The pictures have all been washed in black

I met a black person for the first time when I was two years old. Scratch that. I saw a black person for the first time when I was two years old. No, I don't actually remember the incident, but I can tell it now from my mother's recollection. Sort of like an amateur historian.

So there we we. Getting a burger at the Steer Inn. Maybe two burgers. Probably some tots. A shake? Sure. Back in the day, it was cool to hang out in the parking lot while you ate (and after). Think "American Graffiti" NW style.

So here I stand in the passenger seat of a convertible Fiat. All 20 some inches of me. Looking out out the wonderfully strange place that is full of way more interesting sights and sounds than that cramped old womb. Get it? Cramped. Whatever. It's my post and I'll make whatever lame puns I want. I'll even claim those unintentional.

Standing there gawking. Now, there's a habit I should get over. Over saunters an unsuspecting gentleman who looks like nothing I've ever seen before. He's taller than anyone in my (limited) experience; bald (hey that's like me, huh?); and dark.

Up to the car he walks, leans over to get to my level, and says... Well we'll never know. I don't remember. Remember, I'm two, and I have very little faith in my ability to recall what I ate for yesterday's midday meal. Spicy venison chili? Shit on a shingle pasta? Maybe. And Mom was getting the food. Because we were at a restaurant. Try to keep up.

So he says the things people say to kids and I look at him soberly, reach out my tiny white hand and wipe my fingers across his forehead. Then I look at my fingers to see if I'd gotten some of the color to come off. My mother says she's never been so embarrassed. Of course, she says that about approximately 2/3 of the stories she tells about me.

The guy was cool, though. He laughed at the goofy little kid and made a joke. Thanks, dude. You may have been a brief encounter, but it probably shaped my view of other races more than any event in my life. Right up until basic training. But that, basic training, off subject. And, after reading my posts, I'm sure you know how taboo that is @ Brainweevil.

The last black person I met was not a dude. And I am now wayyyy to suave to try to uncolor someone. Yeah, so I made up another word. at least I know I'm doing it.

My first experience of her was text with no image. I thought her words beautiful. Of course, I met her on the `net, so coherency is enough to get her words several steps up the steps to glory. When I saw a picture, I was shocked. Girls that pretty don't speak in carefully considered sentences.

At least not those who are talking to me. Hey, don't get offended. Prove me wrong. Stop the misanthropy before it becomes misogyny.

Anyway, the more I learned the better she got. Every revelation was like turning the pages of the book of perfect traits. Each new thing I learned brought me closer to the edge of a place I have serious doubts about reaching in the near future. Smart, funny, literate, even tempered, hot, talking to me... Yeah, it's like a dream. Then the alarm went off.

She has a flaw. So does everyone else. So what? Right? Get over it. One flaw does not a dream destroy. Well, this one did. Yeah, I'll bet you guessed it. She's got a... habit. And addiction. There's no future for us. I guess we'll just have to be friends. I could use a few more of those. If her habit will allow it, that is.

I have my doubts about that, too. But I'll keep them to myself. I wouldn't want the optimistic vibe of Brainweevil to be shattered with doubts, now would I?

So now I'm off to Trick Shot's. Where I hear everyone is looking for a hook-up. Perhaps I'll see you there. I'll be the not neanderthal. Probably stick out like a sore thumb.