Chrisonomicon

Monday, December 2, 2002

I zoned the other day at the grocery store, examining the candy rack by the cash register. A highly irregular dietary item, these sort of sweets have always endured my somewhat supercilious downward glances over the years but I found myself surveying the tantilizing array while waiting for cost-per-commodity aggregation. The rack was approximately four-feet high by three-feet wide -- a twelve-square-foot area of brightly-colored wrappers, artificial coloring, chemical flavors, super-refined sugar, and other parental/diabetic/ Tappy Tibbons' nightmares. And even though I've consumed probably one of maybe three confectionary delights on the rack in front of me over the past year, I could still ensavor each, imagine its texture on my tongue, differentiate Berry Blasts from Berry Blizts, and the bitter darks from the mellow milks. I scanned each row with the systematic diligence of a computer until a complete mental survey had been conducted. Sweet, psychological succor. Still thankful my imagination's intact.