through several phases of my life with little more than fleeting notice. I was well prepared to grasp the nuances of lives I observed, but had developed almost no ability to objectively perceive the consequences of my own actions. I suppose this isn't such a rare occurance. But, here I was awakening from a deep slumber, outside, in a park, on a Thursday afternoon, and I was damp.

Now this would require some explanation.

It's one thing to nap in a public park. After all, there were many people in various states of repose all around me. It's an entirely different thing to assume that I am the only one who has no idea how or why I find myself in this place and in this condition, damp. And those pesky photons keep making me itch.

As I gather my belongings: book, newspaper, bottled water, walkman, sweater, picnic basket, bird seed, pajamas, assorted cutlery, frisbee, hoola-hoop, table saw, tennis ball, chess set, blanket, palm pilot, keys, cell phone, spare tire and blood-soaked umbrella it dawns on me that not only have I been mysteriously sleeping outside, but I am naked, and covered in a startlingly crimson rash.

How would Dr. Spectacular perceive this? Were my circles of confusion more confused than usual? Had my rods and cones been suddenly replaced by spheres and polygons? Had my cochlea been purloined? Where are the police?

Thursday is my favorite day the week, filled to overflowing with the promise of the quickly approaching days of rest. Thursday, as I perceive it, is the last opportunity of a work week where any actual work might be accomplished. Friday is for shit. Well that explains something.

A sudden breeze scoots through the ficus' branches and a

luxuriant cascade erupts all around me. Now I hear the gentle cooing of the neighborhood pigeons as they gaily splash in the

puddles formed on the sidewalk. Three toddlers gurgle happily as they toddle by tethered to the tail of a candy-striped cur.

And the itching becomes unbearable. I flash back to one of Dr. Spectacular's particularly enthralling lectures.

And now, I must scream.