Santa Barbara

"I brought this sun from Santa Barbara! Smile, motherfuckers, it's not the end of the fuckin' world!"

He's yelling it over and over, with subtle variations. The sun is indeed beaming down on his tan and weathered skin, the light catching on his dirty blond mullet and coarse, grime-filled clothing. He shuffles across Jackson Street,  and chats up the resident Real Change seller there.

"Listen," he says, pointing at the sun slowly. "I brought that thing clear up from Santa Barbara."
"Is that right?" 
"Is. Check that thing out. These motherfuckers really need to smile," he says in a bemused tone, looking around. Stone-faced commuters rush past, perhaps thinking him unstable- but who's really crazy in this picture? After a moment he moves on, continuing to proclaim the good word. "I hauled this thing all the way up from Santa Barbara. You assholes really, really need to smile!"

To be offended by his language would be to miss the idea. Mullet or no mullet, the man's got a point. I take his advice.